Hi! So I'm writing an essay for the general Common App, but because it has so much liberty in essay topics, I simply don't know what to write about!
I wrote this one recently, and I haven't heavily edited it yet. Please tell me what you think! Critique is greatly welcomed!
It's happening: my body was transforming. It was shifting, moving on its own, twisting and swaying. The earphones were plugged in, kissing my ear drums. The beat was sick; it traveled like a delicious virus in my body, making my heart accelerate. My veins become channels of rhythm, chords and notes traveling with the blood cells. I was becoming a 5'1, organic instrument.
My fingers dance in the air; my head springs loose, bobbing freely in time to the tempo. My shoulders jut back, forward, like the time I was sparring in Taekwondo and constantly switching arms to defend myself. My brain swells like a balloon; it must burst, to release the torrent of words inside.
And I pop that sucker.
My lips crack open, and a flood of words spill out. I spoke in a language only I knew: the language of Aromie. I spoke calmly, urgently, standing before an imaginary crowd that consisted only of me. I was a crowd, I was an individual. I was an instrument: my vocal chords my strings, my words my notes. I spoke, not answers to AP Biology questions, not Calculus formulas, not about the rigors of college applications, but about secrets and perceptions.
The percussion accentuates, and the beat falls mellow. My brain frantically sends thoughts to my throat, and I automatically translate them into words. I murmur the secrets of government corruption. I whisper why that African man in the bus kept sneaking uneasy glances at the cop beside him. I talk about the recent shooting near my school in Jamaica. I explain why the skies aren't as blue as they were when I stood on Daddy's shoulders years ago. I describe the snowless-ness of today's winters, yet growing frigidity of people's hearts. I sigh about my school's trembling financial position and the foolishness of my friends. I mourn about the pale faces of my parents after they return home from work in another state.
But I too sing joy and hope. I laugh about how beautiful the sun was that day. I praise the exquisite nature of art and story-telling that leads me away from reality. I giggle that there were still good people in the world and that I was trying my best to be one of them. I shout my joy at the fact that I had the privilege to be on this planet, small and still a fetus in the eyes of many but a fetus capable of song and love.
People misinterpret rap and hip-hop music as products of rebellion, a symbol of youthful mischief that can lead to felonies. But they fail to see the art and intelligence under the words. Hip-hop is an unconventional type of music, a genre that requires critical thinkers and passion. It may not consist of a simple serenade or lovely ballad, but it is one of the most human expressions of art because of its rawness and powerful belief.
In society's fog of truths, I speak my truth. I speak life, the way I see it.
Word Count: 516
I wrote this one recently, and I haven't heavily edited it yet. Please tell me what you think! Critique is greatly welcomed!
It's happening: my body was transforming. It was shifting, moving on its own, twisting and swaying. The earphones were plugged in, kissing my ear drums. The beat was sick; it traveled like a delicious virus in my body, making my heart accelerate. My veins become channels of rhythm, chords and notes traveling with the blood cells. I was becoming a 5'1, organic instrument.
My fingers dance in the air; my head springs loose, bobbing freely in time to the tempo. My shoulders jut back, forward, like the time I was sparring in Taekwondo and constantly switching arms to defend myself. My brain swells like a balloon; it must burst, to release the torrent of words inside.
And I pop that sucker.
My lips crack open, and a flood of words spill out. I spoke in a language only I knew: the language of Aromie. I spoke calmly, urgently, standing before an imaginary crowd that consisted only of me. I was a crowd, I was an individual. I was an instrument: my vocal chords my strings, my words my notes. I spoke, not answers to AP Biology questions, not Calculus formulas, not about the rigors of college applications, but about secrets and perceptions.
The percussion accentuates, and the beat falls mellow. My brain frantically sends thoughts to my throat, and I automatically translate them into words. I murmur the secrets of government corruption. I whisper why that African man in the bus kept sneaking uneasy glances at the cop beside him. I talk about the recent shooting near my school in Jamaica. I explain why the skies aren't as blue as they were when I stood on Daddy's shoulders years ago. I describe the snowless-ness of today's winters, yet growing frigidity of people's hearts. I sigh about my school's trembling financial position and the foolishness of my friends. I mourn about the pale faces of my parents after they return home from work in another state.
But I too sing joy and hope. I laugh about how beautiful the sun was that day. I praise the exquisite nature of art and story-telling that leads me away from reality. I giggle that there were still good people in the world and that I was trying my best to be one of them. I shout my joy at the fact that I had the privilege to be on this planet, small and still a fetus in the eyes of many but a fetus capable of song and love.
People misinterpret rap and hip-hop music as products of rebellion, a symbol of youthful mischief that can lead to felonies. But they fail to see the art and intelligence under the words. Hip-hop is an unconventional type of music, a genre that requires critical thinkers and passion. It may not consist of a simple serenade or lovely ballad, but it is one of the most human expressions of art because of its rawness and powerful belief.
In society's fog of truths, I speak my truth. I speak life, the way I see it.
Word Count: 516
