Prompt: Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence.
Note: As of right now, I do not plan on using this essay for my personal statement, because I find it describing another's event more than my own. I still want editing advice on it in case I decide to use it. + The essay is a little long.
Comments focusing on content and style would be especially appreciated! :)
Walking through the hallways of my high school, it is hard to imagine each and every person has a story; each person has hardships, unspoken worries, and is not defined by their appearances, grades, or status. A transcript is just a piece of paper - a glimpse into a life that is unrecognizable to everyone but the person living it. On paper, I may seem like the standard achieving student: I have sufficient grades, have taken a variety of AP classes, and am involved in various clubs centered on community service and outreach. Yet, it is likely that hundreds of other applicants are involved in the same clubs, have taken the same classes, and have the same grades and SAT scores. It is the person - a unique bundle of hopes, dreams, and quirks - that makes someone worthwhile; that gives them that unexplainable "je ne sais quoi". It is not necessarily the classes one takes, or the grades one receives, but the effort, dedication, and passion that led them to success.
Ever since I was old enough to have my own thoughts and opinions, my parents have enforced the idea of my education being solely in my hands. They have always taught me that I have choices: I could choose my own path, and take advantage of the opportunities given to me, or throw my life away. They have always wanted me to be someone, and live the life they never got the chance to. I can distinctly remember their never-ending lectures - which are still continuing, to this day - about my actions, and the type of person I want to become.
I can distinctly remember the first time my parents ever told me their story. I sat in the middle of our couch; the cushions swallowed my ten-year-old body, and left my feet dangling off the edge. Casually, my parents began to tell me about the country they were from, and how different their life was from mine. Instead of paying attention to their stories about growing up on farms and fishing for dinner at the local pond, I twiddled my thumbs and picked at the lining of the couch, desperate to escape one of their "in-the-old-days" stories. It was not until they told me about the war that changed their life; the war that made them lose family members, friends, and their home, that I paid full attention.
Both of my parents, along with two million other Cambodians, were made refugees in the war that ravaged their country. People were driven out of their homes, and walked hundreds of miles seeking refuge in the safe borders of Thailand. I can still remember their faces as they told me their story. My father looked away and squinted his eyes, as if trying to remember another time, another distant memory of a life long gone, as my mother alternated from concentrating on the floor to my father. I could not even comprehend the distance or the harsh conditions they traveled under. Not from my plush couch, in my air conditioned home, a life like that was unimaginable for my sheltered mind. As my father told me how his family lived on small bowls of plain rice, walking mile after mile every day, I felt ashamed of myself; ashamed that I lived a comfortable life, while my parents struggled to survive day-by-day. At my age, my father and his family had left all of their possessions and fled to refugee camps in Thailand, where they had access to little food, water, and sanitary living conditions. And here I was, complaining about the type of food my mother prepared for dinner, or not receiving the latest toy and the most expensive clothes.
My mother went on a similar journey: her family traversed through the jungles and countryside of Cambodia, and she even witnessed her brother's death as he triggered an underground land mine in the jungle. Suddenly, every disagreement I had ever had with my sister seemed unimportant. Any hard feelings toward her melted away, as I pondered what it would feel like to lose her. For the first time, I realized what a blessing it was to have a family, a home, people to love you, and a safe place to sleep at night.
Both of my parents came to America in 1982, some of the lucky few who were able to escape death at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. Meanwhile, one-third of the population - two million people - was killed in Cambodia. As my parents told me these stories, their expressions never changed. They were not overcome by self-pity and grief, but took the events in stride, and expressed strength that, until then, I did not know they possessed.
When they came to America, they faced adversity like every other immigrant, and struggled to make a life for themselves. Even when they were able to pull through, and make something of themselves, there were events in their life that would make hope seem impossible. My father is still my hero: an example of a person with a strength and resilience that I hope to encompass in the future. Every bump-in-the-road has never stopped him, although it may have slowed him down. Through their experiences, my parents have taught me to be appreciative, to never take my life for granted, and understand that there is always someone worse off, someone struggling to survive just one more day. In my mother, I see a woman I hope to be some day: independent, proud, strong, yet caring and gentle. I see strength in them everyday: my father pushing through obstacles of blindness and physical disabilities, my mother, working and caring for her family under every difficult circumstance. I hope to become like them one day; to be filled with the strength they have, by simply living their life zealously.
In me, my parents have instilled an appetite for life, a passion that makes me want to do more, be more, cherish every single moment, and live my life to the fullest. I am a stronger person, because of my parents; because through struggles and hardships, they have never given up on hope for a better life. Even when a good life seems to be impossible, or hope seems to be a cloud on a distant horizon; my parents have sacrificed everything to show me what dedication and desire can earn in life. Through their stories, I have learned that being alive is my greatest luxury, and being appreciative of the life I have been given is the small price I pay.
I am passionate about my life, and dedicated to doing whatever it takes to become someone my parents can be proud of; someone I can be proud of. It is this desire that makes me yearn for more, that makes me crave success. I am more than what is on the paper. What sets me apart? I truly want this. I want this for me, for my parents, for that bit of hope that my life could be better. Years ago, when the texture of my couch seemed more interesting than my parent's life story, I would have never guessed that that night would change not only my fundamental outlook on life, but the core of who I am.
Thanks! - Malinda.
