Mexican Mummies Personal Statement- Please help me critique
Posted: Thu Jan 12, 2012 8:25 pm
Any helpful suggestions/critiques would be greatly appreciated. This is the 4th draft thus far.
Thanks in advance.
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My shoulders still clinched tightly together I slowly picked my head up and rolled my neck upwards. Had I known that upon opening my eyes they would be met by mummified dried brown paper like flesh; I probably would have shoved the twenty pesos worth of coins back into the front pocket of my navy blue hoodie. The warmth of my teacher fingers interlocked in mine did little to alleviate the cold chill rushing down the back of my spine. Turning my head the full one hundred and eighty degrees I could see our entire 4th grade class stood surrounded by the former residents of Guanajuato. From wall to wall there were mummies of varying shapes, sizes, and ages. Each one with its own unique contortion and facial expression; ranging from the unburdened face of a young child to the empty socketed face of a woman seemingly wrenching from the torture of a live burial.
Though I knew our class would be traveling to a “mummy exhibit”; what I saw was not on par with my own pre-existing images I had formed. I was expecting to be met by bodies swaddled in dusty white bandages; like the ones I was accustomed to at home during cold nights of trick-or-treating. However, I was not met by tightly bound bodies like those I had seen in movies, what stood propped up in front of me was not even close to the mummies of Hollywood. There were no King Tuts, there were no Boris Karloffs; instead, I stood face to face with the hollow dried remains of former farmers and ranchers.
That night when I returned to my host family’s home in San Luis Potosi we sat down to a traditional Mexican dinner of savory “arroz con pollo” and freshly steamed tortillas. During our meal the host mother asked our family about the field trip and asked about what all we saw. Her children excitedly began to rattle off details; sentence after sentence, the fluidity of their foreign words had me stymied. As words poured seamlessly from my siblings’ mouths I tried to soak up as much as I could, feeling that I was leaving the discussion dry while still drowning in a sea of dialogue. “Y tu, Jordan?”, my host mother asking me what I thought; remembering how scared I was I blurted out, “susto”. Fear was the only word I could come up with on the spot, using it as a foothold I began to describe my experience. I started off slowly; pulling words from my Spanish vocabulary and lining them up together like pieces of a puzzle. As we continued to talk about the days events I began to feel more comfortable in expressing myself. After we had spoken about the museum for a while, the pace of the conversation slowed with each person taking their turn to describe their own feelings about what we had seen. When my turn rolled around, all of the verbal “puzzle pieces” began to connect and bit by bit they were forming a more vivid narrative. Like a jigsaw puzzle, these individual “tiles” were aligning to form parts of a larger picture; which for me meant piecing together a more fluid account of the day’s events. Carefully absorbing everything I could see and hear from my surroundings became more and more crucial for my everyday communication. Answering questions from my teacher and host mother became like solving brain teasers in which I would have to deconstruct, analyze, and reconstruct words in a specific sequence before answering. At first, choosing the right words and sequence was like playing a verbal Tetris; trying to find out in which order to place the “word” pieces to form a proper sentence.
More than a decade later I’m still accumulating more puzzle pieces and putting them in sequence. Daily I get to tackle unique puzzles with each new patient I work with; every situation, new vocabulary word, or dialect offers up a new set of pieces that need to be decoded and reassembled to convey the message. At times my brain feels like one of the Enigma Machines of the 1930’s, quickly taking in a coded message in one language; breaking the code and removing the language barrier and then spitting out the deciphered message.
