PS Help!
Posted: Tue Aug 24, 2010 7:48 pm
Would really appreciate any feedback, harsh as it may be!
My story starts with a black Lincoln parked by a dumpster in between the two sides of Jumano Court in (removed location). Every afternoon, my friends and I would play wall-ball on the lawn behind this dumpster, uninterrupted until a fight broke out or someone was called in for dinner. That car, though. What was it doing there? Why was the man sitting in it, doing nothing? Why, when we made eye contact with him, did he ignore us? Several times someone was dared to approach the car but ultimately cowered.
Around 6:30 that night, my sister and mother left to get my father from the bus stop. The officer in the black Lincoln followed them and arrested my father at the bus stop.
Within a year, my parents filed for bankruptcy and eventually divorced; my father was sentenced to ten months in prison for misappropriation of funds; and we moved to a new state, forced by debt to sell our home.
Perhaps I should have been angry -- angry at a set of cousins who no longer spoke to my family; angry at the second cousin who, at the closing of the sale of our house on Jumano Court, ignored my sister and me for three hours; or angry at the girl who announced to my history class that she knew my dad was imprisoned.
But my parents kept me from feeling isolated or depressed, and in doing so, they helped subdue any grudges I might have otherwise held. My mom, sisters, and I would wait for my father's hilarious nightly phone calls (despite divorce, my parents remain very close friends). We went to Knicks games and concerts together. We cooked together, experimenting with new meals every Friday.
For a while though, I thought I had a difficult childhood, as if what happened to my family was a badge of toughness I wore. When friends had their own problems, I learned that whatever experiences I believed had hardened me had instead sensitized me to the problems of others.
I was a freshman in college when my friend X, who had moved from Peru at age nine, told me that his father had given away thousands of dollars to an immigration attorney who never even filed an application for renewed status. His father, afraid of deportation, did not want to talk with the police.
Weeks later, Y, another close friend, came to me in tears; his mother had unexpectedly decided to divorce his father.
Both came to me because of what my family had been through. I told them about how much love my parents gave me, how lucky I was to have my friends, how the process seemed a lot scarier than it actually was, but I felt like an impostor. Their fear was so genuine, and my words were so generic.
But I cared, and I did everything I could to help my friends. I asked my mom, an immigration attorney, to give Y advice on how to earn legal status. I told Y about how close my family became, and he has told me several times that he and his brother became much closer by being there for each other through their parents’ divorce.
My advice was really just a retelling of how lucky I was to have such a close and loyal family. In talking to my friends, though, I realized how much it helps to hear from someone with similar experience.
I am aware of how integral the legal system has been to my upbringing. It was there at the low points: the closing of our New York home, filing for bankruptcy, and my father's prison sentence. Yet it has also been there for my mother, who went to law school when my father encountered financial trouble and in eight years became a partner at her law firm. And it is there as she helps one of my closest friends gain legal status in America. I will arrive at law school next fall with appreciation of and respect for the legal system, and with a desire to use it to help. I understand that lawyers are not friends who confide in each other during difficult times. However, I have seen firsthand that an immigration attorney can provide the same sense of hope and security that my mother provided for my family. And I have seen the room for compassion and forgiveness the law provide; although agreed to serve sixteen months in prison, the presiding judge, seeing my father's remorse, sentenced him to just ten. I will bring to law school compassion and sensitivity with the hope of using the law to help others, whether through an amicable divorce, an application for legal status, or a fight to protect civil rights for all citizens. I know how important it is to provide a sense of security, support, and optimism in times of despair.
OR
Put together an alternate version. Differs from the original in the extent it discusses my parents. I thought discussing their level of care would add tighten the theme and connect my story with theirs a little bit more. I struggled with this one a bit, and if it's not worth the changes I can just scrap it.
My story starts with a man parked inside a black Lincoln parked by a dumpster between the two sides of Jumano Court in Suffern, New York. Every afternoon, my friends and I would play ball on the lawn behind this dumpster. One such afternoon, the man in the car showed up. We were enthralled by his presence. He ignored us. Several times someone was dared to approach the car and cowered.
That night, when my mother left to pick up my father, the officer in the black Lincoln followed them and arrested my father at the bus stop.
My father and his law partner had taken money from a synagogue's escrow account with the intention of helping a client display funds. They planned to immediately return the money, but the client, a con man, robbed them of the money at gunpoint. My father returned the funds in full before the synagogue knew they were withdrawn.
Within a year, my parents filed for bankruptcy and eventually divorced, and my father was sentenced to ten months in prison for misappropriation of funds.
Friends told me they could no longer speak to me. Kids in my classes would announce that they heard my father was arrested. Already selling our home, my mom decided it was best if we changed towns. At the closing of our home, a second cousin, in attendance as a creditor, sat outside across from me and my sister and ignored us.
