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.
The world was replete with happiness and serenity. Nothing was better than going down the slide, twirling in the rain, or rushing to my mother's comforting arms. Of course, I was eight. How else could I have viewed the world? No life-changing event had ever occurred in my life... yet.
It was a typical December morning: cold. The house was pervaded with the cold of the early frosty morning. Then, a knock on the back door. It took most of us aback. Who knocks on the back door? My mother opened it. There were two men and she walked outside with them; my father followed. My whole family was unaware of what would be a major turning point in our lives. My mother came back inside, kissed me, and told me she would return later. She never did.
That day, I had a bad premonition, which filled me with anxiety. I remember coming back from school, still with that innocent hope to find my mother home. What I found was my father on the living room couch, secluded in darkness, staring into oblivion. That day, routine was broken. My brother and I did not arrive to receive a kiss from our mother, to eat her dinner, nor to excitedly tell her about our day. Instead, we arrived to receive the news that she had been deported. "Deported? Daddy, what does that mean?" It meant that she wasn't coming back home, at least not in a long time. The phone rang; it was my mom. There I was, barraging her with questions of why they had taken her and when she would be back, and the answer to those were that she didn't know.
As a child, I saw my family's situation as unjust. I would spend almost the entirety of some nights crying myself to sleep. I missed her. I missed her tucking me into bed. I missed seeing her outside, tending devotedly to her garden. I missed her presence and the comfort and peace that she provided my family with. Since she was deported, nothing has been the same here at home. The garden no longer seems invigorated with life and the house looks solemn and decrepit.
I have grown now though, and I still miss my mother as much as nine years ago, but I am no longer that child that isolates herself in a corner to cry. I grew tired a long time ago of feeling sorry for myself and never do I want to evoke pity from others. I now view the situation from a different perspective. My mother's deportation has made me value many things in life, mainly her, something that many my age do not do; they are uncognizant of how fortunate they are to have their parents present in their lives. Her absence has also made her my inspiration to be a person of quality with true human characteristics. My mother has taught me about empathy, benignity, love, and selflessness. Her not being here propels me to make her proud of the person that she has helped mold.
Hopefully next year, when her ten-year sentence is over, she will be allowed to return. In a few months when I graduate, I know that among the crowd, I will not see her. I do hope, however, that in the near future, she will be present to witness my other accomplishments: graduating from college, volunteering for the Peace Corps, and becoming an environmental engineer and a teacher. Time though, can never be recuperated. Once it's gone, it's gone. No one could possibly ever make up for the years of separation between my family. All the sadness, anger, and happiness that we could have experienced together during that time is lost. What we can do though, is create new experiences, new ones that will make us cry, yell, or smile.
Smiling... I like smiling.
The world was replete with happiness and serenity. Nothing was better than going down the slide, twirling in the rain, or rushing to my mother's comforting arms. Of course, I was eight. How else could I have viewed the world? No life-changing event had ever occurred in my life... yet.
It was a typical December morning: cold. The house was pervaded with the cold of the early frosty morning. Then, a knock on the back door. It took most of us aback. Who knocks on the back door? My mother opened it. There were two men and she walked outside with them; my father followed. My whole family was unaware of what would be a major turning point in our lives. My mother came back inside, kissed me, and told me she would return later. She never did.
That day, I had a bad premonition, which filled me with anxiety. I remember coming back from school, still with that innocent hope to find my mother home. What I found was my father on the living room couch, secluded in darkness, staring into oblivion. That day, routine was broken. My brother and I did not arrive to receive a kiss from our mother, to eat her dinner, nor to excitedly tell her about our day. Instead, we arrived to receive the news that she had been deported. "Deported? Daddy, what does that mean?" It meant that she wasn't coming back home, at least not in a long time. The phone rang; it was my mom. There I was, barraging her with questions of why they had taken her and when she would be back, and the answer to those were that she didn't know.
As a child, I saw my family's situation as unjust. I would spend almost the entirety of some nights crying myself to sleep. I missed her. I missed her tucking me into bed. I missed seeing her outside, tending devotedly to her garden. I missed her presence and the comfort and peace that she provided my family with. Since she was deported, nothing has been the same here at home. The garden no longer seems invigorated with life and the house looks solemn and decrepit.
I have grown now though, and I still miss my mother as much as nine years ago, but I am no longer that child that isolates herself in a corner to cry. I grew tired a long time ago of feeling sorry for myself and never do I want to evoke pity from others. I now view the situation from a different perspective. My mother's deportation has made me value many things in life, mainly her, something that many my age do not do; they are uncognizant of how fortunate they are to have their parents present in their lives. Her absence has also made her my inspiration to be a person of quality with true human characteristics. My mother has taught me about empathy, benignity, love, and selflessness. Her not being here propels me to make her proud of the person that she has helped mold.
Hopefully next year, when her ten-year sentence is over, she will be allowed to return. In a few months when I graduate, I know that among the crowd, I will not see her. I do hope, however, that in the near future, she will be present to witness my other accomplishments: graduating from college, volunteering for the Peace Corps, and becoming an environmental engineer and a teacher. Time though, can never be recuperated. Once it's gone, it's gone. No one could possibly ever make up for the years of separation between my family. All the sadness, anger, and happiness that we could have experienced together during that time is lost. What we can do though, is create new experiences, new ones that will make us cry, yell, or smile.
Smiling... I like smiling.
