Hey guys, this is the common app prompt I'm trying to answer "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." I'm trying to focus on my identity through a common event in my culture. Let me know what you think :)
As a child, I was convinced that my dance moves at the African hall parties were so fire, they could generate heat - turns out, I was just really sweaty. When it came to dancing, I wasn't the best, but with money on the line in those sweaty and packed apartment halls, 13-year-old me fancied myself the original M.J., busting out my best "Shaki Shaki" for the unknown faces cheering me on with money. Every weekend, attending an African hall party was as common as breathing. The dance floor was my stage, and the hall parties were my sanctuary. The excitement of knowing I could go and eat and party to my heart's content with my people was palpable every weekend. The anticipation would build up all week, and by Saturday, the air was electric with the promise of vibrant music, mouth-watering dishes, and joyful reunions. Walking into the hall, week after week, I was greeted by the tantalizing aroma of jollof rice and suya, the infectious vibrations of Afrobeat music, and the warm embraces of friends and family, even ones I didn't fully know. It was a time to let loose, to dance without inhibition, and to savor every moment (and dollar thrown ). Among the most intriguing aspects of these events were the mysterious church invites. These weren't just ordinary after church exchanges of verse; they were subtle cues about upcoming parties, embedded within church gatherings. It was almost like being part of a secret society, where only those in the know, including my mother, could decipher the clues.
On that dance floor, it was every man for himself, all of us children clambering to earn the next dollar on our heads. The weight of expectations and the pressures of school and daily life melted away, replaced by the simple, unbridled pleasure of dancing. The competition was fierce but friendly, each of us determined to outdo the others and catch the attention of the generous aunties and uncles who delighted in showering us with money. The thrill of the chase was exhilarating; we would bust out our best moves, from the energetic "Shaki shaki" to the smooth "Azonto," hoping to be the next to have a dollar bill gracefully land on our heads or shoulders in the DMV's own "Little Africa".
However, this pressureless void cannot last forever the pressures of school, work, and life transformed the thrill of anticipation that used to accompany each weekend's African hall party to a routine with an annoying sense of familiarity. The same faces, although friendly and familiar, began to blend in a sea of smiles and nods. Conversations that once sparked excitement now followed predictable paths, recounting shared experiences and discussing community news that rarely changed. Despite the vibrant music and delicious food, an underlying feeling of sameness dampened the once-exhilarating atmosphere. The dance moves, while still energetic and spirited, replay themselves in an endless loop. Even the tradition of chasing after the tossed dollars, once a thrilling game of skill and luck, started to feel more like a ritualistic obligation than a joyful pursuit.
As these gatherings became less frequent over time, perhaps due to shifting priorities or growing responsibilities, their charm began to fade. What was once a highlight of the week became tinged with a hint of nostalgia for the excitement and spontaneity that marked earlier years. However, the enchantment of youth gives way to the steadiness of adulthood, and the college journey I'm now embarking on, bringing with it a different kind of fulfillment and appreciation for the memories created along the way. The realization that these hall parties are gradually fading out, much like the Igbo language that I can understand but have yet to speak correctly, strikes a chord deep within me. Just as language holds our cultural identity, these gatherings are repositories of traditions, stories, and connections that bind my community- even when we are across an ocean.
Therefore, as I listen to "African Hall party Classics" on Spotify while writing this essay, I can't help but bust a whine in my chair at the Panera I'm in. The infectious rhythms and melodies transport me back to those hall parties, reminding me of the joy and camaraderie that filled those nights. Each beat is a heartbeat of my heritage, each melody a thread in the rich tapestry of Nigeria. Even in this quiet café, far removed from the lively gatherings of my youth, the music calls to me, urging my feet to tap and my shoulders to sway. It's a reminder that no matter where I go or how much time passes, the spirit of those African hall parties will always be a part of me. The energy, the excitement, the sense of belonging-they live on, pulsing through every note of the music I hear, and my heart sings.
@scnwanna
As a child, I was convinced that my dance moves at the African hall parties were so fire, they could generate heat - turns out, I was just really sweaty. When it came to dancing, I wasn't the best, but with money on the line in those sweaty and packed apartment halls, 13-year-old me fancied myself the original M.J., busting out my best "Shaki Shaki" for the unknown faces cheering me on with money. Every weekend, attending an African hall party was as common as breathing. The dance floor was my stage, and the hall parties were my sanctuary. The excitement of knowing I could go and eat and party to my heart's content with my people was palpable every weekend. The anticipation would build up all week, and by Saturday, the air was electric with the promise of vibrant music, mouth-watering dishes, and joyful reunions. Walking into the hall, week after week, I was greeted by the tantalizing aroma of jollof rice and suya, the infectious vibrations of Afrobeat music, and the warm embraces of friends and family, even ones I didn't fully know. It was a time to let loose, to dance without inhibition, and to savor every moment (and dollar thrown ). Among the most intriguing aspects of these events were the mysterious church invites. These weren't just ordinary after church exchanges of verse; they were subtle cues about upcoming parties, embedded within church gatherings. It was almost like being part of a secret society, where only those in the know, including my mother, could decipher the clues.
On that dance floor, it was every man for himself, all of us children clambering to earn the next dollar on our heads. The weight of expectations and the pressures of school and daily life melted away, replaced by the simple, unbridled pleasure of dancing. The competition was fierce but friendly, each of us determined to outdo the others and catch the attention of the generous aunties and uncles who delighted in showering us with money. The thrill of the chase was exhilarating; we would bust out our best moves, from the energetic "Shaki shaki" to the smooth "Azonto," hoping to be the next to have a dollar bill gracefully land on our heads or shoulders in the DMV's own "Little Africa".
However, this pressureless void cannot last forever the pressures of school, work, and life transformed the thrill of anticipation that used to accompany each weekend's African hall party to a routine with an annoying sense of familiarity. The same faces, although friendly and familiar, began to blend in a sea of smiles and nods. Conversations that once sparked excitement now followed predictable paths, recounting shared experiences and discussing community news that rarely changed. Despite the vibrant music and delicious food, an underlying feeling of sameness dampened the once-exhilarating atmosphere. The dance moves, while still energetic and spirited, replay themselves in an endless loop. Even the tradition of chasing after the tossed dollars, once a thrilling game of skill and luck, started to feel more like a ritualistic obligation than a joyful pursuit.
As these gatherings became less frequent over time, perhaps due to shifting priorities or growing responsibilities, their charm began to fade. What was once a highlight of the week became tinged with a hint of nostalgia for the excitement and spontaneity that marked earlier years. However, the enchantment of youth gives way to the steadiness of adulthood, and the college journey I'm now embarking on, bringing with it a different kind of fulfillment and appreciation for the memories created along the way. The realization that these hall parties are gradually fading out, much like the Igbo language that I can understand but have yet to speak correctly, strikes a chord deep within me. Just as language holds our cultural identity, these gatherings are repositories of traditions, stories, and connections that bind my community- even when we are across an ocean.
Therefore, as I listen to "African Hall party Classics" on Spotify while writing this essay, I can't help but bust a whine in my chair at the Panera I'm in. The infectious rhythms and melodies transport me back to those hall parties, reminding me of the joy and camaraderie that filled those nights. Each beat is a heartbeat of my heritage, each melody a thread in the rich tapestry of Nigeria. Even in this quiet café, far removed from the lively gatherings of my youth, the music calls to me, urging my feet to tap and my shoulders to sway. It's a reminder that no matter where I go or how much time passes, the spirit of those African hall parties will always be a part of me. The energy, the excitement, the sense of belonging-they live on, pulsing through every note of the music I hear, and my heart sings.
@scnwanna