On most days I would have been found working in one of the pediatric or specialist clinics; but on a warm summer evening in July I found myself doing laps around a busy emergency room in the main hospital. With each “tick,tick,tick” of my watch’s second I was nearing the end of a twelve hour shift. The day had been exhausting, seemingly filled with everything from febrile seizures to spinal fractures. Twenty-two minutes before my shift was to finish, as I packed up my work bag, I was paged “STAT” to one of cardiac rooms in the emergency room. Upon arriving to “Cardiac #39” I walked in on a young nurse using her best high school Spanish asking a disoriented “Mr.Abogado” what he had taken. Up to this point she had only gathered that he had chest pain, appeared drunk, and tried to poison himself. Taking my position between the two, I interpreted the nurses questions about what he had taken, how much, from where, and if he could describe the container. The smell of alcohol emanated from his mouth with each slurred word or phrase; eventually drunkenly muttering, “about half of the bottle, it was brownish, I think it’s called ‘Yimbee’…I got it at the CVS next to where I live”. Her eyes rapidly moved side to side while trying to think of what he could have ingested; eventually blurting out, “Yohimbe!? The stimulant? How much did you take and over how many hours?” she asked, while jotting in his chart. While it seemed strange to me, a red flag didn’t go up until he described how he had six or several small glasses just an hour before coming in; which as he described made him even more “envenenado”. While still moving dialogue between the nurse and “Mr.Abogado”, I tried to make more sense of his word choice. Still arranging and rearranging pieces of dialogue; in my head I kept looking for clues, scanning homonyms, colloquial argot, and pronunciations. After several minutes of internal trial and error I came back to “envenenado”. Rolling it around in my head I realized that I only entered the room mid-conversation and was forced to take the nurse’s interpretation of the events as true. His strange word choice was the missing puzzle piece that connected the other pieces of the story. “Envenenado” , which did literally mean poisoned, but it was a word that colloquially could also mean drunk. Once the last sentence came out his mouth I immediately interjected and told the nurse I needed to clarify a specific meaning. Having been lead astray by the words dual meaning , she began a new line of clarifying questions .
It was only then determined that “Mr.Abogado” had not come due to a failed suicide attempt from drunkenly swallowing poison, but rather because the alcohol that made him intoxicated was causing his heartburn to flare up. As for the brown liquid of which he had several small “copitas”, it turned out to not be, “Yohimbe”, but shots of “Jim Beam”. His lack of English pronunciation was made worse by the effects of the alcohol and subsequently made an anxious nurse jump on the first seemingly recognizable substance thought to be heard.
The entire conversation was complicated by many such mispronunciations and misunderstandings; but after confirming his story with his sister, “Mr.Abogado” was saved from having his stomach pumped and from the mandatory 24-hour placement in the hospitals mental illness ward.
Thanks in advance.
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My shoulders still clinched tightly together I slowly picked my head up and rolled my neck upwards. Had I known that upon opening my eyes they would be met by mummified dried brown paper like flesh; I probably would have shoved the twenty pesos worth of coins back into the front pocket of my navy blue hoodie. The warmth of my teacher fingers interlocked in mine did little to alleviate the cold chill rushing down the back of my spine. Turning my head the full one hundred and eighty degrees I could see our entire 4th grade class stood surrounded by the former residents of Guanajuato. From wall to wall there were mummies of varying shapes, sizes, and ages. Each one with its own unique contortion and facial expression; ranging from the unburdened face of a young child to the empty socketed face of a woman seemingly wrenching from the torture of a live burial.
Though I knew our class would be traveling to a “mummy exhibit”; what I saw was not on par with my own pre-existing images I had formed. I was expecting to be met by bodies swaddled in dusty white bandages; like the ones I was accustomed to at home during cold nights of trick-or-treating. However, I was not met by tightly bound bodies like those I had seen in movies, what stood propped up in front of me was not even close to the mummies of Hollywood. There were no King Tuts, there were no Boris Karloffs; instead, I stood face to face with the hollow dried remains of former farmers and ranchers.
