We received the call at 8:43pm on January 24th, 2001. Rushing to the hospital clad in onlyonly in pajamas and with thoughts of that day's school lesson still fresh in mind, we entered the waiting room anticipating the verdict that would arrive 3 hours later, announcing that he slipped into a coma and later pronounced deceased at 11:26am on January 25th after the life machine was disconnected. My grandfather exhaled a last breath and his seven children reflexively hid their salt-strewn faces. A Vietnam War refugee, a poor Chinese herbalist, an origami folder, a devoutdevoted husband, a sincere father, and my grandfather, were all lost in a single, conclusive breath. However, I, as fully cognizant as a perceptive eight year-old could be of the magnitude of the situation, could not produce a single tear.
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Born in America in 1993, in America, and into a family of fresh immigrants who were still trying to economically and socially adjust after a lifetime's worth of seeing a homeland ravaged by communism(maybe just write war instead?) , I understood the importance of work ethic, the necessity of absence, and the appreciation forof my heritage early on. Due to a lack of formidable skills and a formal education, my parents' lives were consumed by manual labor. I only saw them briefly in the morning and briefly at night. Their demanding schedules, though able to afford renting a meager home accommodatingto accommodate nine relatives, could not always afford my company. It was only natural that I was usually babysat by fellow neighbors until I settled in my grandparents' welcoming hands.
My grandfather was an easygoing, timid man whose eyes crinkled with warmth but whose conversations lacked it, and my grandmother was of equalthe same temperament. I cried as I first stood at their doorstep, not out of fear of my mom's parents but because that moment finalized the lack of physical constancy(what do you mean by physical constancy?) of my own. As months drifted by and as the economic necessity of my parents' absence became clearer and accepted, I warmed up to them, my grandfather particularly. One day, he cleanly ripped out a page from a Vietnamese newspaper. Urging me to follow suit by nodding, he began folding, waiting as my pudgy fingers tried to catch up with his fragile, agile ones. He eventually unveiled a paper airplane festooned in Vietnamese characters and I remember spending many afternoons test-piloting prototypes. Soon afterwards, he taught me the magic behind folding paper boats.
Whether it was out of coincidence, fate, or intention, I had learned how to transform dull paper into puckered caricatures of objects that epitomized sailing and flight, which happened to represent the very two methods by which my parents escaped Vietnam and entered the gates of America: by boat and by plane. My grandfather tried to retell the story of my parents' plight, in honor of their absence, in a way that effectively linked him to me: origami. He unveiled my parents' tale in reverse, for they embarked on their journey first by boat and then by plane. For instance, the fall of Saigon, coupled with the terrors of re-education camps and the oppression of the Communist regime, prompted many Vietnamese to flee their war-torn country. My father and my mother escaped the country by boat to neighboring countries offering refuge, gambling weeks of their lives at sea and effectively earning the term "boat people". Once at these refuges, they were taught basic English, and months afterwards, a plane was sent and they dug their heels into American soil that next day, sporting only the clothes on their backs. Though I would not know the finer details until years later, my grandfather encapsulated in mere creases of paper the general outline of my parents' struggles in a way that reinstated his gratitude for their sacrifices so I could be there with him. His origami was most crucial in granting me the basic framework behind my family's history and the reasons underlying my parents' work ethic and absence.
In the same way my parents' physical absence was no obstacle in my love for them, my grandfather's tangible death did not hamper my gratitude for having instillinged in me an appreciation for creating origami and how little actions are always laced with much deeper meaning. To this day, paper serves as a two-dimensional and a three-dimensional medium through which my family's story can be told and remembered. No matter where I go, paper, whether in the form of receipts, newspapers, or college-ruled notebook paper, is present and likewise, my family's plight. His passing, despite serving as a constant reminder of the mourning accompanying it, immortalized his virtue for recognizing the value of storytelling without words. No tears were shed because my grandfather never actually parted - his legacy lives on through the bond of blood and through the magic of paper.
Wow, this is an amazingly, beautiful essay. The way you described things and told your story was absolutely fantastic. Really, really well-written. However, I'm worried that you've missed part of the prompt, We are interested in learning more about you and the context in which you have grown up, formed your aspirations and accomplished your academic successes, maybe if you were to write about how learning of your parent's stories helped you to have __________ aspirations and caused you to work harder academically...
