This is my semi-rough draft. I made notes about what I need to correct in brackets. Any feedback would be much appreciated. Thank you :)
Johann Friedrich Von Schiller once said, "It is not flesh and blood, but the heart which makes us fathers and sons." It was centuries ago that this statement was said. But to me, it never rang truer than the day I learned of my parents' secret.
My name had always been a source of confusion. Ever since grammar school, my name fluctuated from Katie Young to Yixuan Ma and countless variations in between. My parents always claimed that it was a discrepancy on the government's part; that somehow, my name had been mixed up in the move from China to the US. It wasn't until eighth grade that I began to understand the true origin of my aliases.
Since legal documents declared my name to be Katie Yixuan, the school system did as well, thus creating the hassle of explaining to my teachers and fellow classmates the government's silly discrepancy: Yixuan was my Chinese name and my American name was Katie Young. Government officials had simply mixed up the two names in the process of moving. To escape the clarifications, my parents and I set out to the Florida Department of Immigration. Once in the office, we sat patiently as the man looking through our file validated some basic information, "So, you folks moved from China?", "You're here to inquire about changing her legal name?" Pointing to my mother he asks, "You're the mother?" After a swift affirmation he moved on, pausing ever so slightly. "So...You're not her biological father." I heard the words. I replayed them. But no matter which way I toyed with the phrase, I couldn't seem to make sense of it. Just moments after the indecipherable phrase was uttered, I was rushed out the door, hastily informed that this was "grown-up business". I sat in the lobby trying to understand what he meant, why my parents rushed me out the door, convinced that there must be some mistake. Of course he was my biological father. He raised me for as long as I could remember. Then realization hit. My father was clearly Caucasian. He had fair skin and hazel eyes and I...had only Chinese characteristics. It was only then that I interpreted what the vast difference in our appearances really meant.
After the incident, I pretended to believe my parent's explanation that the man had made a mistake; that the government had made yet another mistake. At first, I wasn't sure why I initially kept quiet, but then I realized that it didn't really matter. As far as I'm concerned, he is my biological father. I've never known any other and I couldn't imagine that anyone else could've done a better job. We didn't need to be blood-related to share that father-daughter bond. The experience taught me that one need not be blood-related, from the same place, or share any particular criteria in order to have a personal connection with others. I believe it will serve us well during a time when we, as undergraduates, prepare to leave our friends, family and the familiar.
Johann Friedrich Von Schiller once said, "It is not flesh and blood, but the heart which makes us fathers and sons." It was centuries ago that this statement was said. But to me, it never rang truer than the day I learned of my parents' secret.
My name had always been a source of confusion. Ever since grammar school, my name fluctuated from Katie Young to Yixuan Ma and countless variations in between. My parents always claimed that it was a discrepancy on the government's part; that somehow, my name had been mixed up in the move from China to the US. It wasn't until eighth grade that I began to understand the true origin of my aliases.
Since legal documents declared my name to be Katie Yixuan, the school system did as well, thus creating the hassle of explaining to my teachers and fellow classmates the government's silly discrepancy: Yixuan was my Chinese name and my American name was Katie Young. Government officials had simply mixed up the two names in the process of moving. To escape the clarifications, my parents and I set out to the Florida Department of Immigration. Once in the office, we sat patiently as the man looking through our file validated some basic information, "So, you folks moved from China?", "You're here to inquire about changing her legal name?" Pointing to my mother he asks, "You're the mother?" After a swift affirmation he moved on, pausing ever so slightly. "So...You're not her biological father." I heard the words. I replayed them. But no matter which way I toyed with the phrase, I couldn't seem to make sense of it. Just moments after the indecipherable phrase was uttered, I was rushed out the door, hastily informed that this was "grown-up business". I sat in the lobby trying to understand what he meant, why my parents rushed me out the door, convinced that there must be some mistake. Of course he was my biological father. He raised me for as long as I could remember. Then realization hit. My father was clearly Caucasian. He had fair skin and hazel eyes and I...had only Chinese characteristics. It was only then that I interpreted what the vast difference in our appearances really meant.
After the incident, I pretended to believe my parent's explanation that the man had made a mistake; that the government had made yet another mistake. At first, I wasn't sure why I initially kept quiet, but then I realized that it didn't really matter. As far as I'm concerned, he is my biological father. I've never known any other and I couldn't imagine that anyone else could've done a better job. We didn't need to be blood-related to share that father-daughter bond. The experience taught me that one need not be blood-related, from the same place, or share any particular criteria in order to have a personal connection with others. I believe it will serve us well during a time when we, as undergraduates, prepare to leave our friends, family and the familiar.