That night when I returned to my host family’s home in San Luis Potosi we sat down to a traditional Mexican dinner of savory “arroz con pollo” and freshly steamed tortillas. During our meal the host mother asked our family about the field trip and asked about what all we saw. Her children excitedly began to rattle off details; sentence after sentence, the fluidity of their foreign words had me stymied. As words poured seamlessly from my siblings’ mouths I tried to soak up as much as I could, feeling that I was leaving the discussion dry while still drowning in a sea of dialogue. “Y tu, Jordan?”, my host mother asking me what I thought; remembering how scared I was I blurted out, “susto”. Fear was the only word I could come up with on the spot, using it as a foothold I began to describe my experience. I started off slowly; pulling words from my Spanish vocabulary and lining them up together like pieces of a puzzle. As we continued to talk about the days events I began to feel more comfortable in expressing myself. After we had spoken about the museum for a while, the pace of the conversation slowed with each person taking their turn to describe their own feelings about what we had seen. When my turn rolled around, all of the verbal “puzzle pieces” began to connect and bit by bit they were forming a more vivid narrative. Like a jigsaw puzzle, these individual “tiles” were aligning to form parts of a larger picture; which for me meant piecing together a more fluid account of the day’s events. Carefully absorbing everything I could see and hear from my surroundings became more and more crucial for my everyday communication. Answering questions from my teacher and host mother became like solving brain teasers in which I would have to deconstruct, analyze, and reconstruct words in a specific sequence before answering. At first, choosing the right words and sequence was like playing a verbal Tetris; trying to find out in which order to place the “word” pieces to form a proper sentence.
More than a decade later I’m still accumulating more puzzle pieces and putting them in sequence. Daily I get to tackle unique puzzles with each new patient I work with; every situation, new vocabulary word, or dialect offers up a new set of pieces that need to be decoded and reassembled to convey the message. At times my brain feels like one of the Enigma Machines of the 1930’s, quickly taking in a coded message in one language; breaking the code and removing the language barrier and then spitting out the deciphered message.
On most days I would have been found working in one of the pediatric or specialist clinics; but on a warm summer evening in July I found myself doing laps around a busy emergency room in the main hospital. With each “tick,tick,tick” of my watch’s second I was nearing the end of a twelve hour shift. The day had been exhausting, seemingly filled with everything from febrile seizures to spinal fractures. Twenty-two minutes before my shift was to finish, as I packed up my work bag, I was paged “STAT” to one of cardiac rooms in the emergency room. Upon arriving to “Cardiac #39” I walked in on a young nurse using her best high school Spanish asking a disoriented “Mr.Abogado” what he had taken. Up to this point she had only gathered that he had chest pain, appeared drunk, and tried to poison himself. Taking my position between the two, I interpreted the nurses questions about what he had taken, how much, from where, and if he could describe the container. The smell of alcohol emanated from his mouth with each slurred word or phrase; eventually drunkenly muttering, “about half of the bottle, it was brownish, I think it’s called ‘Yimbee’…I got it at the CVS next to where I live”. Her eyes rapidly moved side to side while trying to think of what he could have ingested; eventually blurting out, “Yohimbe!? The stimulant? How much did you take and over how many hours?” she asked, while jotting in his chart. While it seemed strange to me, a red flag didn’t go up until he described how he had six or several small glasses just an hour before coming in; which as he described made him even more “envenenado”. While still moving dialogue between the nurse and “Mr.Abogado”, I tried to make more sense of his word choice. Still arranging and rearranging pieces of dialogue; in my head I kept looking for clues, scanning homonyms, colloquial argot, and pronunciations. After several minutes of internal trial and error I came back to “envenenado”. Rolling it around in my head I realized that I only entered the room mid-conversation and was forced to take the nurse’s interpretation of the events as true. His strange word choice was the missing puzzle piece that connected the other pieces of the story. “Envenenado” , which did literally mean poisoned, but it was a word that colloquially could also mean drunk. Once the last sentence came out his mouth I immediately interjected and told the nurse I needed to clarify a specific meaning. Having been lead astray by the words dual meaning , she began a new line of clarifying questions .
It was only then determined that “Mr.Abogado” had not come due to a failed suicide attempt from drunkenly swallowing poison, but rather because the alcohol that made him intoxicated was causing his heartburn to flare up. As for the brown liquid of which he had several small “copitas”, it turned out to not be, “Yohimbe”, but shots of “Jim Beam”. His lack of English pronunciation was made worse by the effects of the alcohol and subsequently made an anxious nurse jump on the first seemingly recognizable substance thought to be heard.
The entire conversation was complicated by many such mispronunciations and misunderstandings; but after confirming his story with his sister, “Mr.Abogado” was saved from having his stomach pumped and from the mandatory 24-hour placement in the hospitals mental illness ward.