All along, my parents kept me from feeling isolated or depressed. My mother was an incredible friend to me and my sisters. We knew nobody but each other in Connecticut. My mom, sisters, and I would wait for my father's hilarious nightly phone calls (despite divorce, my parents remain very close friends). We went to Knicks games and concerts together. We cooked together, experimenting with new meals every Friday.
My father, even from prison, was a great parent and friend to me throughout his ordeal. Today, we can talk obsessively about music or the Mets, but we can easily transition to discussing his past. He has spoken to me many times about how ashamed and embarrassed he was to have, he thought, ruined his name and his family out of greed. As recently as this August, he and I talked about what was morally and legally wrong with what he did. We talked about temptation, about the importance of honesty, doing things the right way, and respecting what is not yours. I admire the level of earnestness and care my father continues to show in making it a priority for me to learn from his mistakes.
When friends had their own problems, I learned that the experiences of my childhood -- both the adversity and the love my parents showed me throughout -- had sensitized me to the problems of others. I found myself wanting to help like my parents helped me - to take an honest interest and to say the right things to help lighten the burden of fear.
I was a freshman in college when my friend X told me that his father had given away thousands of dollars to an immigration attorney who never even filed an application for renewed status. His father, afraid of deportation, did not want to talk with the police.
Weeks later, Y, another close friend, came to me in tears; his mother had unexpectedly decided to divorce his father.
Both came to me because of what my family had been through. I told them about how much love my parents gave me, how lucky I was to have my friends, how the process seemed a lot scarier than it actually was, but I felt like an impostor. Their fear was so genuine, and my words were so generic.
But I cared, and I did everything I could to help my friends. I asked my mom, an immigration attorney, to give X advice on how to earn legal status. I told Y about how close my family became, and he has told me several times that he and his brother became much closer by being there for each other through their parents’ divorce.
In talking to my friends, I realized how much it helps to hear from someone with similar experience. I understand that lawyers are not friends who confide in each other during difficult times. However, I have seen firsthand that an immigration attorney can provide the same sense of hope and security that my mother provided for my family. And I have seen the room for compassion and forgiveness the law provide; although agreed to serve sixteen months in prison, the presiding judge, seeing my father's remorse, sentenced him to just ten. I will bring to law school compassion and sensitivity with the hope of using the law to help others, whether through an amicable divorce, an application for legal status, or a fight to protect civil rights for all citizens. I know how important it is to provide a sense of security, support, and optimism in times of despair.
My story starts with a black Lincoln parked by a dumpster in between the two sides of Jumano Court in (removed location). Every afternoon, my friends and I would play wall-ball on the lawn behind this dumpster, uninterrupted until a fight broke out or someone was called in for dinner. That car, though. What was it doing there? Why was the man sitting in it, doing nothing? Why, when we made eye contact with him, did he ignore us? Several times someone was dared to approach the car but ultimately cowered.
Around 6:30 that night, my sister and mother left to get my father from the bus stop. The officer in the black Lincoln followed them and arrested my father at the bus stop.
Within a year, my parents filed for bankruptcy and eventually divorced; my father was sentenced to ten months in prison for misappropriation of funds; and we moved to a new state, forced by debt to sell our home.
Perhaps I should have been angry -- angry at a set of cousins who no longer spoke to my family; angry at the second cousin who, at the closing of the sale of our house on Jumano Court, ignored my sister and me for three hours; or angry at the girl who announced to my history class that she knew my dad was imprisoned.
But my parents kept me from feeling isolated or depressed, and in doing so, they helped subdue any grudges I might have otherwise held. My mom, sisters, and I would wait for my father's hilarious nightly phone calls (despite divorce, my parents remain very close friends). We went to Knicks games and concerts together. We cooked together, experimenting with new meals every Friday.
For a while though, I thought I had a difficult childhood, as if what happened to my family was a badge of toughness I wore. When friends had their own problems, I learned that whatever experiences I believed had hardened me had instead sensitized me to the problems of others.
I was a freshman in college when my friend X, who had moved from Peru at age nine, told me that his father had given away thousands of dollars to an immigration attorney who never even filed an application for renewed status. His father, afraid of deportation, did not want to talk with the police.
Weeks later, Y, another close friend, came to me in tears; his mother had unexpectedly decided to divorce his father.
Both came to me because of what my family had been through. I told them about how much love my parents gave me, how lucky I was to have my friends, how the process seemed a lot scarier than it actually was, but I felt like an impostor. Their fear was so genuine, and my words were so generic.
But I cared, and I did everything I could to help my friends. I asked my mom, an immigration attorney, to give Y advice on how to earn legal status. I told Y about how close my family became, and he has told me several times that he and his brother became much closer by being there for each other through their parents’ divorce.
