I will be applying to Harvard this fall and I was hoping to receive some feedback on my rough draft. Any criticism is more than welcome. The essay is meant to inform the school of my hardships or "unusual circumstances in my life." It is approximately 880 words, which I thought was a little lengthy. I do not see how I can shorten it. PLEASE help me out here!
"Yo pensaba que la vida era distinta. Cuando estaba pequeńito, yo creía que las cosas eran fácil como ayer." (I used to think life was different. When I was small, I believed things were as easy as yesterday). This quote from the song "Los Caminos de la Vida" (The trails of life) has never failed to make me bawl. The hardships that I have come cross and continue to endure make my early infancy days seem impeccable.
When I look back upon my situation, it seems like everything collapsed within itself in a matter of seconds. It all started in Colombia when I was eight years old. My parents were supporting my maternal family with politics related affairs. The "guerrilla" warned my parents to stop the support of my uncle's campaign for mayor of Pivijay, a small town in Colombia. My parents failed to react, causing death threats to infiltrate our home. The decision made was for my dad to leave the country as soon as possible. He decided to move to Elizabeth, NJ, where he had a couple of friends. My mom and I kept a low profile in Colombia until meeting up with my dad in the states less than a year later. My sister, Melissa, remained in Colombia to finish her undergraduate degree before fleeting the country to France. How much it would have hurt me to know that I would not be seeing her until seven years later. I left everything I knew and loved for an unfamiliar abyss.
As an innocent eight year old, I was making the best out of the opportunity to come to the states. I enjoyed the trajectory until we got to JFK International Airport. When I finally got to see my father, he looked disheveled and weak. I thought things were going to get better since he had us now. My mom promptly started working night shifts cleaning airplanes in Newark. The surveillance that my parents always kept on me would be removed for an undefined amount of time. I was starting third grade in a new school with no friends or a common language. The financial situation was rough so we resorted to renting out rooms in our rented apartment. The apartment had four rooms; three of which were occupied by couples. I had to share a room with my parents, who I barely came across with, until the unexpected occurred. One day after school, a group of reporters crowded the front of the apartment's door. It turns that one of the couples had passed away after an inebriated off duty cop collided with them on route 1-9. My parents had to work even longer now that there was a new deficit in the household budget. As time passed, it seemed like I was making more wrong decisions. At the end of sixth grade's first semester I had skipped ten days of school. I also started hanging out with the wrong kids and made a habit out of smoking cigarettes, or bogies as we used to call them. On the average day, I used to return home at ten o'clock. My parents would not suspect a thing due to their lack of presence. At the end of sixth grade, my parents became aware of the situation and chose to move to Georgia where they hoped to start fresh.
My dad remained working in New Jersey while my mom and I settled in our newly purchased house. When my dad joined us, he immediately enrolled himself in a full-time and part-time job. We were still not able to make ends meet and decided to rent one of the rooms of the house. I saw that my parents were making this sacrifice for me. During my seventh and eight grade years, I helped my dad every night cleaning the local Ford dealership. Despite how tired I was, I would work as fast as I could knowing that the faster we finished, the longer he would get to sleep before his full-time job. The recession would create a new struggle for us. The renter moved out of our house and my dad lost his part-time job. The mortgage payments were being neglected and we soon went into foreclosure. My dad used our savings and hired a lawyer to appeal. Luckily for us, we qualified under Obama's plan for mortgage bailouts. I shortly got a job in order to buy necessities and commodities such as leisure books, test preparation books, and to pay for club membership fees. Today, my dad holds two full-time jobs and my mom work six days a week. We also recently took in another renter to try to make the finances breakeven.
All I want to do is make my parents proud. I hate walking in my mom's room after work and hearing her crying about the overwhelming pain in her hands. I hate knowing that my dad has to work sixteen hours straight just to get us by. I hate being aware that my parents are in their mid-fifties and will not be able to handle the factory life for much longer. I see them falling apart under my own eyes every single day. I cannot do anything about it and it kills me little by little.
"Yo pensaba que la vida era distinta. Cuando estaba pequeńito, yo creía que las cosas eran fácil como ayer." (I used to think life was different. When I was small, I believed things were as easy as yesterday). This quote from the song "Los Caminos de la Vida" (The trails of life) has never failed to make me bawl. The hardships that I have come cross and continue to endure make my early infancy days seem impeccable.
When I look back upon my situation, it seems like everything collapsed within itself in a matter of seconds. It all started in Colombia when I was eight years old. My parents were supporting my maternal family with politics related affairs. The "guerrilla" warned my parents to stop the support of my uncle's campaign for mayor of Pivijay, a small town in Colombia. My parents failed to react, causing death threats to infiltrate our home. The decision made was for my dad to leave the country as soon as possible. He decided to move to Elizabeth, NJ, where he had a couple of friends. My mom and I kept a low profile in Colombia until meeting up with my dad in the states less than a year later. My sister, Melissa, remained in Colombia to finish her undergraduate degree before fleeting the country to France. How much it would have hurt me to know that I would not be seeing her until seven years later. I left everything I knew and loved for an unfamiliar abyss.
As an innocent eight year old, I was making the best out of the opportunity to come to the states. I enjoyed the trajectory until we got to JFK International Airport. When I finally got to see my father, he looked disheveled and weak. I thought things were going to get better since he had us now. My mom promptly started working night shifts cleaning airplanes in Newark. The surveillance that my parents always kept on me would be removed for an undefined amount of time. I was starting third grade in a new school with no friends or a common language. The financial situation was rough so we resorted to renting out rooms in our rented apartment. The apartment had four rooms; three of which were occupied by couples. I had to share a room with my parents, who I barely came across with, until the unexpected occurred. One day after school, a group of reporters crowded the front of the apartment's door. It turns that one of the couples had passed away after an inebriated off duty cop collided with them on route 1-9. My parents had to work even longer now that there was a new deficit in the household budget. As time passed, it seemed like I was making more wrong decisions. At the end of sixth grade's first semester I had skipped ten days of school. I also started hanging out with the wrong kids and made a habit out of smoking cigarettes, or bogies as we used to call them. On the average day, I used to return home at ten o'clock. My parents would not suspect a thing due to their lack of presence. At the end of sixth grade, my parents became aware of the situation and chose to move to Georgia where they hoped to start fresh.
My dad remained working in New Jersey while my mom and I settled in our newly purchased house. When my dad joined us, he immediately enrolled himself in a full-time and part-time job. We were still not able to make ends meet and decided to rent one of the rooms of the house. I saw that my parents were making this sacrifice for me. During my seventh and eight grade years, I helped my dad every night cleaning the local Ford dealership. Despite how tired I was, I would work as fast as I could knowing that the faster we finished, the longer he would get to sleep before his full-time job. The recession would create a new struggle for us. The renter moved out of our house and my dad lost his part-time job. The mortgage payments were being neglected and we soon went into foreclosure. My dad used our savings and hired a lawyer to appeal. Luckily for us, we qualified under Obama's plan for mortgage bailouts. I shortly got a job in order to buy necessities and commodities such as leisure books, test preparation books, and to pay for club membership fees. Today, my dad holds two full-time jobs and my mom work six days a week. We also recently took in another renter to try to make the finances breakeven.
All I want to do is make my parents proud. I hate walking in my mom's room after work and hearing her crying about the overwhelming pain in her hands. I hate knowing that my dad has to work sixteen hours straight just to get us by. I hate being aware that my parents are in their mid-fifties and will not be able to handle the factory life for much longer. I see them falling apart under my own eyes every single day. I cannot do anything about it and it kills me little by little.
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