I do wonder whether my short answer for the Common Application says enough about me, or if it is a good topic to write about. Any critiques are kindly appreciated!
I felt euphoric as I stood amidst a cloud of heaving, rushing figures. They maneuvered around me as if each graceful movement was carefully choreographed. The movement was dizzying but exhilarating. This was the beauty of Fashion Week, and I was to model the night's elegances. Each time I become part of this scintillating myriad of fabric, color, and opulence, my usual pallid demeanor diminishes, and I am essentially transformed.
Peeking through the curtains, I observed the rare and exotic birds of fashion. I wondered what experiences had shaped these individuals, knowing that being there had once been for them as distant a dream as it was for me. I thought of what makes me personally love fashion. Fashion is the light in the designer's eyes as he sews a heavenly mountain of red tulle on the show's final look. It is an artist's rendition-one that can be shown off, expressing the wearer without a word. It is pure passion, art, escapism, and joy. Above all, it is my love.
Also, this is my Common Application essay. I cannot decide whether to use this one, or the other essay I posted up that focuses solely on the Peruvian anticucho dish rather than my family's influence. For the CommonApp, I think I should stick with this one, but if you guys have any opinions, feel free to say. The word count right now is 477 out of the 500 allowed. Thanks for the help! Here it is:
"ĄJosefina!" sounded the loud, yet comforting voice of my grandmother from the other room, addressing me in Spanish. The wafts of decadent culinary incense drew me from my bubblegum-pink room and Dr. Seuss's Oh, the Places You'll Go! to the kitchen below. As I descended, echoes of laughter reverberated on the crackling walls and wobbly handrails I gripped. I entered the kitchen, and glanced around at the familiar scene: my perpetually hearty grandmother-resplendent in a stained apron and donning a brilliant smile-surrounded by boisterous family members. Their eyes shone, as did mine, with anxious anticipation for what awaited them. At that moment, they awaited my grandmother's succulent anticucho dish. I reveled in the perfection of the scene.
I was six years old and blissfully naïve as I devoured the Peruvian delicacy. I knew not of my family members' prior hardships or of the impact their tales of foreign strife would have on me. Nostalgic tales were passed around the dinner table along with the condiments. As histories unraveled, I took a mental journey through the rolling hills of Huancayo, Peru and was humbled by the depictions of strife I never knew existed. From sharing one pair of shoes to dealing with the death of their sibling, misfortune was to them recurrent and normal. I carried this lesson with me, and continuously reminded myself that no disappointing test grade, deep-felt regret, or personal failure could ever match the adversity faced by them or others. Should I include more anecdotal evidence? Or elaborate more, perhaps? I feel as if I should be telling a story without making generalizations such as these, but it is difficult to do so.
A few years after that memorable dinner, I bade farewell to the crusted walls of the urban neighborhood and the familiar faces. The next reluctant step was to pack my urban memories and move into suburbia. No longer would I slip into fantasy in the shelter of my room or my inspirational children's stories. During the transition, my roots would play pivotal role in helping me build myself along the way. My grandmother, in a voice that carried the elusive secrets of the future, often repeated in Spanish that no matter what I am stripped or deprived of, what cannot be claimed is the knowledge I held. I frequently recalled this piece of advice. I pushed myself further each academic year, and sensed my improvement.
I have recently realized how profoundly a child is shaped by his or her familial roots and environment. The eyes of my family shine as they did long ago as I recount to them my college plans and future endeavors. Unfortunately, my grandmother passed away before she could ever indulge in the knowledge of my collegiate advances. Her tender, powerful words still ring in my mind in spouts of downcast melancholy. My family has helped define who I am and who I strive to become. It seems only fair that, perhaps, if I should receive an acceptance letter, it should be addressed to me and my family.
I would gladly revise any essays in return! :)
I felt euphoric as I stood amidst a cloud of heaving, rushing figures. They maneuvered around me as if each graceful movement was carefully choreographed. The movement was dizzying but exhilarating. This was the beauty of Fashion Week, and I was to model the night's elegances. Each time I become part of this scintillating myriad of fabric, color, and opulence, my usual pallid demeanor diminishes, and I am essentially transformed.
Peeking through the curtains, I observed the rare and exotic birds of fashion. I wondered what experiences had shaped these individuals, knowing that being there had once been for them as distant a dream as it was for me. I thought of what makes me personally love fashion. Fashion is the light in the designer's eyes as he sews a heavenly mountain of red tulle on the show's final look. It is an artist's rendition-one that can be shown off, expressing the wearer without a word. It is pure passion, art, escapism, and joy. Above all, it is my love.
Also, this is my Common Application essay. I cannot decide whether to use this one, or the other essay I posted up that focuses solely on the Peruvian anticucho dish rather than my family's influence. For the CommonApp, I think I should stick with this one, but if you guys have any opinions, feel free to say. The word count right now is 477 out of the 500 allowed. Thanks for the help! Here it is:
"ĄJosefina!" sounded the loud, yet comforting voice of my grandmother from the other room, addressing me in Spanish. The wafts of decadent culinary incense drew me from my bubblegum-pink room and Dr. Seuss's Oh, the Places You'll Go! to the kitchen below. As I descended, echoes of laughter reverberated on the crackling walls and wobbly handrails I gripped. I entered the kitchen, and glanced around at the familiar scene: my perpetually hearty grandmother-resplendent in a stained apron and donning a brilliant smile-surrounded by boisterous family members. Their eyes shone, as did mine, with anxious anticipation for what awaited them. At that moment, they awaited my grandmother's succulent anticucho dish. I reveled in the perfection of the scene.
I was six years old and blissfully naïve as I devoured the Peruvian delicacy. I knew not of my family members' prior hardships or of the impact their tales of foreign strife would have on me. Nostalgic tales were passed around the dinner table along with the condiments. As histories unraveled, I took a mental journey through the rolling hills of Huancayo, Peru and was humbled by the depictions of strife I never knew existed. From sharing one pair of shoes to dealing with the death of their sibling, misfortune was to them recurrent and normal. I carried this lesson with me, and continuously reminded myself that no disappointing test grade, deep-felt regret, or personal failure could ever match the adversity faced by them or others. Should I include more anecdotal evidence? Or elaborate more, perhaps? I feel as if I should be telling a story without making generalizations such as these, but it is difficult to do so.
A few years after that memorable dinner, I bade farewell to the crusted walls of the urban neighborhood and the familiar faces. The next reluctant step was to pack my urban memories and move into suburbia. No longer would I slip into fantasy in the shelter of my room or my inspirational children's stories. During the transition, my roots would play pivotal role in helping me build myself along the way. My grandmother, in a voice that carried the elusive secrets of the future, often repeated in Spanish that no matter what I am stripped or deprived of, what cannot be claimed is the knowledge I held. I frequently recalled this piece of advice. I pushed myself further each academic year, and sensed my improvement.
I have recently realized how profoundly a child is shaped by his or her familial roots and environment. The eyes of my family shine as they did long ago as I recount to them my college plans and future endeavors. Unfortunately, my grandmother passed away before she could ever indulge in the knowledge of my collegiate advances. Her tender, powerful words still ring in my mind in spouts of downcast melancholy. My family has helped define who I am and who I strive to become. It seems only fair that, perhaps, if I should receive an acceptance letter, it should be addressed to me and my family.
I would gladly revise any essays in return! :)
