I know that I didn't really hit the mark in the personal essay, but I do not know how to incorporate what I want to do into this personal essay without blending in.
Ultimately my goal is to start a non profit utilizing music to engage youth and help spread awareness about social issues such as gang violence, racial profiling, etc
I'm applying to transfer as an undergrad as a music education major c:
It would be great if you guys could look over these and help me out a bit, I greatly appreciate it!
Thank you all for taking the time to read my essays and editing them!
Prompt: Please provide a statement (250 words minimum) that addresses your reasons for transferring and the objectives you hope to achieve.
Esssay:
Divorce. The word that rots on your tongue. The word that forces it's way down your throat until you gag. The word that happens to other parents. To me this was a distant planet or an undiscovered species of fish in Canada. Divorce was bacteria you put under a microscope to study, or an endangered animal observed and pitied from afar. Growing up I remember my parents always telling my brother and I that Asian parents never divorce. We had too much pride for that kind of nonsense. Divorce was reserved for everyone else. In the last few years, I've learned that 1.) Parents lie and 2.) Asian families do get divorced.
I've always admired my father, he was a survivor. He and his family were forced to leave Vietnam during the war. He flew on the last helicopter that would take him to America. My father and his family were now refugees, luckily sponsored by a nice family in Arkansas. When he turned 23 he moved to California with his siblings and he took up a job at the local Seven Eleven with his twin sister. Somewhere between Arkansas, Texas, and California my dad's mother was hit by a drunk driver. The family was never whole again. My grandfather never remarried because he had loved his wife too much. His friend Lien had made a mutual agreement. She became the prominent maternal figure in the family - though she and my grandfather slept in separate rooms in separate beds.
My mother was a tough cookie. She was born in the Philippines, but raised in Hong Kong with two other sisters and a brother. She worked hard and worshiped her parents, spoiling them with the goods her jobs gave her. Their small apartment was their shrine. My mother is beautiful, she takes after her own mother. They say that her beauty was the reason for her death. Back in the Philippines, my grandmother's beauty and success caused hatred amongst many competitors. The night a giant black butterfly flew in and my grandfather was so afraid he ran and hid. She laughed and laughed and laughed at him. My grandmother did not die laughing that night. My own mother ran, she has strong legs. She ran all the way from Hong Kong to America. One morning my mother went jogging, she passed by a Seven Eleven and her fate was sealed.
My mother died when she married my dad. They were not in love. I heard you had to be in love to get married. Either that or you were just awfully drunk and impulsive. Hollywood sure did mess me up. My mother was strong and very vain. Though she always took care of us before she took care of herself. In the twenty years they've been together my father died, too.
We used to live in an apartment on 3439 Agate Drive and our phone number was 249-5537. The place was pretty run down. The place was pretty and run down. The neighbors were friendly and so were their children. Those were the best years for my family. We were so close, literally and figuratively. The apartment was cramp but we always found ways around it. The old floral print sofa was enough. The small linoleum floored kitchen was enough. The fat thirty inch television was enough. We left our home behind the first time my father left us. He found a job here in Sacramento, so we stuffed our luggages and a U-Haul truck with years worth of memories and drove out.
We moved into a house on 9500 Asimov Way and our phone number is 525-2268. The answering machine is my voice at eleven years old. We never changed the greeting, I am twenty now. We could not change some things, but the house was so much bigger. Our dreams became so much bigger. We needed two more sofas and got rid of the floral one. We needed a bigger television and we got a bigger kitchen. We got four rooms as opposed to our two bedroom apartment. We got a backyard and a front yard. But all of this was nothing compared to our small apartment. We grew further and further away from each other.
As a family we divorced each other. I ran to some East Coast University. My brother stayed behind, left alone to trod thru high school. We grew distant and my parents constantly fought over bills and chores. They yelled and screamed until their throats were sore. A few months ago, my parents threatened each other with divorce. This was never something they could make go away with a kiss on the forehead or turning on a nightlight. This was never a flawed tango with a fiery end, this was an awkward group dance filled with uncoordinated dancers and nervous laughter.
