Prompt: 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.
The sweet succulent aroma of food oozed into my room through the partially opened door. It trickled in through my nostrils, reminding me of a simpler time. My eyelids gradually rose and so did my senses.
"Hurry up, breakfast is ready!" my mother bellowed, yanking me back into reality.
I rose from my bed, and journeyed toward the table, leaving a trail of blankets, pillows, and clothes in my wake. I stationed myself on the seat and began ogling my food. It was Halwa Puri a fine tasting delicacy that you would rarely find in the west. It reminded me of my home in Pakistan. The bustling streets that were filled to the brim with people from all walks of life. The man selling Kulfi (a traditional Pakistani ice cream,) the woman begging for some rupees, the business man who was dressed as sharp as can be, the sleazy creature who would sell his own spawn for a quick buck, and the innocent little kids, heading towards school without a care in the world.
"Why did we have to move to America?" I thought to myself.
"Why couldn't we have stayed in Pakistan?"
I glanced at the clock and realized that it was time to head out for school. I packed my things and walked out the front door; chained to my thoughts, I was blind to the world around me. This was my first day as a fifth grader.
My fifth grade teacher instructed us to write an essay on a topic of our choosing. I chose to write about my experiences in Pakistan and how they differed from my experiences in America. My teacher talked to me after class and told me that she loved the way I injected my emotions into my writing. She wanted to discuss my dissatisfaction with America and gave me a new perspective on things. I began to think about these things on my own, I began to look inside myself for answers. Did I dislike America because it was different or did I dislike America because I wanted to? Was I the cause of my own unhappiness? The answer to both of these questions was yes.
I ended the year with a much greater understanding of both myself and the world around me. On the first day of sixth grade. I woke up in a haze. I ate my food in a tired and monotonous fashion, I had grown tired of my mother's cooking. I glanced at the clock and packed my things. I opened the front door and a flurry of images struck me. I started walking towards school and I something quite peculiar. I saw a man selling ice cream, a beggar, a well-dressed business man, and even a sleazy con. I even saw droves of kindergartners scurrying off to school. These were the same type of people that I had seen in Pakistan and I hadn't noticed them before because I didn't want to notice them. I was distorting the world around me in a futile attempt to get it to fit into my narrative.
"I guess America isn't so different after all." I thought to myself.
I let out a smile and I realized that while the faces changed, the streets stayed the same.
The sweet succulent aroma of food oozed into my room through the partially opened door. It trickled in through my nostrils, reminding me of a simpler time. My eyelids gradually rose and so did my senses.
"Hurry up, breakfast is ready!" my mother bellowed, yanking me back into reality.
I rose from my bed, and journeyed toward the table, leaving a trail of blankets, pillows, and clothes in my wake. I stationed myself on the seat and began ogling my food. It was Halwa Puri a fine tasting delicacy that you would rarely find in the west. It reminded me of my home in Pakistan. The bustling streets that were filled to the brim with people from all walks of life. The man selling Kulfi (a traditional Pakistani ice cream,) the woman begging for some rupees, the business man who was dressed as sharp as can be, the sleazy creature who would sell his own spawn for a quick buck, and the innocent little kids, heading towards school without a care in the world.
"Why did we have to move to America?" I thought to myself.
"Why couldn't we have stayed in Pakistan?"
I glanced at the clock and realized that it was time to head out for school. I packed my things and walked out the front door; chained to my thoughts, I was blind to the world around me. This was my first day as a fifth grader.
My fifth grade teacher instructed us to write an essay on a topic of our choosing. I chose to write about my experiences in Pakistan and how they differed from my experiences in America. My teacher talked to me after class and told me that she loved the way I injected my emotions into my writing. She wanted to discuss my dissatisfaction with America and gave me a new perspective on things. I began to think about these things on my own, I began to look inside myself for answers. Did I dislike America because it was different or did I dislike America because I wanted to? Was I the cause of my own unhappiness? The answer to both of these questions was yes.
I ended the year with a much greater understanding of both myself and the world around me. On the first day of sixth grade. I woke up in a haze. I ate my food in a tired and monotonous fashion, I had grown tired of my mother's cooking. I glanced at the clock and packed my things. I opened the front door and a flurry of images struck me. I started walking towards school and I something quite peculiar. I saw a man selling ice cream, a beggar, a well-dressed business man, and even a sleazy con. I even saw droves of kindergartners scurrying off to school. These were the same type of people that I had seen in Pakistan and I hadn't noticed them before because I didn't want to notice them. I was distorting the world around me in a futile attempt to get it to fit into my narrative.
"I guess America isn't so different after all." I thought to myself.
I let out a smile and I realized that while the faces changed, the streets stayed the same.