Note: As of right now, I do not plan on using this essay for my personal statement, because I find it describing another's event more than my own. I still want editing advice on it in case I decide to use it. + The essay is a little long.
Comments focusing on content and style would be especially appreciated! :)
Walking through the hallways of my high school, it is hard to imagine each and every person has a story; each person has hardships, unspoken worries, and is not defined by their appearances, grades, or status. A transcript is just a piece of paper - a glimpse into a life that is unrecognizable to everyone but the person living it. On paper, I may seem like the standard achieving student: I have sufficient grades, have taken a variety of AP classes, and am involved in various clubs centered on community service and outreach. Yet, it is likely that hundreds of other applicants are involved in the same clubs, have taken the same classes, and have the same grades and SAT scores. It is the person - a unique bundle of hopes, dreams, and quirks - that makes someone worthwhile; that gives them that unexplainable "je ne sais quoi". It is not necessarily the classes one takes, or the grades one receives, but the effort, dedication, and passion that led them to success.
Ever since I was old enough to have my own thoughts and opinions, my parents have enforced the idea of my education being solely in my hands. They have always taught me that I have choices: I could choose my own path, and take advantage of the opportunities given to me, or throw my life away. They have always wanted me to be someone, and live the life they never got the chance to. I can distinctly remember their never-ending lectures - which are still continuing, to this day - about my actions, and the type of person I want to become.
I can distinctly remember the first time my parents ever told me their story. I sat in the middle of our couch; the cushions swallowed my ten-year-old body, and left my feet dangling off the edge. Casually, my parents began to tell me about the country they were from, and how different their life was from mine. Instead of paying attention to their stories about growing up on farms and fishing for dinner at the local pond, I twiddled my thumbs and picked at the lining of the couch, desperate to escape one of their "in-the-old-days" stories. It was not until they told me about the war that changed their life; the war that made them lose family members, friends, and their home, that I paid full attention.
Both of my parents, along with two million other Cambodians, were made refugees in the war that ravaged their country. People were driven out of their homes, and walked hundreds of miles seeking refuge in the safe borders of Thailand. I can still remember their faces as they told me their story. My father looked away and squinted his eyes, as if trying to remember another time, another distant memory of a life long gone, as my mother alternated from concentrating on the floor to my father. I could not even comprehend the distance or the harsh conditions they traveled under. Not from my plush couch, in my air conditioned home, a life like that was unimaginable for my sheltered mind. As my father told me how his family lived on small bowls of plain rice, walking mile after mile every day, I felt ashamed of myself; ashamed that I lived a comfortable life, while my parents struggled to survive day-by-day. At my age, my father and his family had left all of their possessions and fled to refugee camps in Thailand, where they had access to little food, water, and sanitary living conditions. And here I was, complaining about the type of food my mother prepared for dinner, or not receiving the latest toy and the most expensive clothes.
My mother went on a similar journey: her family traversed through the jungles and countryside of Cambodia, and she even witnessed her brother's death as he triggered an underground land mine in the jungle. Suddenly, every disagreement I had ever had with my sister seemed unimportant. Any hard feelings toward her melted away, as I pondered what it would feel like to lose her. For the first time, I realized what a blessing it was to have a family, a home, people to love you, and a safe place to sleep at night.
Both of my parents came to America in 1982, some of the lucky few who were able to escape death at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. Meanwhile, one-third of the population - two million people - was killed in Cambodia. As my parents told me these stories, their expressions never changed. They were not overcome by self-pity and grief, but took the events in stride, and expressed strength that, until then, I did not know they possessed.
When they came to America, they faced adversity like every other immigrant, and struggled to make a life for themselves. Even when they were able to pull through, and make something of themselves, there were events in their life that would make hope seem impossible. My father is still my hero: an example of a person with a strength and resilience that I hope to encompass in the future. Every bump-in-the-road has never stopped him, although it may have slowed him down. Through their experiences, my parents have taught me to be appreciative, to never take my life for granted, and understand that there is always someone worse off, someone struggling to survive just one more day. In my mother, I see a woman I hope to be some day: independent, proud, strong, yet caring and gentle. I see strength in them everyday: my father pushing through obstacles of blindness and physical disabilities, my mother, working and caring for her family under every difficult circumstance. I hope to become like them one day; to be filled with the strength they have, by simply living their life zealously.
In me, my parents have instilled an appetite for life, a passion that makes me want to do more, be more, cherish every single moment, and live my life to the fullest. I am a stronger person, because of my parents; because through struggles and hardships, they have never given up on hope for a better life. Even when a good life seems to be impossible, or hope seems to be a cloud on a distant horizon; my parents have sacrificed everything to show me what dedication and desire can earn in life. Through their stories, I have learned that being alive is my greatest luxury, and being appreciative of the life I have been given is the small price I pay.
I am passionate about my life, and dedicated to doing whatever it takes to become someone my parents can be proud of; someone I can be proud of. It is this desire that makes me yearn for more, that makes me crave success. I am more than what is on the paper. What sets me apart? I truly want this. I want this for me, for my parents, for that bit of hope that my life could be better. Years ago, when the texture of my couch seemed more interesting than my parent's life story, I would have never guessed that that night would change not only my fundamental outlook on life, but the core of who I am.
Thanks! - Malinda.
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