We divorced reality, separated ourselves from the truth. An ugly fog conquered my family, we were stuck in limbo. I did not like the idea of this endless purgatory. I closed my eyes, while my mother and father blinded each other with skepticism. I might have found comfort in this Purgatory, I cultivated a friendship with Visine and taught myself the art of perception. If people thought we were a happy family, no one could object.
I never forgave my mother for telling me that she needed a strong man to support her. I thought my dad had that job filled out. I never forgave her for being scared of thunder and lightning. She used to be fearless in my eyes. I never forgave her for waking up in the middle of a cold August night and asking my brother to fetch her a slice of apple pie. Because as he washed the dishes she told him, "I'm glad I have at least one man in my life who takes care of me." At that moment she forgot we were children. I'm still afraid of the dark, you know? I never forgave her for being human.
I never forgave my dad for thinking I was twenty four when I was fourteen. I never forgave him for believing that at the ripe age of eighteen I could survive without a dad. And I will never forgive my dad for the day he stopped calling us into his room before bedtime so he could tell us stories about his past life. The life he had before he married Mom, before he became the estranged father, before he became a coward.
But what really hurts about divorce is finding out that your parents lie. I can never forgive them for lying. Because you know what, big boys and big girls do cry. Asian families do fall apart and I know for a fact that my mom did love my dad and my dad did love my mom at one time.
I broke the first rule of perception, "never tell the truth". So what? I have nothing left to hide and nothing left to lose. My parents lied to me. About divorce, about love, and about that Christmas tree filled with the photos of missing children at Christmas in the Park. In a very morbid sense, learning that your parents lie is like the death of a parent. All of a sudden the safety net is ripped from underneath and you can feel your own mortality. A deep cynicism grows inside you like a malignant tumor. My mom lied to us all these years. I would like to say that in that moment I grew up, that I realized lying was horrible and I became a better person. I learned to believe in myself, to put my family first and to survive. I learned how to be strong, how to be brave. I learned to chase my dreams while staying awake.
Prompt: What intrigues you? Tell us about one work of art, scientific achievement, piece of literature, method of communication, or place in the world (a film, book, performance, website, event, location, etc.), and explain its significance to you.
Some days I wake with a sad, lingering pain in my ribcage. The cavity in my chest which used to nestle only honey is now hollowed out. I scooped it all up with one big wooden spoon. My body rattles with contusions that aren't entirely visible. Yet the first time I heard Sibelius Symphony No. 2 performed, I cried. I cried so hard that it felt like all the honey that had gone missing begun to pour from the stage back into my chest, filling my heart to the brim with forgiveness. The fourth movement pushed redemption into every muscle in my body until I realized I have indecent dreams about being loved. Indecent because I know it shouldn't happen. But it happened anyway, and I'm in love with the violins who's melody carries out my soul into the cosmos. And I am drunk on stars, and confused because I don't understand what I feel in this moment. The harmonies that emit from the woodwinds sound like home. The brass navigate the dimly lit emptiness that I feel late in the evening when everyone is asleep. That night I lay in bed feeling a little less lonely and imagine that I am immersed in sound, afloat at sea.
Prompt: Why NYU?
I was made to be a doctor. Shaped by the yellow hands of my mother and father, their calloused fingers blistered and bled so mine would not. I found that my hands were not made to hold surgical incisions, but to fit perfectly against the neck of a violin. My fingers delicately dance their way across the states to the city of Providence. There my hands were tied to the desk, my fingers forced to illustrate the illusions of advertising. I released myself from bondage when I realized the ache did not come from chains of disillusionment but the insatiable need for music. When all others looked down upon my ability to succeed, NYU bandaged my wounds and welcomed me without question and doubt.
My dreams are as stark as sunscreen on raw sunburned skin. To dream was as contradictory as blood on gold. I struggled to survive to get to where I am today. New York is the city built from imagination, and the haven for my weary soul. I'm not from around here. And people know that. I wear my tears, the dirt beneath my feet, and blood underneath my fingernails like tattoos across my chest for everyone to see. I deserve this opportunity, I made this opportunity.
