Some students have a background or story that is so central to their identity that they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
I grew up within a community of talented, inspiring individuals. These individuals weren't child prodigies nor were they particularly academically inclined. They were teenagers--teenagers who skateboarded.
Like any fifth-grader, I aspired to be a professional in whatever activity I engaged myself in. Some chose baseball and some chose musical theater. I chose skateboarding. This choice was really on my own accord. I wanted to find my social niche and wouldn't let any parent push me into doing something I wasn't interested in. The only issue was that skateboarding isn't divided into certain age groups nor is it particularly regulated. Of course, in elementary school it is taboo to be associating yourself with people years older than you, so it was strange to many when I went to the skate park after school rather than the football field. Yet I still insisted on going every day, forcefully integrating myself within this small and esoteric community.
I gradually began to feel as though these older teenagers were the people who I identified with, and in turn it inspired me to advance myself in the realm of skateboarding. I trained my mind to focus on the exact moments in time when I was in the middle of the air reaching down to grab my board or when I was balancing on a four-inch-thin handrail going fifteen miles per hour. Despite being drenched in sweat and aching in too many spots to count, it would all be worth it once I'd get the trick I'd been trying for hours. Then it was a surge of emotion-- a surge of both happiness and pure accomplishment. I'd get cheered on by other skaters and I knew they really meant it because no one else but skateboarders could fully understand these emotions. I still remember each smile that would subconsciously appear on my face after a day of successful skating. It was these moments that drew me to the skate park day after day.
However, as maturity dawned upon me, a disconcerting thought loomed above. Where exactly was I going to go in life? My fifth-grade self wasn't particularly prescient in this matter, and as it turns out becoming a professional skateboarder is a dream just as unlikely as playing in the NFL.
Lately, I've come to terms with this thought. I haven't regularly skated in around a year now because I've allocated almost all my time into academics; I really just want to have a reasonable answer to the previous question. I believe this can be looked at with two different perspectives. The first, and more typical, is one that cries "good riddance," while the other is one that carries with it a degree of remorse for giving up something that I loved dearly. I've found a happy medium between these two views. While I understand that skateboarding isn't too highly regarded in the world of academia, I recognize that it has played a significant role in my life. I didn't go to the skate park to hang around and do nothing; I went because I had inadvertently instilled in me the willpower to learn--to learn a new trick and to perfect an old one. Consequently, it was this realization which introduced me to more "direct" learning: reading and studying.
So in this sense, I never stopped doing what I loved, I simply do it differently. Now, I find myself feeling an equal bliss in poring over an interesting book or comprehending a new math concept. Not only do I still retain some of the colloquialisms of skateboarding (an interjecting "dude" will slip the tongue now and then), but whenever I'm studying for a difficult test or class I'm always reminded of those countless hours spent practicing a challenging trick. I truly do not believe I would have such an affinity for learning had I not been exposed to the values of skateboarding.
I grew up within a community of talented, inspiring individuals. These individuals weren't child prodigies nor were they particularly academically inclined. They were teenagers--teenagers who skateboarded.
Like any fifth-grader, I aspired to be a professional in whatever activity I engaged myself in. Some chose baseball and some chose musical theater. I chose skateboarding. This choice was really on my own accord. I wanted to find my social niche and wouldn't let any parent push me into doing something I wasn't interested in. The only issue was that skateboarding isn't divided into certain age groups nor is it particularly regulated. Of course, in elementary school it is taboo to be associating yourself with people years older than you, so it was strange to many when I went to the skate park after school rather than the football field. Yet I still insisted on going every day, forcefully integrating myself within this small and esoteric community.
I gradually began to feel as though these older teenagers were the people who I identified with, and in turn it inspired me to advance myself in the realm of skateboarding. I trained my mind to focus on the exact moments in time when I was in the middle of the air reaching down to grab my board or when I was balancing on a four-inch-thin handrail going fifteen miles per hour. Despite being drenched in sweat and aching in too many spots to count, it would all be worth it once I'd get the trick I'd been trying for hours. Then it was a surge of emotion-- a surge of both happiness and pure accomplishment. I'd get cheered on by other skaters and I knew they really meant it because no one else but skateboarders could fully understand these emotions. I still remember each smile that would subconsciously appear on my face after a day of successful skating. It was these moments that drew me to the skate park day after day.
However, as maturity dawned upon me, a disconcerting thought loomed above. Where exactly was I going to go in life? My fifth-grade self wasn't particularly prescient in this matter, and as it turns out becoming a professional skateboarder is a dream just as unlikely as playing in the NFL.
Lately, I've come to terms with this thought. I haven't regularly skated in around a year now because I've allocated almost all my time into academics; I really just want to have a reasonable answer to the previous question. I believe this can be looked at with two different perspectives. The first, and more typical, is one that cries "good riddance," while the other is one that carries with it a degree of remorse for giving up something that I loved dearly. I've found a happy medium between these two views. While I understand that skateboarding isn't too highly regarded in the world of academia, I recognize that it has played a significant role in my life. I didn't go to the skate park to hang around and do nothing; I went because I had inadvertently instilled in me the willpower to learn--to learn a new trick and to perfect an old one. Consequently, it was this realization which introduced me to more "direct" learning: reading and studying.
So in this sense, I never stopped doing what I loved, I simply do it differently. Now, I find myself feeling an equal bliss in poring over an interesting book or comprehending a new math concept. Not only do I still retain some of the colloquialisms of skateboarding (an interjecting "dude" will slip the tongue now and then), but whenever I'm studying for a difficult test or class I'm always reminded of those countless hours spent practicing a challenging trick. I truly do not believe I would have such an affinity for learning had I not been exposed to the values of skateboarding.