Be as critical as possible, every little bit is appreciated :)
Right-brained and left-brained, artistic yet technical, a lover of beauty but an advocate of fact. I am a smorgasbord of contradictive preferences and feelings; no two pieces of the puzzle that is my personality fit together with exactness. I accredit the differentiation of my personality to the fact that I have two dads.
Freshly mown grass, the poignant smell of spices, and numerous pairs of jeans covered in paint and torn by physical labor. These are all sights and smells that have interwoven themselves with my mental image of my biological dad, Matt. Vivid memories of a smaller version of myself, holding his hand and walking into an unfamiliar house. Looking at the collaboration of colors on the wall, hearing from strangers "Isn't your daddy talented?" I would smile and hear him whisper in my ear that this painting was of a place called Italy; maybe I could go here someday. A little older, he would take me to the botanical gardens so we could toss a Frisbee and set up easels. I would try desperately in vain to emulate the ostensible perfection on his canvas, but he would endlessly insist mine was even better. Recently, I drive myself to his house to find him on his hands and knees grouting the tile of the kitchen he built; he stops immediately to heat some of his homemade bread and cut me a plate of fresh fruit. Whimsical, passionate, and dedicated; I recall many spur of the moment camping trips in which he taught me to cook spaghetti on an outdoor grill and use red dirt as paint like our Cherokee ancestors did. The artistic abilities of my father are copious, and from him I developed my appreciation of art: in physical, musical, and culinary forms. Right-brained is an descriptive understatement, and although I did not inherit his painting, sculpting, or cooking skills, I do accredit to him my passion for playing piano, and have recently began to realize that I owe him for cultivating my interest in music from a young age.
My stepfather Rob is a complete juxtaposition to my dad Matt. A fact-oriented, goal-directed, peace-keeping neurosurgeon, he excels in any left-brained activity and consistently plays by the books. I sit in his office surrounded by tall bookshelves stacked with the likes of Gray's Anatomy, Principles of Ambulatory Medicine, and Diagnostic Neuroradiology. Throughout my life he has been a tutor, a mentor, and an inspiration. His perseverance has gained him success, his patience expands upon my knowledge, and his peaceful tendencies serve as a intercession in the numerous mother-daughter spats that frequently break out in our household. I respect him as a person, a professional, and a parent. I admire his success, and aspire to it.
While Matt reminds me to practice my piano, Rob reminds me to study for my Calculus quiz tomorrow. A dad who has amazed my friends through his artwork, and a dad who brought a brain to school on career day in fifth grade. One who paints and fantasizes over a place called Italy, and one who takes me there the summer after my 16th birthday. The dissimilarity between them continue to astonish me, but I could not be more grateful. Despite differences in their preferences and society's normal conventions, they are close friends, a lesson that has taught me more than perhaps they either could individually. The creativity of my mind has been artistically sculpted by the talented hands of my father Matt; the logic and determination has been chemically rooted in my brain by the scientific mind of my step-father Rob, and collaborating the two has generated the well-rounded, appreciative person that I am.
Right-brained and left-brained, artistic yet technical, a lover of beauty but an advocate of fact. I am a smorgasbord of contradictive preferences and feelings; no two pieces of the puzzle that is my personality fit together with exactness. I accredit the differentiation of my personality to the fact that I have two dads.
Freshly mown grass, the poignant smell of spices, and numerous pairs of jeans covered in paint and torn by physical labor. These are all sights and smells that have interwoven themselves with my mental image of my biological dad, Matt. Vivid memories of a smaller version of myself, holding his hand and walking into an unfamiliar house. Looking at the collaboration of colors on the wall, hearing from strangers "Isn't your daddy talented?" I would smile and hear him whisper in my ear that this painting was of a place called Italy; maybe I could go here someday. A little older, he would take me to the botanical gardens so we could toss a Frisbee and set up easels. I would try desperately in vain to emulate the ostensible perfection on his canvas, but he would endlessly insist mine was even better. Recently, I drive myself to his house to find him on his hands and knees grouting the tile of the kitchen he built; he stops immediately to heat some of his homemade bread and cut me a plate of fresh fruit. Whimsical, passionate, and dedicated; I recall many spur of the moment camping trips in which he taught me to cook spaghetti on an outdoor grill and use red dirt as paint like our Cherokee ancestors did. The artistic abilities of my father are copious, and from him I developed my appreciation of art: in physical, musical, and culinary forms. Right-brained is an descriptive understatement, and although I did not inherit his painting, sculpting, or cooking skills, I do accredit to him my passion for playing piano, and have recently began to realize that I owe him for cultivating my interest in music from a young age.
My stepfather Rob is a complete juxtaposition to my dad Matt. A fact-oriented, goal-directed, peace-keeping neurosurgeon, he excels in any left-brained activity and consistently plays by the books. I sit in his office surrounded by tall bookshelves stacked with the likes of Gray's Anatomy, Principles of Ambulatory Medicine, and Diagnostic Neuroradiology. Throughout my life he has been a tutor, a mentor, and an inspiration. His perseverance has gained him success, his patience expands upon my knowledge, and his peaceful tendencies serve as a intercession in the numerous mother-daughter spats that frequently break out in our household. I respect him as a person, a professional, and a parent. I admire his success, and aspire to it.
While Matt reminds me to practice my piano, Rob reminds me to study for my Calculus quiz tomorrow. A dad who has amazed my friends through his artwork, and a dad who brought a brain to school on career day in fifth grade. One who paints and fantasizes over a place called Italy, and one who takes me there the summer after my 16th birthday. The dissimilarity between them continue to astonish me, but I could not be more grateful. Despite differences in their preferences and society's normal conventions, they are close friends, a lesson that has taught me more than perhaps they either could individually. The creativity of my mind has been artistically sculpted by the talented hands of my father Matt; the logic and determination has been chemically rooted in my brain by the scientific mind of my step-father Rob, and collaborating the two has generated the well-rounded, appreciative person that I am.