Ultimately my goal is to start a non profit utilizing music to engage youth and help spread awareness about social issues such as gang violence, racial profiling, etc
I'm applying to transfer as an undergrad as a music education major c:
It would be great if you guys could look over these and help me out a bit, I greatly appreciate it!
Thank you all for taking the time to read my essays and editing them!
Prompt: Please provide a statement (250 words minimum) that addresses your reasons for transferring and the objectives you hope to achieve.
Esssay:
Divorce. The word that rots on your tongue. The word that forces it's way down your throat until you gag. The word that happens to other parents. To me this was a distant planet or an undiscovered species of fish in Canada. Divorce was bacteria you put under a microscope to study, or an endangered animal observed and pitied from afar. Growing up I remember my parents always telling my brother and I that Asian parents never divorce. We had too much pride for that kind of nonsense. Divorce was reserved for everyone else. In the last few years, I've learned that 1.) Parents lie and 2.) Asian families do get divorced.
I've always admired my father, he was a survivor. He and his family were forced to leave Vietnam during the war. He flew on the last helicopter that would take him to America. My father and his family were now refugees, luckily sponsored by a nice family in Arkansas. When he turned 23 he moved to California with his siblings and he took up a job at the local Seven Eleven with his twin sister. Somewhere between Arkansas, Texas, and California my dad's mother was hit by a drunk driver. The family was never whole again. My grandfather never remarried because he had loved his wife too much. His friend Lien had made a mutual agreement. She became the prominent maternal figure in the family - though she and my grandfather slept in separate rooms in separate beds.
My mother was a tough cookie. She was born in the Philippines, but raised in Hong Kong with two other sisters and a brother. She worked hard and worshiped her parents, spoiling them with the goods her jobs gave her. Their small apartment was their shrine. My mother is beautiful, she takes after her own mother. They say that her beauty was the reason for her death. Back in the Philippines, my grandmother's beauty and success caused hatred amongst many competitors. The night a giant black butterfly flew in and my grandfather was so afraid he ran and hid. She laughed and laughed and laughed at him. My grandmother did not die laughing that night. My own mother ran, she has strong legs. She ran all the way from Hong Kong to America. One morning my mother went jogging, she passed by a Seven Eleven and her fate was sealed.
My mother died when she married my dad. They were not in love. I heard you had to be in love to get married. Either that or you were just awfully drunk and impulsive. Hollywood sure did mess me up. My mother was strong and very vain. Though she always took care of us before she took care of herself. In the twenty years they've been together my father died, too.
We used to live in an apartment on 3439 Agate Drive and our phone number was 249-5537. The place was pretty run down. The place was pretty and run down. The neighbors were friendly and so were their children. Those were the best years for my family. We were so close, literally and figuratively. The apartment was cramp but we always found ways around it. The old floral print sofa was enough. The small linoleum floored kitchen was enough. The fat thirty inch television was enough. We left our home behind the first time my father left us. He found a job here in Sacramento, so we stuffed our luggages and a U-Haul truck with years worth of memories and drove out.
We moved into a house on 9500 Asimov Way and our phone number is 525-2268. The answering machine is my voice at eleven years old. We never changed the greeting, I am twenty now. We could not change some things, but the house was so much bigger. Our dreams became so much bigger. We needed two more sofas and got rid of the floral one. We needed a bigger television and we got a bigger kitchen. We got four rooms as opposed to our two bedroom apartment. We got a backyard and a front yard. But all of this was nothing compared to our small apartment. We grew further and further away from each other.
As a family we divorced each other. I ran to some East Coast University. My brother stayed behind, left alone to trod thru high school. We grew distant and my parents constantly fought over bills and chores. They yelled and screamed until their throats were sore. A few months ago, my parents threatened each other with divorce. This was never something they could make go away with a kiss on the forehead or turning on a nightlight. This was never a flawed tango with a fiery end, this was an awkward group dance filled with uncoordinated dancers and nervous laughter.
