First of all I would like to thank anyone who takes the time to read my essay and comment on it.
Standing in the center of a terminal I held the hand of a stranger as I anxiously looked out for two individuals whom for 5 years had remained faceless and unattached to my childhood. My anxiety turned into insecurity as I keep my tears from flowing down my cheeks reminiscing over the great memories that the distance and the winds had absorbed over a period of seven hours. Months before my travel, I had prepared for a predetermined loneliness, understanding that it was time for change. I was convinced that this was my opportunity to seek my own dream and become the first college graduate of my family, however my emotions engaged in a battle of resentment, wishing to go back to my native land.
Months after my arrival, I ...
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I edited my essay, can someone check for spelling and grammar mistakes. Thank you!
"Fight! Fight! Fight! " screamed a crowd of eight year olds, as the sound of every blow echoed on the walls of the cafeteria. Every half a minute, I could hear the moans of the boy reassuring me that he was still alive but in pain. I could not take it anymore, it was injustice, it was racism. For the past month since the young Indian boy had enrolled in the afterschool program, this scene had become a typical attraction for most boys in our grade.
Enough was enough. I did not know what came over me or what I was thinking, all I knew was that I held my Atlas of the world on my right hand as I walked a distance of three tables. I tapped the bully's shoulder. He turned around. I raised my right hand and slammed the Atlas on his right cheek as I screamed, "STOP!" The crowd grew silent; the bully glared at me, raised his fist, but walked away to the back of the room. I kneeled and attempted to pick up the slender, bruised body off the floor. From that moment on, I have become the Atlas girl. The lonely girl in the corner who had enough nerve to stand up to a kid, twice her size, who believed in white superiority and had an ego bigger than himself.
Two days after the incident, the Indian boy, and two girls approached me. They said, "thank you" and sat beside me. I smiled and said, "Hello," but that was as far as it went. The days passed and the same scene repeated over and over. That is when I discovered I had befriend a group of three kids, each with a different language, different origins and stories left untold for the obvious barriers of language. It is particularly interesting that despite our differences we managed to play a good game of soccer, hide and seek or a share a simple laugh. Our communication was complicated but promising. Together we broke language barriers and unraveled the mysteries of our cultures. After two years of a long lasting friendship, I learned how to dance samba like an amateur dancer of Rio de Janeiro, handle and love the spices of Indian food-my favorite the Chicken tikka-and grew accustomed to receiving a red envelope and an invitation to the Chinese New Year. I had discovered that I lived in Newark and that a simple gracias, obrigado, Xie xie, Shukriyaa were just other ways of saying thank you and all were worth the token of appreciation. It was then and there, I believe, when my tolerance for others extended further than the common respect I was taught to give. Unconsciously, I had understood the concept of diversity. The encyclopedias that I often read as a child had taken me to different parts of the world, however, those three friends had made the world tangible and my love for discovery and cultural involvement deepening and exciting.
Almost nine years since my encounter with Andre, Safar, and Yuiki, I find myself sitting in my history class reminiscing on our days of silent friendship as my teacher quotes Jimmy Carter: "We have become not a melting pot but a beautiful mosaic. Different people, different beliefs, different yearnings, different hopes, different dreams." That is when I realize that we had constructed a cultural mosaic that pieced together a picture of friendship and commitment.
Influenced by my past cultural experiences, I have engaged in the extensive task of college search with my mind set on finding a college with rigor, wise professors, classes that cater business or humanities, and most importantly diversity-cultural diversity. I look forward to becoming part of a university's multi-cultural conglomeration that hopefully would shape a cultural mosaic similar to the one I had constructed nine years ago.
Standing in the center of a terminal I held the hand of a stranger as I anxiously looked out for two individuals whom for 5 years had remained faceless and unattached to my childhood. My anxiety turned into insecurity as I keep my tears from flowing down my cheeks reminiscing over the great memories that the distance and the winds had absorbed over a period of seven hours. Months before my travel, I had prepared for a predetermined loneliness, understanding that it was time for change. I was convinced that this was my opportunity to seek my own dream and become the first college graduate of my family, however my emotions engaged in a battle of resentment, wishing to go back to my native land.
Months after my arrival, I ...
------
I edited my essay, can someone check for spelling and grammar mistakes. Thank you!
"Fight! Fight! Fight! " screamed a crowd of eight year olds, as the sound of every blow echoed on the walls of the cafeteria. Every half a minute, I could hear the moans of the boy reassuring me that he was still alive but in pain. I could not take it anymore, it was injustice, it was racism. For the past month since the young Indian boy had enrolled in the afterschool program, this scene had become a typical attraction for most boys in our grade.
Enough was enough. I did not know what came over me or what I was thinking, all I knew was that I held my Atlas of the world on my right hand as I walked a distance of three tables. I tapped the bully's shoulder. He turned around. I raised my right hand and slammed the Atlas on his right cheek as I screamed, "STOP!" The crowd grew silent; the bully glared at me, raised his fist, but walked away to the back of the room. I kneeled and attempted to pick up the slender, bruised body off the floor. From that moment on, I have become the Atlas girl. The lonely girl in the corner who had enough nerve to stand up to a kid, twice her size, who believed in white superiority and had an ego bigger than himself.
Two days after the incident, the Indian boy, and two girls approached me. They said, "thank you" and sat beside me. I smiled and said, "Hello," but that was as far as it went. The days passed and the same scene repeated over and over. That is when I discovered I had befriend a group of three kids, each with a different language, different origins and stories left untold for the obvious barriers of language. It is particularly interesting that despite our differences we managed to play a good game of soccer, hide and seek or a share a simple laugh. Our communication was complicated but promising. Together we broke language barriers and unraveled the mysteries of our cultures. After two years of a long lasting friendship, I learned how to dance samba like an amateur dancer of Rio de Janeiro, handle and love the spices of Indian food-my favorite the Chicken tikka-and grew accustomed to receiving a red envelope and an invitation to the Chinese New Year. I had discovered that I lived in Newark and that a simple gracias, obrigado, Xie xie, Shukriyaa were just other ways of saying thank you and all were worth the token of appreciation. It was then and there, I believe, when my tolerance for others extended further than the common respect I was taught to give. Unconsciously, I had understood the concept of diversity. The encyclopedias that I often read as a child had taken me to different parts of the world, however, those three friends had made the world tangible and my love for discovery and cultural involvement deepening and exciting.
Almost nine years since my encounter with Andre, Safar, and Yuiki, I find myself sitting in my history class reminiscing on our days of silent friendship as my teacher quotes Jimmy Carter: "We have become not a melting pot but a beautiful mosaic. Different people, different beliefs, different yearnings, different hopes, different dreams." That is when I realize that we had constructed a cultural mosaic that pieced together a picture of friendship and commitment.
Influenced by my past cultural experiences, I have engaged in the extensive task of college search with my mind set on finding a college with rigor, wise professors, classes that cater business or humanities, and most importantly diversity-cultural diversity. I look forward to becoming part of a university's multi-cultural conglomeration that hopefully would shape a cultural mosaic similar to the one I had constructed nine years ago.
