Does this fit into any of the categories?I was thinking Tell us about an external influence (a person, an event, etc.) that affected you and how it caused you to change direction.
My lungs are infiltrated with bits of ozone, particulates, and diesel, but it doesn't bother me. Each day I turn the brass doorknob to leave my apartment and step into the elevator, I look forward to stepping out into the city's atmosphere. The frigid air gently tickles my face, and the wind gusts all around me. My blonde hair flies all over, blocking my view, and I am greeted by a ringing beeping honk. "Watch where you're going little girl," a middle aged taxi driver shouts at me on my way to school. I leave the situation behind me and pick up my pace. My short stature gives me incentive to squeeze through the mass of stock brokers, babysitters, and shopkeepers on their way to work. I push my way through, and manage to pull out my special yellow card along the way. The card is beginning to tear at the upper left corner. My friends and mother advise me to get a new one, but I tell them that I am "re-using it for environmental purposes." The truth of the matter is I can't part without it. I swipe my card, push through the metal bars, and step onto the subway.
I absorb everything around me; people's scents, gestures, and expressions. A frail elderly woman glares at me from across the subway train car. Her gray hair shadows her dominant features, and her upper lip is rather pouty. I wonder why she stares at me. Perhaps I remind her of her youthful days. I should be arriving at my stop any minute now, but until then I take in other's fresh aromas. A man wearing an opulent suit frantically types away on his BlackBerry, and everything seems to be going so fast. Different shades of skin, textures of hair, and work clothes surround me. I can't pinpoint or identify one type of person. This is what I love about the train. I hold onto the metal pole for support, and my eyes meet with those of an elderly Chinese man. I radiate in the warmth of his smile. To my surprise, I am offered a seat by a petite red haired woman. She insists that I take her place, since she is getting off at the next stop, and I oblige. Another subway train car passes by mine. It is as though our cars are in a symphony together. The doors open, and people rush through the train's sterling chrome doors. I notice a man carrying a saxophone walk onto the train. The doors close, and silence ensues. Suddenly the silence is broken by this man who makes an announcement. "Hello, everyone. My name is Curtis, and if you couldn't already tell, I'm a musician. I've been in and out of jobs for a little bit now, and to make ends meet, I'd like to play a little something for you all." He begins to play and the soothing jazz music ignites something inside of my soul. I lose myself in the atmosphere of it all.
Before I know it we've arrived at the 77th street stop. Although the jazz music has stopped filling my ears with rich sounds and vibrancies, I know that it will continue to influence me. On my way to school I pass by a Turkish deli and French boutique and I thrive. I feel alive, and that is when it hits me. I stop then and there at a stoplight, and come to the realization that I am in fact a product of my environment. My hometown has cooked me into a stir-fry; a blending of succulent sauces, flavorful condiments, red meats, and foliage. I consider myself well cultured, socially, and culturally blind. People's differences do not impact how I view them, but rather allow me to learn from them. I can thank New York City for this. Living here has allowed me to experience all kinds of differences, cultures, and ways of life. I don't see myself as a consequence of my familial history, but rather as an intermingled person whose views and personality are the result of my surroundings.
The next day as I walked towards the train, I realized that I was in my place. The glittering lights shining upon me, the skyscrapers functioning as my support, the different spoken languages and customs that I know are within me. This was my zone. I knew right then and there as I swiped my faded yellow MetroCard, that I wouldn't trade my upbringing in New York for anything in the world; for it has given me the ability to stand tall, accept others, and feel that I have a reason to live.
My lungs are infiltrated with bits of ozone, particulates, and diesel, but it doesn't bother me. Each day I turn the brass doorknob to leave my apartment and step into the elevator, I look forward to stepping out into the city's atmosphere. The frigid air gently tickles my face, and the wind gusts all around me. My blonde hair flies all over, blocking my view, and I am greeted by a ringing beeping honk. "Watch where you're going little girl," a middle aged taxi driver shouts at me on my way to school. I leave the situation behind me and pick up my pace. My short stature gives me incentive to squeeze through the mass of stock brokers, babysitters, and shopkeepers on their way to work. I push my way through, and manage to pull out my special yellow card along the way. The card is beginning to tear at the upper left corner. My friends and mother advise me to get a new one, but I tell them that I am "re-using it for environmental purposes." The truth of the matter is I can't part without it. I swipe my card, push through the metal bars, and step onto the subway.
I absorb everything around me; people's scents, gestures, and expressions. A frail elderly woman glares at me from across the subway train car. Her gray hair shadows her dominant features, and her upper lip is rather pouty. I wonder why she stares at me. Perhaps I remind her of her youthful days. I should be arriving at my stop any minute now, but until then I take in other's fresh aromas. A man wearing an opulent suit frantically types away on his BlackBerry, and everything seems to be going so fast. Different shades of skin, textures of hair, and work clothes surround me. I can't pinpoint or identify one type of person. This is what I love about the train. I hold onto the metal pole for support, and my eyes meet with those of an elderly Chinese man. I radiate in the warmth of his smile. To my surprise, I am offered a seat by a petite red haired woman. She insists that I take her place, since she is getting off at the next stop, and I oblige. Another subway train car passes by mine. It is as though our cars are in a symphony together. The doors open, and people rush through the train's sterling chrome doors. I notice a man carrying a saxophone walk onto the train. The doors close, and silence ensues. Suddenly the silence is broken by this man who makes an announcement. "Hello, everyone. My name is Curtis, and if you couldn't already tell, I'm a musician. I've been in and out of jobs for a little bit now, and to make ends meet, I'd like to play a little something for you all." He begins to play and the soothing jazz music ignites something inside of my soul. I lose myself in the atmosphere of it all.
Before I know it we've arrived at the 77th street stop. Although the jazz music has stopped filling my ears with rich sounds and vibrancies, I know that it will continue to influence me. On my way to school I pass by a Turkish deli and French boutique and I thrive. I feel alive, and that is when it hits me. I stop then and there at a stoplight, and come to the realization that I am in fact a product of my environment. My hometown has cooked me into a stir-fry; a blending of succulent sauces, flavorful condiments, red meats, and foliage. I consider myself well cultured, socially, and culturally blind. People's differences do not impact how I view them, but rather allow me to learn from them. I can thank New York City for this. Living here has allowed me to experience all kinds of differences, cultures, and ways of life. I don't see myself as a consequence of my familial history, but rather as an intermingled person whose views and personality are the result of my surroundings.
The next day as I walked towards the train, I realized that I was in my place. The glittering lights shining upon me, the skyscrapers functioning as my support, the different spoken languages and customs that I know are within me. This was my zone. I knew right then and there as I swiped my faded yellow MetroCard, that I wouldn't trade my upbringing in New York for anything in the world; for it has given me the ability to stand tall, accept others, and feel that I have a reason to live.