We divorced reality, separated ourselves from the truth. An ugly fog conquered my family, we were stuck in limbo. I did not like the idea of this endless purgatory. I closed my eyes, while my mother and father blinded each other with skepticism. I might have found comfort in this Purgatory, I cultivated a friendship with Visine and taught myself the art of perception. If people thought we were a happy family, no one could object.
I never forgave my mother for telling me that she needed a strong man to support her. I thought my dad had that job filled out. I never forgave her for being scared of thunder and lightning. She used to be fearless in my eyes. I never forgave her for waking up in the middle of a cold August night and asking my brother to fetch her a slice of apple pie. Because as he washed the dishes she told him, "I'm glad I have at least one man in my life who takes care of me." At that moment she forgot we were children. I'm still afraid of the dark, you know? I never forgave her for being human.
I never forgave my dad for thinking I was twenty four when I was fourteen. I never forgave him for believing that at the ripe age of eighteen I could survive without a dad. And I will never forgive my dad for the day he stopped calling us into his room before bedtime so he could tell us stories about his past life. The life he had before he married Mom, before he became the estranged father, before he became a coward.
But what really hurts about divorce is finding out that your parents lie. I can never forgive them for lying. Because you know what, big boys and big girls do cry. Asian families do fall apart and I know for a fact that my mom did love my dad and my dad did love my mom at one time.
I broke the first rule of perception, "never tell the truth". So what? I have nothing left to hide and nothing left to lose. My parents lied to me. About divorce, about love, and about that Christmas tree filled with the photos of missing children at Christmas in the Park. In a very morbid sense, learning that your parents lie is like the death of a parent. All of a sudden the safety net is ripped from underneath and you can feel your own mortality. A deep cynicism grows inside you like a malignant tumor. My mom lied to us all these years. I would like to say that in that moment I grew up, that I realized lying was horrible and I became a better person. I learned to believe in myself, to put my family first and to survive. I learned how to be strong, how to be brave. I learned to chase my dreams while staying awake.
Prompt: What intrigues you? Tell us about one work of art, scientific achievement, piece of literature, method of communication, or place in the world (a film, book, performance, website, event, location, etc.), and explain its significance to you.
Some days I wake with a sad, lingering pain in my ribcage. The cavity in my chest which used to nestle only honey is now hollowed out. I scooped it all up with one big wooden spoon. My body rattles with contusions that aren't entirely visible. Yet the first time I heard Sibelius Symphony No. 2 performed, I cried. I cried so hard that it felt like all the honey that had gone missing begun to pour from the stage back into my chest, filling my heart to the brim with forgiveness. The fourth movement pushed redemption into every muscle in my body until I realized I have indecent dreams about being loved. Indecent because I know it shouldn't happen. But it happened anyway, and I'm in love with the violins who's melody carries out my soul into the cosmos. And I am drunk on stars, and confused because I don't understand what I feel in this moment. The harmonies that emit from the woodwinds sound like home. The brass navigate the dimly lit emptiness that I feel late in the evening when everyone is asleep. That night I lay in bed feeling a little less lonely and imagine that I am immersed in sound, afloat at sea.
Prompt: Why NYU?
I was made to be a doctor. Shaped by the yellow hands of my mother and father, their calloused fingers blistered and bled so mine would not. I found that my hands were not made to hold surgical incisions, but to fit perfectly against the neck of a violin. My fingers delicately dance their way across the states to the city of Providence. There my hands were tied to the desk, my fingers forced to illustrate the illusions of advertising. I released myself from bondage when I realized the ache did not come from chains of disillusionment but the insatiable need for music. When all others looked down upon my ability to succeed, NYU bandaged my wounds and welcomed me without question and doubt.
My dreams are as stark as sunscreen on raw sunburned skin. To dream was as contradictory as blood on gold. I struggled to survive to get to where I am today. New York is the city built from imagination, and the haven for my weary soul. I'm not from around here. And people know that. I wear my tears, the dirt beneath my feet, and blood underneath my fingernails like tattoos across my chest for everyone to see. I deserve this opportunity, I made this opportunity.
