The two essays combined are too long! If you could point out parts that could be deleted it'd be greatly appreciated!
The total word count is 1072 but it has to be 1010 maximum.
#1 The world you come from (499 words)
I squint as a flashlight beam shines onto my face. I'm confused, and as I groggily get up, I realize the two people standing over me are policemen. I was sleeping with my head to the bottom of the bed, because I had been listening to the audiobook of A Wrinkle in Time, with my CD player on the table in the dark, before I had fallen asleep at around two am.
I am ushered down to the bottom of the stairs, where there are two more policemen, with my brothers who are still rubbing sleep out of their eyes. It's around four in the morning, and I am twelve years old, still living in Canada at that time. Since my dad is back in Korea due to work, the police and a social worker kindly explain to me, the oldest child, that my mom had called 911 around 4 in the morning because she couldn't breathe due to a panic attack- she had been ruminating on the car accident that happened a few weeks before. We were driving to church that misty Sunday morning, when a car made an illegal left into our car's path. The driver of the other car, a mother of two I learned later, had died in the crash. With my mother hospitalized due to shock, we were sent into a foster home; though they were very nice and caring, I was not able to sleep soundly in a foreign bed.
So at four in the morning, my brothers and I slip into social worker's car and travel to our second foster home. He looks tired, and I feel sorry for dragging him out of bed. He asks where we want to eat breakfast, since the sun is already rising. The double cheeseburger I order at the McDonalds drive-thru taste just as it would if I was with my parents, but I feel bad for imposing on strangers yet again. Not my fault, I know, but it still doesn't make the whole situation any less awkward.
Although the foster parents are kind and truly care for us, I feel responsible for my brothers in a taciturn way just like before. I keep them in line, kicking them under the table when they are being unscrupulous during dinner, and I assume an air of nonchalance and normalcy that comes from a parent.
Today, I am 17, and my family is whole again. Everything is normal again. I, as the vice president of philosophy club, fill in the leadership position during the weekly lunchtime meeting because the president is away this week. My mom picks me up after school, and my dad comes home every night after work.
However, I learned normalcy wasn't what necessarily molded one into a better person. The foster homes gave me a taste of responsibility, for not only myself, but for others, and independence that gave me the courage and determination to pursue my passion, and decide my future for myself.
#2 Personal talent/experience (573 words)
I draw on desks.
An odd idiosyncrasy but I find it easier to draw on a smooth polished wooden surface than on an intimidating surface of white. Since I was two years old- scribbling on the dining table with sharpies- I have always drawn whether it be on school desks or on pieces of homework.
I embraced the world of images and color the day I grabbed a drawing utensil; however, it was never really a central focus in my life until recently. While travelling from Korea to Japan, returning to Korea, crossing an ocean to Canada, and then flying down to the United States, I have found, and also lost, many friends; through these experiences, however, I discovered that my most loyal companions were my imagination and the hand that made it visible on a sheet of paper (or desk). My father didn't mind; after all, he was artistically challenged and was easily impressed. My mother, with the artistic genes, was the one I had trouble with.
She saw drawing as a hobby of lesser importance. School was the top priority, and then other activities, such as piano, singing, or writing were the "acceptable" time consumers. My heavy preference for literature also caused her to frown upon my collections of fantasy novels. I continued to draw out of her sight, sliding doodles under piles of homework whenever she entered the room. I also entered art contests without her knowledge, and whenever I won, the presence of both anger and joy on one face was always an interesting sight to behold.
The spring break of my junior year, I finally won my first battle against my mother on the top of a mountain. My father and brothers stood back on the hiking trail and watched while my mother berated me in Korean on my unwise decision to major in art. I was terrified; although the storm of uncertainty surged inside me, I stood my ground, my voice in Korean rising against hers. A large reason for her concern was because I wanted to go into fields like animation and sequential arts; apparently I was not going to have a "respectable" or "well-paying" job. I didn't care. I wanted to be able to draw stories and tell tales that would entertain the world, not create abstract canvas paintings that could only be appreciated by art aficionados, and collectors.
My father accepted my aspirations right away and supported me all the way through the rough tides; he gave me confidence that eased my doubt. Although she didn't approve, my mother drove me to an art studio an hour there and back, three days a week (and sometimes more). I strove to improve through the sweltering summer before my senior year, with sweat and paint dripping from my pores. I had to practically start from scratch: my initial watercolors were disastrous, and my figure drawings looked malformed. The long hours I committed to during the summer weren't in vain though; now, my figure drawings are in proportion (most of the time), among other small improvements that did not go unnoticed by my mother. She has accepted my decision as well, though still skeptical at times. No matter; I still strive to become better, until I can go no further, until the day carpel tunnel takes my hand.
Then I can get a bionic replacement, I think, as I absentmindedly erase another masterpiece off a school desk.
