Woke up at 4 AM and wrote my Personal Statement
Posted: Wed Sep 01, 2010 7:10 am
Woke up out of a dead sleep. I have no idea why, but I started writing it in my head and couldn't stop, so I knew I'd never be able to fall back asleep until I started writing. Here it is:
So I’ve made it to the point where I am to write my personal statement—that is, my law school personal statement. Alas, it’s my big moment in trying to get you to like me. There are a few obvious routes I can take here: (1) I can tell you some long, well-calculated, analogous story (likely made up or exaggerated) about an event in my life that somehow worked out so conveniently to shape me into the wonderful human-being that I am today; or (2) I can brag about both my endless list of accomplishments and lengthy repertoire of talents in order to convince you that I’m better than my competition. The former will likely put you to sleep and the latter is too incredibly cheesy for me to ever take part in, so I’m going to take an alternate route. I’m going take my route. I’m not positive whether or not it’s going to be beneficial or detrimental to my application process, but I’m just going to flat-out give you my story. I can live with that. At the very least, my story will provide some entertainment value—something that I for some reason doubt is a commonplace amongst the average personal statement.
I got my head smashed in at the hands of another kid for my first time during my first month in middle school as a sixth grader. It was my first real fight, I suppose, but it certainly wasn’t my last. At the time, I blamed all of my bleeding on the fact that I had braces, but boot-kicks to the mouth will do that to you regardless. Plus, he had braces too, so I had no excuse. Apparently, I had stuck my nose in the wrong business. I stood up for a kid I had known in elementary school—a weaker boy. He wasn’t a fighter; it wasn’t in his nature by any means. He was a nice kid. Bottom line, he was getting bullied. There’s something inside of me that could never tolerate bullies, especially when the victim was undeserving—and believe me, this kid was undeserving. Unfortunately, I didn’t meet the physical requirements to be the hero, especially not in this scenario. I was small even for my age, and my newly-acquired enemy was of considerable size for his age (an older age than me, mind you). Excuse the cliché, but when I interrupted his reign of terror upon his victim—my elementary acquaintance—I was saved by the bell. That didn’t change the fact that my adversary was plenty pissed off, so he waited for me after school. Let’s just say he was waiting in the right place. Case closed.
Situations like these took place time and time again throughout my childhood. Make no mistake; I didn’t always get beat up, but I was constantly getting into fights and other kinds of trouble. I developed a core of friends in middle school that would last even until today. It was a rough crowd of kids, a lot of which were either from broken homes or were poorly supervised. I won’t call my home broken but I will say that I was poorly supervised. Both of my parents worked and bills were always tight. I didn’t have anyone to hold my hand. “I packed my own lunch”, as I so often like to put it. Without any older siblings, I had to in so many ways raise myself. Consequently, I grew up fast.
More times than I can even count, my teachers—typically my English teachers—would pull me aside after class and give me the “you’re-so-gifted-please-choose-new-friends” lecture. This took place even through high school. And, of course, it would go in one ear and out the other. Realistically, that advice is easier said than done. As a kid, you don’t drop a whole crew of friends and start looking for new ones; it just doesn’t work that way. Your identity as you know it is manifested through your friends, especially when your crew of friends is as close as mine was. Perhaps that was my biggest problem. Predictably, my problematic behavior worsened as I aged, as did it for the rest of my friends. By the time high school came around, I had a “tough guy” reputation. “Wex is fighting after school” was almost like a catchphrase through the halls of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. I wasn’t malicious; actually, I didn’t really ever start fights. But I never backed down. My fights were oftentimes the result of someone instigating either with me or someone I cared enough about to play the “hero” role. One didn’t exactly have to be my best friend in order for me to be their hero, to be honest. If they were instigating with me, they were likely bigger, older, and tougher. Exchanging blows with these guys accordingly made me tougher.
