The limit is 650 and this is 764. I need help cutting down A LOT, fixing grammatical errors and polishing it all up.
The essay demonstrates your ability to write clearly and concisely on a selected topic and helps you distinguish yourself in your own voice. What do you want the readers of your application to know about you apart from courses, grades, and test scores? Choose the option that best helps you answer that question and write an essay of no more than 650 words, using the prompt to inspire and structure your response. Remember: 650 words is your limit, not your goal. Use the full range if you need it, but don't feel obligated to do so. (The application won't accept a response shorter than 250 words.)
Some students have a background or story that is so central to their identity that they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
Black. The color that describes darkness is the only color I see. I turn and see a man in a black suit; his black shoes caked in dirt. The man is standing next to a black tent. A woman in a black headscarf sits quietly under the tent with a blank expression. Another woman wobbles across the grass in shiny black heals. My aunt's long black hair falls in front of her pale face. I see my mother's eyes, normally hazel, have turned black. I look down at myself, and see that I am wearing mostly black. The only piece of color I would ever wear again is a gold antique watch on my wrist.
December 18, 2011 is the date of the first of over eight deaths in my family. I say over eight because I've lost count and every time I try to list the names I always forget one or say another one twice. I never thought I would get to a point in life where death would become so familiar, and black would become so common.
The first death was 24 hours before my first winter final my sophomore year. It was my mother's uncle, a military man. He was coming back home for his base in Louisiana when he was brutally murdered by his wife, who killed him for money. My family completely lost it. It was the first time I've seen the adults so vulnerable and broken. There were panic attacks, anxiety attacks, and insomnia. Everyone was on edge, who would have thought that a family member would be killed by a loved one?
The second death was my father's mother. It was three hours after my school was dismissed for Spring Break. My grandmother was the only grandparent I meet on my father's side. I never met my grandfather or three of my father's eight siblings because they all passed away before my birth. My father told me stories about them and their death, but I've never seen him cry or get emotional during any of them. When my father received the call from his sister that their mother is dead, he cried. Not silent tears, but full on sobbing. I never thought I would see my father cry. The day of the funeral family and friend from all over the world came to my grandmother's funeral. Most of the women were in shock, so as the oldest grandchild it was my duty to step up and help out. I prepared food, served the food, and kept an eye on the young children. It was the first time I've ever felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders.
The third death was my mother's grandmother. She was in hospice care for months at the time. My mother visited her every other day to check up on her and I would accompany her on the weekends. I would help my mother wash and feed her because my mother had back problems and my great-grandmother was too old and brittle to hold up her own weight. I remember when she was a couple of years younger and stronger. She taught me how to knit and sew and it was the death that caused the biggest shock for me. For my 13th birthday she gave me the gold watch she never took off because in our culture, 13 is the age a girl turns into an adult. I haven't taken he watch off since her death.
These first three deaths have taught me three separate lessons and these lessons repeat with each new death. The lessons are the clichés we see people post as their Facebook status, but we never realize how important those clichés can be. There is a reason why they are so over used. Some people use the clichés because they actually understand the deeper meaning behind them, while other just used them because they sound pretty. I have learned it the hard way that life is too precious to waste, that people in our lives will come and go and you wont realize how important they were to you until they are gone, that being a kid wont last forever and that a day will come when you have to be the adult because there is no one else to play the role. The biggest cliché lesson of all is: Life is short, you can either mope around and waste the little time you have worry about the little things or move on and appreciate what you have now because it might not be there tomorrow.
The essay demonstrates your ability to write clearly and concisely on a selected topic and helps you distinguish yourself in your own voice. What do you want the readers of your application to know about you apart from courses, grades, and test scores? Choose the option that best helps you answer that question and write an essay of no more than 650 words, using the prompt to inspire and structure your response. Remember: 650 words is your limit, not your goal. Use the full range if you need it, but don't feel obligated to do so. (The application won't accept a response shorter than 250 words.)
Some students have a background or story that is so central to their identity that they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
Black. The color that describes darkness is the only color I see. I turn and see a man in a black suit; his black shoes caked in dirt. The man is standing next to a black tent. A woman in a black headscarf sits quietly under the tent with a blank expression. Another woman wobbles across the grass in shiny black heals. My aunt's long black hair falls in front of her pale face. I see my mother's eyes, normally hazel, have turned black. I look down at myself, and see that I am wearing mostly black. The only piece of color I would ever wear again is a gold antique watch on my wrist.
December 18, 2011 is the date of the first of over eight deaths in my family. I say over eight because I've lost count and every time I try to list the names I always forget one or say another one twice. I never thought I would get to a point in life where death would become so familiar, and black would become so common.
The first death was 24 hours before my first winter final my sophomore year. It was my mother's uncle, a military man. He was coming back home for his base in Louisiana when he was brutally murdered by his wife, who killed him for money. My family completely lost it. It was the first time I've seen the adults so vulnerable and broken. There were panic attacks, anxiety attacks, and insomnia. Everyone was on edge, who would have thought that a family member would be killed by a loved one?
The second death was my father's mother. It was three hours after my school was dismissed for Spring Break. My grandmother was the only grandparent I meet on my father's side. I never met my grandfather or three of my father's eight siblings because they all passed away before my birth. My father told me stories about them and their death, but I've never seen him cry or get emotional during any of them. When my father received the call from his sister that their mother is dead, he cried. Not silent tears, but full on sobbing. I never thought I would see my father cry. The day of the funeral family and friend from all over the world came to my grandmother's funeral. Most of the women were in shock, so as the oldest grandchild it was my duty to step up and help out. I prepared food, served the food, and kept an eye on the young children. It was the first time I've ever felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders.
The third death was my mother's grandmother. She was in hospice care for months at the time. My mother visited her every other day to check up on her and I would accompany her on the weekends. I would help my mother wash and feed her because my mother had back problems and my great-grandmother was too old and brittle to hold up her own weight. I remember when she was a couple of years younger and stronger. She taught me how to knit and sew and it was the death that caused the biggest shock for me. For my 13th birthday she gave me the gold watch she never took off because in our culture, 13 is the age a girl turns into an adult. I haven't taken he watch off since her death.
These first three deaths have taught me three separate lessons and these lessons repeat with each new death. The lessons are the clichés we see people post as their Facebook status, but we never realize how important those clichés can be. There is a reason why they are so over used. Some people use the clichés because they actually understand the deeper meaning behind them, while other just used them because they sound pretty. I have learned it the hard way that life is too precious to waste, that people in our lives will come and go and you wont realize how important they were to you until they are gone, that being a kid wont last forever and that a day will come when you have to be the adult because there is no one else to play the role. The biggest cliché lesson of all is: Life is short, you can either mope around and waste the little time you have worry about the little things or move on and appreciate what you have now because it might not be there tomorrow.
