I plan to submit some of my applications today. Kindly help me check this essay.
Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
The poorly made bed sat quietly in one corner of the dark room awaiting the next tired fellow to fall a victim of its spine-hostile characteristic. Nothing more could be expected of a bed structured with Bamboo and stones anyway. The rough-surfaced reddish walls of the house were made of mud bricks from Lateritic soil. On a larger picture, the dusty roads and the worse for wear school buildings conveyed some messages too. Children of different ages hawked pass me during my evening walks. I couldn't help but pity them. The tight-lipped smile which trickled onto and sheltered the "compassionate" picture portrayed on my face by my thoughts left them clueless.
Few months before completing high school, I paid a visit to my mother's village; Zoungbonou, Benin. The visit allowed me to explore and know more about where and how my life began. I've anticipated that moment. Three days couldn't make up for eleven years, but 'half a loaf is better than none.' My father is a Nigerian, and my mother hailed and resides in Benin. My parents were never married. This, I assume, didn't have much adverse effect on me; at least "diversity" gave me a ride, pointing out things for me to note at every junction.
I was about the age of six when my father demanded me from my mother. Poor woman, she knew our community had nothing to offer. She wanted me to have a better life -an opportunity she never had. I was taken to Nigeria, and as a result my lifestyle turned around. A starting pistol was shot for the new race. I began to school while living with my paternal grandmother in a village named Kosubosu. My father came to the United States shortly after then to further his education and settle down, but 'the best-laid plans of mice and men go oft astray' -things didn't go strictly as planned. French couldn't work anymore; I had to learn the new languages. Preceded by months of expressing feelings and ideas with gestures, Yoruba found its way to my left hemisphere. I made some Baroba and Fulani friends which gave me room to learn little of their languages as well. 'You will see your parents again someday' finds an abode in granny's morning prayers; God heard her. Grandma's little shy boy; she knew how much I loved to have pounded yam for dinner. The etiquette and the how-things-are-done lessons instilled in me values and morals that kept me going.
I felt the opposite when I moved in with my uncle in the city of Ibadan. 'If you don't eat it, that means you are not hungry' his wife once yelled. Poor Eba, it spent two days on the kitchen table behind the locked door. Some fuzzy green dots marred the "delicious" color it displayed when it was prepared. The appearance of the remote controls in the living room; complete and well-connected television cords, and the aroma of ambrosial foods spreading across the house indicates her husband's presence -he travels a lot. 'Let someone know your plight' one part of me suggested; 'don't!' others opposed. What about her relationship? I preferred and went with the "majority". 'Suit yourself bonhomie,' the single part must have said. I believed it would come to a halt someday.
If I could still speak my mother's language when I visited, my grandmother's part of the journey would have been the best to share; where I learnt that how I treat people dictates what they think, feel, and say about me. My education will be vindication of my belief that my mother would have a better life and live in a better house someday. And if I am ever going to stop pitying the children hawking, I would have what it takes to take action by then.
Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
The poorly made bed sat quietly in one corner of the dark room awaiting the next tired fellow to fall a victim of its spine-hostile characteristic. Nothing more could be expected of a bed structured with Bamboo and stones anyway. The rough-surfaced reddish walls of the house were made of mud bricks from Lateritic soil. On a larger picture, the dusty roads and the worse for wear school buildings conveyed some messages too. Children of different ages hawked pass me during my evening walks. I couldn't help but pity them. The tight-lipped smile which trickled onto and sheltered the "compassionate" picture portrayed on my face by my thoughts left them clueless.
Few months before completing high school, I paid a visit to my mother's village; Zoungbonou, Benin. The visit allowed me to explore and know more about where and how my life began. I've anticipated that moment. Three days couldn't make up for eleven years, but 'half a loaf is better than none.' My father is a Nigerian, and my mother hailed and resides in Benin. My parents were never married. This, I assume, didn't have much adverse effect on me; at least "diversity" gave me a ride, pointing out things for me to note at every junction.
I was about the age of six when my father demanded me from my mother. Poor woman, she knew our community had nothing to offer. She wanted me to have a better life -an opportunity she never had. I was taken to Nigeria, and as a result my lifestyle turned around. A starting pistol was shot for the new race. I began to school while living with my paternal grandmother in a village named Kosubosu. My father came to the United States shortly after then to further his education and settle down, but 'the best-laid plans of mice and men go oft astray' -things didn't go strictly as planned. French couldn't work anymore; I had to learn the new languages. Preceded by months of expressing feelings and ideas with gestures, Yoruba found its way to my left hemisphere. I made some Baroba and Fulani friends which gave me room to learn little of their languages as well. 'You will see your parents again someday' finds an abode in granny's morning prayers; God heard her. Grandma's little shy boy; she knew how much I loved to have pounded yam for dinner. The etiquette and the how-things-are-done lessons instilled in me values and morals that kept me going.
I felt the opposite when I moved in with my uncle in the city of Ibadan. 'If you don't eat it, that means you are not hungry' his wife once yelled. Poor Eba, it spent two days on the kitchen table behind the locked door. Some fuzzy green dots marred the "delicious" color it displayed when it was prepared. The appearance of the remote controls in the living room; complete and well-connected television cords, and the aroma of ambrosial foods spreading across the house indicates her husband's presence -he travels a lot. 'Let someone know your plight' one part of me suggested; 'don't!' others opposed. What about her relationship? I preferred and went with the "majority". 'Suit yourself bonhomie,' the single part must have said. I believed it would come to a halt someday.
If I could still speak my mother's language when I visited, my grandmother's part of the journey would have been the best to share; where I learnt that how I treat people dictates what they think, feel, and say about me. My education will be vindication of my belief that my mother would have a better life and live in a better house someday. And if I am ever going to stop pitying the children hawking, I would have what it takes to take action by then.