By about my junior year, the vast majority of my “crew” had dropped out. Dropping out had never been an option to me. I took school semi-seriously—my plan was always to become a lawyer one day, believe it or not. I managed to get decent grades. I juggled honors courses and extra curricular activities such as writing for the school newspaper and yearbook. I played high school football. Actually, my friends dropping out was probably beneficial to my high school tenure in a lot of ways, but there was always the weekends. Ah, the weekends. Plenty of late night hanging out, girls, booze,
drugs, and violence. I was accustomed to an entire arsenal of negativity outside of school. And this negativity, quite predictably, increased over time. Needless to say, this thing called “jail” came into the lives of a lot of my friends around this time. As our troubles worsened, so did the consequences. However, it didn’t really stop us. I, for one, was certain that I would never get arrested. Not me; I was just being a kid. I was just a kid. It’s easy to see where this is going: I was eventually was arrested for a fight at a party. Actually, “fight” is an understatement. It was a melee, a brawl, or whatever term appropriately gets the point across. It was a massacre whereby a large number of people were badly hurt. I wasn’t on the receiving end. Consequently, I spent a month out of school and inside a juvenile correctional facility. It was my rock-bottom moment…and I’m so happy it happened.
It took realizing that I was being represented by an attorney to know that I wasn’t on my way to becoming one. Forget law school, college itself deemed doubtful at that time. Lightly put, it was a total shock. In jail, I was surrounded by people that I realized were not like me. Most of these kids were from bad neighborhoods and were the product of a much more desolate upbringing than I was. Their future had never had the promise that mine did. I learned more in that month about myself than I ever would. I needed to change—and fast. As the judge indicated, there couldn’t be a “next time”. With a slap on the wrist as a juvenile, I was lucky to escape on a clean slate. Otherwise, I’d likely not be writing this personal statement.
I jumped back into school with an eager ambition to succeed. I still saw my friends on the weekends, but less and less as time went on. I was much more cautious with my decision-making, and was sure to steer clear of trouble. It was in a lot of ways paranoia, but of course with justified reason. Most of my friends were getting into harder trouble, some such to the point that I eventually lost touch with them. Several of these estranged friends began a heavy involvement with drugs, whether by consumption or solicitation—or both. Drugs never being my thing, it was inevitable that my relationship with these guys would dwindle. I saw some for the first time in a long time at their funerals; others I haven’t seen at all. Other friends of mine who had aggressive tendencies much like me continued their warpath, albeit to a much more dangerous degree. I watched a lot of my friends suffer severe penalties for their actions, of which some resulted in decade-to-lifetime-long incarceration. There are few that I still exchange letters with.
Before I knew it, it was time for me to apply to college. My ignorant belief in the certainty that I would be accepted to a major university was parallel to that of my original belief that I would never be arrested. Ultimately, I faced extreme disappointment in finding out that no major university in Florida accepted me. I would have to enroll in community college, and although it wasn’t the end of the world, I was heartbroken. Nonetheless, it was a deserving heartbreak. I didn’t work hard in high school; I just managed to slide by because I was intelligent enough to not work hard yet still pass, even in honors courses.
My letdown motivated me. I knew this was a no-turning-back moment. For the first time in my life, I actually worked to full capacity on my school work. I ended up breaking my back in community college, earning a near-perfect transcript after my two-year term. I transferred to Florida State University with the same fire I had entered Palm Beach Community College with, and ended up graduating from Florida State with Cum Laude honors.
And now I’m back in South Florida studying for the LSAT and applying to law school. And, when I can find the time, catching up with my old friends—those who have turned their lives around. Of course, they didn’t end up going to college, as most didn’t even graduate high school, but they are good people. Like myself, they grew from their experiences, and despite the countless friends I made while away at college, they are the only people in this world that I can completely relate to. It’s a sight to see: me hanging out with them. I became a clean-cut, college-grad, lawyer-to-be, and they’re in blue-collars, covered in tattoos, and surrounded by Newport cigarette smoke. Life is funny like that sometimes.