My advice was really just a retelling of how lucky I was to have such a close and loyal family. In talking to my friends, though, I realized how much it helps to hear from someone with similar experience.
I am aware of how integral the legal system has been to my upbringing. It was there at the low points: the closing of our New York home, filing for bankruptcy, and my father's prison sentence. Yet it has also been there for my mother, who went to law school when my father encountered financial trouble and in eight years became a partner at her law firm. And it is there as she helps one of my closest friends gain legal status in America. I will arrive at law school next fall with appreciation of and respect for the legal system, and with a desire to use it to help. I understand that lawyers are not friends who confide in each other during difficult times. However, I have seen firsthand that an immigration attorney can provide the same sense of hope and security that my mother provided for my family. And I have seen the room for compassion and forgiveness the law provide; although agreed to serve sixteen months in prison, the presiding judge, seeing my father's remorse, sentenced him to just ten. I will bring to law school compassion and sensitivity with the hope of using the law to help others, whether through an amicable divorce, an application for legal status, or a fight to protect civil rights for all citizens. I know how important it is to provide a sense of security, support, and optimism in times of despair.
OR
Put together an alternate version. Differs from the original in the extent it discusses my parents. I thought discussing their level of care would add tighten the theme and connect my story with theirs a little bit more. I struggled with this one a bit, and if it's not worth the changes I can just scrap it.
My story starts with a man parked inside a black Lincoln parked by a dumpster between the two sides of Jumano Court in Suffern, New York. Every afternoon, my friends and I would play ball on the lawn behind this dumpster. One such afternoon, the man in the car showed up. We were enthralled by his presence. He ignored us. Several times someone was dared to approach the car and cowered.
That night, when my mother left to pick up my father, the officer in the black Lincoln followed them and arrested my father at the bus stop.
My father and his law partner had taken money from a synagogue's escrow account with the intention of helping a client display funds. They planned to immediately return the money, but the client, a con man, robbed them of the money at gunpoint. My father returned the funds in full before the synagogue knew they were withdrawn.
Within a year, my parents filed for bankruptcy and eventually divorced, and my father was sentenced to ten months in prison for misappropriation of funds.
Friends told me they could no longer speak to me. Kids in my classes would announce that they heard my father was arrested. Already selling our home, my mom decided it was best if we changed towns. At the closing of our home, a second cousin, in attendance as a creditor, sat outside across from me and my sister and ignored us.
All along, my parents kept me from feeling isolated or depressed. My mother was an incredible friend to me and my sisters. We knew nobody but each other in Connecticut. My mom, sisters, and I would wait for my father's hilarious nightly phone calls (despite divorce, my parents remain very close friends). We went to Knicks games and concerts together. We cooked together, experimenting with new meals every Friday.
My father, even from prison, was a great parent and friend to me throughout his ordeal. Today, we can talk obsessively about music or the Mets, but we can easily transition to discussing his past. He has spoken to me many times about how ashamed and embarrassed he was to have, he thought, ruined his name and his family out of greed. As recently as this August, he and I talked about what was morally and legally wrong with what he did. We talked about temptation, about the importance of honesty, doing things the right way, and respecting what is not yours. I admire the level of earnestness and care my father continues to show in making it a priority for me to learn from his mistakes.
When friends had their own problems, I learned that the experiences of my childhood -- both the adversity and the love my parents showed me throughout -- had sensitized me to the problems of others. I found myself wanting to help like my parents helped me - to take an honest interest and to say the right things to help lighten the burden of fear.
I was a freshman in college when my friend X told me that his father had given away thousands of dollars to an immigration attorney who never even filed an application for renewed status. His father, afraid of deportation, did not want to talk with the police.
Weeks later, Y, another close friend, came to me in tears; his mother had unexpectedly decided to divorce his father.
Both came to me because of what my family had been through. I told them about how much love my parents gave me, how lucky I was to have my friends, how the process seemed a lot scarier than it actually was, but I felt like an impostor. Their fear was so genuine, and my words were so generic.
But I cared, and I did everything I could to help my friends. I asked my mom, an immigration attorney, to give X advice on how to earn legal status. I told Y about how close my family became, and he has told me several times that he and his brother became much closer by being there for each other through their parents’ divorce.
In talking to my friends, I realized how much it helps to hear from someone with similar experience. I understand that lawyers are not friends who confide in each other during difficult times. However, I have seen firsthand that an immigration attorney can provide the same sense of hope and security that my mother provided for my family. And I have seen the room for compassion and forgiveness the law provide; although agreed to serve sixteen months in prison, the presiding judge, seeing my father's remorse, sentenced him to just ten. I will bring to law school compassion and sensitivity with the hope of using the law to help others, whether through an amicable divorce, an application for legal status, or a fight to protect civil rights for all citizens. I know how important it is to provide a sense of security, support, and optimism in times of despair.