The total word count is 1072 but it has to be 1010 maximum.
#1 The world you come from (499 words)
I squint as a flashlight beam shines onto my face. I'm confused, and as I groggily get up, I realize the two people standing over me are policemen. I was sleeping with my head to the bottom of the bed, because I had been listening to the audiobook of A Wrinkle in Time, with my CD player on the table in the dark, before I had fallen asleep at around two am.
I am ushered down to the bottom of the stairs, where there are two more policemen, with my brothers who are still rubbing sleep out of their eyes. It's around four in the morning, and I am twelve years old, still living in Canada at that time. Since my dad is back in Korea due to work, the police and a social worker kindly explain to me, the oldest child, that my mom had called 911 around 4 in the morning because she couldn't breathe due to a panic attack- she had been ruminating on the car accident that happened a few weeks before. We were driving to church that misty Sunday morning, when a car made an illegal left into our car's path. The driver of the other car, a mother of two I learned later, had died in the crash. With my mother hospitalized due to shock, we were sent into a foster home; though they were very nice and caring, I was not able to sleep soundly in a foreign bed.
So at four in the morning, my brothers and I slip into social worker's car and travel to our second foster home. He looks tired, and I feel sorry for dragging him out of bed. He asks where we want to eat breakfast, since the sun is already rising. The double cheeseburger I order at the McDonalds drive-thru taste just as it would if I was with my parents, but I feel bad for imposing on strangers yet again. Not my fault, I know, but it still doesn't make the whole situation any less awkward.
Although the foster parents are kind and truly care for us, I feel responsible for my brothers in a taciturn way just like before. I keep them in line, kicking them under the table when they are being unscrupulous during dinner, and I assume an air of nonchalance and normalcy that comes from a parent.
Today, I am 17, and my family is whole again. Everything is normal again. I, as the vice president of philosophy club, fill in the leadership position during the weekly lunchtime meeting because the president is away this week. My mom picks me up after school, and my dad comes home every night after work.
However, I learned normalcy wasn't what necessarily molded one into a better person. The foster homes gave me a taste of responsibility, for not only myself, but for others, and independence that gave me the courage and determination to pursue my passion, and decide my future for myself.
#2 Personal talent/experience (573 words)
I draw on desks.
An odd idiosyncrasy but I find it easier to draw on a smooth polished wooden surface than on an intimidating surface of white. Since I was two years old- scribbling on the dining table with sharpies- I have always drawn whether it be on school desks or on pieces of homework.
I embraced the world of images and color the day I grabbed a drawing utensil; however, it was never really a central focus in my life until recently. While travelling from Korea to Japan, returning to Korea, crossing an ocean to Canada, and then flying down to the United States, I have found, and also lost, many friends; through these experiences, however, I discovered that my most loyal companions were my imagination and the hand that made it visible on a sheet of paper (or desk). My father didn't mind; after all, he was artistically challenged and was easily impressed. My mother, with the artistic genes, was the one I had trouble with.
She saw drawing as a hobby of lesser importance. School was the top priority, and then other activities, such as piano, singing, or writing were the "acceptable" time consumers. My heavy preference for literature also caused her to frown upon my collections of fantasy novels. I continued to draw out of her sight, sliding doodles under piles of homework whenever she entered the room. I also entered art contests without her knowledge, and whenever I won, the presence of both anger and joy on one face was always an interesting sight to behold.
The spring break of my junior year, I finally won my first battle against my mother on the top of a mountain. My father and brothers stood back on the hiking trail and watched while my mother berated me in Korean on my unwise decision to major in art. I was terrified; although the storm of uncertainty surged inside me, I stood my ground, my voice in Korean rising against hers. A large reason for her concern was because I wanted to go into fields like animation and sequential arts; apparently I was not going to have a "respectable" or "well-paying" job. I didn't care. I wanted to be able to draw stories and tell tales that would entertain the world, not create abstract canvas paintings that could only be appreciated by art aficionados, and collectors.
My father accepted my aspirations right away and supported me all the way through the rough tides; he gave me confidence that eased my doubt. Although she didn't approve, my mother drove me to an art studio an hour there and back, three days a week (and sometimes more). I strove to improve through the sweltering summer before my senior year, with sweat and paint dripping from my pores. I had to practically start from scratch: my initial watercolors were disastrous, and my figure drawings looked malformed. The long hours I committed to during the summer weren't in vain though; now, my figure drawings are in proportion (most of the time), among other small improvements that did not go unnoticed by my mother. She has accepted my decision as well, though still skeptical at times. No matter; I still strive to become better, until I can go no further, until the day carpel tunnel takes my hand.
Then I can get a bionic replacement, I think, as I absentmindedly erase another masterpiece off a school desk.