I’m excited to become a lawyer. Honestly, I’m made to do this. I’m not a fan of numbers and I’m not a brain. I’d make a lackadaisical accountant and I’d be a crappy doctor; however, I will fulfill a dominant career in law. I’m loud, outspoken, articulate, and well-writ. My Mom always told me that if all else failed, my handsome looks would save me. So, if I’ve scared you away with my story, I leave you with that—but I guess you’ll have to give me the benefit of the doubt.
So I’ve made it to the point where I am to write my personal statement—that is, my law school personal statement. Alas, it’s my big moment in trying to get you to like me. There are a few obvious routes I can take here: (1) I can tell you some long, well-calculated, analogous story (likely made up or exaggerated) about an event in my life that somehow worked out so conveniently to shape me into the wonderful human-being that I am today; or (2) I can brag about both my endless list of accomplishments and lengthy repertoire of talents in order to convince you that I’m better than my competition. The former will likely put you to sleep and the latter is too incredibly cheesy for me to ever take part in, so I’m going to take an alternate route. I’m going take my route. I’m not positive whether or not it’s going to be beneficial or detrimental to my application process, but I’m just going to flat-out give you my story. I can live with that. At the very least, my story will provide some entertainment value—something that I for some reason doubt is a commonplace amongst the average personal statement.
I got my head smashed in at the hands of another kid for my first time during my first month in middle school as a sixth grader. It was my first real fight, I suppose, but it certainly wasn’t my last. At the time, I blamed all of my bleeding on the fact that I had braces, but boot-kicks to the mouth will do that to you regardless. Plus, he had braces too, so I had no excuse. Apparently, I had stuck my nose in the wrong business. I stood up for a kid I had known in elementary school—a weaker boy. He wasn’t a fighter; it wasn’t in his nature by any means. He was a nice kid. Bottom line, he was getting bullied. There’s something inside of me that could never tolerate bullies, especially when the victim was undeserving—and believe me, this kid was undeserving. Unfortunately, I didn’t meet the physical requirements to be the hero, especially not in this scenario. I was small even for my age, and my newly-acquired enemy was of considerable size for his age (an older age than me, mind you). Excuse the cliché, but when I interrupted his reign of terror upon his victim—my elementary acquaintance—I was saved by the bell. That didn’t change the fact that my adversary was plenty pissed off, so he waited for me after school. Let’s just say he was waiting in the right place. Case closed.
Situations like these took place time and time again throughout my childhood. Make no mistake; I didn’t always get beat up, but I was constantly getting into fights and other kinds of trouble. I developed a core of friends in middle school that would last even until today. It was a rough crowd of kids, a lot of which were either from broken homes or were poorly supervised. I won’t call my home broken but I will say that I was poorly supervised. Both of my parents worked and bills were always tight. I didn’t have anyone to hold my hand. “I packed my own lunch”, as I so often like to put it. Without any older siblings, I had to in so many ways raise myself. Consequently, I grew up fast.
More times than I can even count, my teachers—typically my English teachers—would pull me aside after class and give me the “you’re-so-gifted-please-choose-new-friends” lecture. This took place even through high school. And, of course, it would go in one ear and out the other. Realistically, that advice is easier said than done. As a kid, you don’t drop a whole crew of friends and start looking for new ones; it just doesn’t work that way. Your identity as you know it is manifested through your friends, especially when your crew of friends is as close as mine was. Perhaps that was my biggest problem. Predictably, my problematic behavior worsened as I aged, as did it for the rest of my friends. By the time high school came around, I had a “tough guy” reputation. “Wex is fighting after school” was almost like a catchphrase through the halls of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. I wasn’t malicious; actually, I didn’t really ever start fights. But I never backed down. My fights were oftentimes the result of someone instigating either with me or someone I cared enough about to play the “hero” role. One didn’t exactly have to be my best friend in order for me to be their hero, to be honest. If they were instigating with me, they were likely bigger, older, and tougher. Exchanging blows with these guys accordingly made me tougher.
