Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
Made up of 27 bones and a dozen muscles working in tandem, our four fingers and opposable thumb are capable of completing many physical tasks. And as societies began to form, we've assigned them metaphorical symbols: the index and middle fingers in the shape of a "V" meaning peace, but dropping the index finger signifies contempt. The thing about hands is that they can nurture a loved one, but also incite chaos.
I had grown up experiencing the terrifying strength of hands. Through the crack of my bedroom, I peeked outside to see my drunken father slamming his fist against the table. Fingers interlocking themselves around the handle of a liquor bottle, quickly succeeded by a swing. The bottle flew across the living room, smashing against the battered wall and scattering pieces of glass. I felt petrified. In those moments, I understood how hands could be sharper than shards of glass.
But they were not only instruments of violence at home. After the yelling turned to silence, my mother would come into our room and calm my sister and me. Despite her rough, callused hands after years of working as a janitor, I still felt the warmth of her gentle strokes. The soft pats told me deep down that everything would be alright, revealing the soothing effects of caring hands.
The hand that guided me the most was my sister's. I was only four when I first took my seven-year-old sister to school, her hand held in mine. At the time, I didn't know what it meant, only that my hand would be wrapped around hers. I only did as my mom said. Five years later, I held that same hand as my sister lay on the hospital bed under piercing lights. She was there following a surgery that removed a part of her frontal lobe to reduce her seizures from her idiopathic epilepsy. At that moment, my thoughts ran wild, scattering around the world: I was uncertain of what the future might hold.
Seeing the daily battles my sister fought as she struggled with simple tasks like learning how to write, I felt powerless. I watched as she slowly pressed the pencil against the worn paper. And when she momentarily lost track of the next letter, her hand shook uncontrollably, but I can also see her hand's persistence. I held onto her hand, trying to replicate how my mom would soothe us during hard times. I learned that while I couldn't cure her, I could choose how I acted. So, I grew up with my outstretched hand for her, walking her through life to allow her to experience a "normal" life.
Years later, those lessons of outstretched hands traveled with me to Canada. It was in the midst of winter, snow slowly stacking, and there I saw him sitting. I watched as each passing person swiftly walked by with their hands buried in warm pockets. He was unable to move; his wheelchair had gotten stuck in the deep snow. Taking my hands out of my pockets, the winter breeze immediately chilled my hands. But I couldn't just leave him there. Digging the snow out around his wheels and grabbing the handles, I pulled him free. The man turned with a quiet "thank you." His hand lay on mine, and for a second, my hands felt warm again.
Through my experiences witnessing different hands held by many users---my father's anger, my mother's soothing palms, my sister's stubborn hands, and a stranger's gentle warmth---I've been taught what my hands meant to me. I've used them to solve intellectual questions, but more than that, they were there to aid others. To steady individuals who've been knocked off balance and voices left unheard. I find the human hand a marvel; while they are the tools of both violence and love, the difference lies in the user's intent.
Made up of 27 bones and a dozen muscles working in tandem, our four fingers and opposable thumb are capable of completing many physical tasks. And as societies began to form, we've assigned them metaphorical symbols: the index and middle fingers in the shape of a "V" meaning peace, but dropping the index finger signifies contempt. The thing about hands is that they can nurture a loved one, but also incite chaos.
I had grown up experiencing the terrifying strength of hands. Through the crack of my bedroom, I peeked outside to see my drunken father slamming his fist against the table. Fingers interlocking themselves around the handle of a liquor bottle, quickly succeeded by a swing. The bottle flew across the living room, smashing against the battered wall and scattering pieces of glass. I felt petrified. In those moments, I understood how hands could be sharper than shards of glass.
But they were not only instruments of violence at home. After the yelling turned to silence, my mother would come into our room and calm my sister and me. Despite her rough, callused hands after years of working as a janitor, I still felt the warmth of her gentle strokes. The soft pats told me deep down that everything would be alright, revealing the soothing effects of caring hands.
The hand that guided me the most was my sister's. I was only four when I first took my seven-year-old sister to school, her hand held in mine. At the time, I didn't know what it meant, only that my hand would be wrapped around hers. I only did as my mom said. Five years later, I held that same hand as my sister lay on the hospital bed under piercing lights. She was there following a surgery that removed a part of her frontal lobe to reduce her seizures from her idiopathic epilepsy. At that moment, my thoughts ran wild, scattering around the world: I was uncertain of what the future might hold.
Seeing the daily battles my sister fought as she struggled with simple tasks like learning how to write, I felt powerless. I watched as she slowly pressed the pencil against the worn paper. And when she momentarily lost track of the next letter, her hand shook uncontrollably, but I can also see her hand's persistence. I held onto her hand, trying to replicate how my mom would soothe us during hard times. I learned that while I couldn't cure her, I could choose how I acted. So, I grew up with my outstretched hand for her, walking her through life to allow her to experience a "normal" life.
Years later, those lessons of outstretched hands traveled with me to Canada. It was in the midst of winter, snow slowly stacking, and there I saw him sitting. I watched as each passing person swiftly walked by with their hands buried in warm pockets. He was unable to move; his wheelchair had gotten stuck in the deep snow. Taking my hands out of my pockets, the winter breeze immediately chilled my hands. But I couldn't just leave him there. Digging the snow out around his wheels and grabbing the handles, I pulled him free. The man turned with a quiet "thank you." His hand lay on mine, and for a second, my hands felt warm again.
Through my experiences witnessing different hands held by many users---my father's anger, my mother's soothing palms, my sister's stubborn hands, and a stranger's gentle warmth---I've been taught what my hands meant to me. I've used them to solve intellectual questions, but more than that, they were there to aid others. To steady individuals who've been knocked off balance and voices left unheard. I find the human hand a marvel; while they are the tools of both violence and love, the difference lies in the user's intent.
