I was wondering if anyone was willing to give me a bit of feedback on my essay.
The prompt is "We are interested in learning more about you and the context in which you have grown up, formed your aspirations and accomplished your academic successes. Please describe the factors and challenges that have most shaped your personal life and aspirations. How have these factors caused you to grow?" (800 word limit)
Crimson stained metal and flaming wreckage plagued my mind as I fidgeted nervously in our two-ton deathtrap of a Toyota. As the car hurtled forward at a speed no human was ever meant to experience, the infinite possibilities of death whizzed through my mind. "Mommy!" I shrieked as we came to a stop. "What if we die on the freeway?" The opening of the back door was accompanied by a smack. "Don't you ever say that again!" she barked, fiery eyes glinting with conviction. I had forgotten the Chinese taboo on speaking of ominous events. My mother would never forget to remind me, "Words aren't just words. Once they're said, they have the power to change the world; they can become reality." I nodded as always, pretending that I understood.
Years of public education had conditioned me to think of words as scribbles on paper strung together in stories and as methods of expression. Each day I spent hours sitting on the stained floor of the library, completely engrossed in details of Zeus' promiscuity, cemented the budding idea that my mother's thoughts were the result of wild superstition, something she harbored because she was uneducated as a child. Reefing through musty pages, the words of the characters I adored imbued me with bits of their personality, changing me into someone better and bolder. But no matter how much I read aloud and how many stars I wished upon, they would forever be just that: characters.
Contrary to what she said she believed in, my mother was not as careful with her words as she was with mine. Her heaving sighs and alarming depression affected our entire family. Overworking herself to compensate for the loss of income from my chronically absent father and provide us with health insurance, her words became self-depreciating and cutting. The worry she concealed about my temperamental and emotionally abusive father, her undiagnosed illness, and our distant futures poured out as mutters as she collapsed into sleep over a bowl of rice at the dinner table. Dragging herself through each day through sheer effort, she refused my offers for help. All she requested, she weakly smiled, was for me to be the opposite of her, unbound by problems on the road to a future. I did my best to fulfill her request.
All the people in my life seemed so concerned about this vague concept of a future. The suggestions came from all directions, the chaotic noise drawing me away from everything I loved doing most. To-do lists plastered the walls. My parents were never so proud of their little girl. A flicker of security appeared in my mother's wavering face as my love for my sports and helping others was tainted by the idea of winning awards or getting ahead. I grew up and matured, more quickly that I'd realized, shedding all my childish hobbies in lieu of a rigid schedule.
The only pastime I kept was creating new stories like the ones collected by the armful from the library, only now I was the one penning it into reality. Describing the intricate facets of the background, dreaming up each unique character, and meticulously crafting each sentence gave me an escape from the entangling strings that held me fast to my goal. The stories I wrote in my darkest hours were those of brighter ones, controlling the fates of the people I desperately wanted to be. Rereading all the tales of triumph I had composed, I stopped one day.
Vigorously scratching out the first lines, I asked myself who I wanted to be that day. Courageous? Coy? Disgusted with the happy endings, I wanted to write something raw, something about me. What did I want to say? The words I spouted sounded unnatural, as if someone stuffed them in my mouth. Was there nothing left of me? The thin edge of the paper sliced my hand. Even my writing hated who I'd become. The empty lines became clusters of question marks, demanding my attention just as everyone else had.
Frustrated, I started with a single word. No. No to all the pressure to be the best, no to the 5AM workouts, no to the unhelpful SAT classes. The word had become foreign to me. I rolled "no" around in my mouth until it felt natural again. I was a writer and would write what I wanted. No one could tell me to change the personalities I created and no one had the power to force the story to change. Each conflict I face is mine alone. The future was waiting to be written. Staring down the blank sheet of paper, I finally could begin again, this time with my own words.
The prompt is "We are interested in learning more about you and the context in which you have grown up, formed your aspirations and accomplished your academic successes. Please describe the factors and challenges that have most shaped your personal life and aspirations. How have these factors caused you to grow?" (800 word limit)
Crimson stained metal and flaming wreckage plagued my mind as I fidgeted nervously in our two-ton deathtrap of a Toyota. As the car hurtled forward at a speed no human was ever meant to experience, the infinite possibilities of death whizzed through my mind. "Mommy!" I shrieked as we came to a stop. "What if we die on the freeway?" The opening of the back door was accompanied by a smack. "Don't you ever say that again!" she barked, fiery eyes glinting with conviction. I had forgotten the Chinese taboo on speaking of ominous events. My mother would never forget to remind me, "Words aren't just words. Once they're said, they have the power to change the world; they can become reality." I nodded as always, pretending that I understood.
Years of public education had conditioned me to think of words as scribbles on paper strung together in stories and as methods of expression. Each day I spent hours sitting on the stained floor of the library, completely engrossed in details of Zeus' promiscuity, cemented the budding idea that my mother's thoughts were the result of wild superstition, something she harbored because she was uneducated as a child. Reefing through musty pages, the words of the characters I adored imbued me with bits of their personality, changing me into someone better and bolder. But no matter how much I read aloud and how many stars I wished upon, they would forever be just that: characters.
Contrary to what she said she believed in, my mother was not as careful with her words as she was with mine. Her heaving sighs and alarming depression affected our entire family. Overworking herself to compensate for the loss of income from my chronically absent father and provide us with health insurance, her words became self-depreciating and cutting. The worry she concealed about my temperamental and emotionally abusive father, her undiagnosed illness, and our distant futures poured out as mutters as she collapsed into sleep over a bowl of rice at the dinner table. Dragging herself through each day through sheer effort, she refused my offers for help. All she requested, she weakly smiled, was for me to be the opposite of her, unbound by problems on the road to a future. I did my best to fulfill her request.
All the people in my life seemed so concerned about this vague concept of a future. The suggestions came from all directions, the chaotic noise drawing me away from everything I loved doing most. To-do lists plastered the walls. My parents were never so proud of their little girl. A flicker of security appeared in my mother's wavering face as my love for my sports and helping others was tainted by the idea of winning awards or getting ahead. I grew up and matured, more quickly that I'd realized, shedding all my childish hobbies in lieu of a rigid schedule.
The only pastime I kept was creating new stories like the ones collected by the armful from the library, only now I was the one penning it into reality. Describing the intricate facets of the background, dreaming up each unique character, and meticulously crafting each sentence gave me an escape from the entangling strings that held me fast to my goal. The stories I wrote in my darkest hours were those of brighter ones, controlling the fates of the people I desperately wanted to be. Rereading all the tales of triumph I had composed, I stopped one day.
Vigorously scratching out the first lines, I asked myself who I wanted to be that day. Courageous? Coy? Disgusted with the happy endings, I wanted to write something raw, something about me. What did I want to say? The words I spouted sounded unnatural, as if someone stuffed them in my mouth. Was there nothing left of me? The thin edge of the paper sliced my hand. Even my writing hated who I'd become. The empty lines became clusters of question marks, demanding my attention just as everyone else had.
Frustrated, I started with a single word. No. No to all the pressure to be the best, no to the 5AM workouts, no to the unhelpful SAT classes. The word had become foreign to me. I rolled "no" around in my mouth until it felt natural again. I was a writer and would write what I wanted. No one could tell me to change the personalities I created and no one had the power to force the story to change. Each conflict I face is mine alone. The future was waiting to be written. Staring down the blank sheet of paper, I finally could begin again, this time with my own words.
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