By about my junior year, the vast majority of my “crew” had dropped out. Dropping out had never been an option to me. I took school semi-seriously—my plan was always to become a lawyer one day, believe it or not. I managed to get decent grades. I juggled honors courses and extra curricular activities such as writing for the school newspaper and yearbook. I played high school football. Actually, my friends dropping out was probably beneficial to my high school tenure in a lot of ways, but there was always the weekends. Ah, the weekends. Plenty of late night hanging out, girls, booze,
drugs, and violence. I was accustomed to an entire arsenal of negativity outside of school. And this negativity, quite predictably, increased over time. Needless to say, this thing called “jail” came into the lives of a lot of my friends around this time. As our troubles worsened, so did the consequences. However, it didn’t really stop us. I, for one, was certain that I would never get arrested. Not me; I was just being a kid. I was just a kid. It’s easy to see where this is going: I was eventually was arrested for a fight at a party. Actually, “fight” is an understatement. It was a melee, a brawl, or whatever term appropriately gets the point across. It was a massacre whereby a large number of people were badly hurt. I wasn’t on the receiving end. Consequently, I spent a month out of school and inside a juvenile correctional facility. It was my rock-bottom moment…and I’m so happy it happened.
It took realizing that I was being represented by an attorney to know that I wasn’t on my way to becoming one. Forget law school, college itself deemed doubtful at that time. Lightly put, it was a total shock. In jail, I was surrounded by people that I realized were not like me. Most of these kids were from bad neighborhoods and were the product of a much more desolate upbringing than I was. Their future had never had the promise that mine did. I learned more in that month about myself than I ever would. I needed to change—and fast. As the judge indicated, there couldn’t be a “next time”. With a slap on the wrist as a juvenile, I was lucky to escape on a clean slate. Otherwise, I’d likely not be writing this personal statement.
I jumped back into school with an eager ambition to succeed. I still saw my friends on the weekends, but less and less as time went on. I was much more cautious with my decision-making, and was sure to steer clear of trouble. It was in a lot of ways paranoia, but of course with justified reason. Most of my friends were getting into harder trouble, some such to the point that I eventually lost touch with them. Several of these estranged friends began a heavy involvement with drugs, whether by consumption or solicitation—or both. Drugs never being my thing, it was inevitable that my relationship with these guys would dwindle. I saw some for the first time in a long time at their funerals; others I haven’t seen at all. Other friends of mine who had aggressive tendencies much like me continued their warpath, albeit to a much more dangerous degree. I watched a lot of my friends suffer severe penalties for their actions, of which some resulted in decade-to-lifetime-long incarceration. There are few that I still exchange letters with.
Before I knew it, it was time for me to apply to college. My ignorant belief in the certainty that I would be accepted to a major university was parallel to that of my original belief that I would never be arrested. Ultimately, I faced extreme disappointment in finding out that no major university in Florida accepted me. I would have to enroll in community college, and although it wasn’t the end of the world, I was heartbroken. Nonetheless, it was a deserving heartbreak. I didn’t work hard in high school; I just managed to slide by because I was intelligent enough to not work hard yet still pass, even in honors courses.
My letdown motivated me. I knew this was a no-turning-back moment. For the first time in my life, I actually worked to full capacity on my school work. I ended up breaking my back in community college, earning a near-perfect transcript after my two-year term. I transferred to Florida State University with the same fire I had entered Palm Beach Community College with, and ended up graduating from Florida State with Cum Laude honors.
And now I’m back in South Florida studying for the LSAT and applying to law school. And, when I can find the time, catching up with my old friends—those who have turned their lives around. Of course, they didn’t end up going to college, as most didn’t even graduate high school, but they are good people. Like myself, they grew from their experiences, and despite the countless friends I made while away at college, they are the only people in this world that I can completely relate to. It’s a sight to see: me hanging out with them. I became a clean-cut, college-grad, lawyer-to-be, and they’re in blue-collars, covered in tattoos, and surrounded by Newport cigarette smoke. Life is funny like that sometimes.
I’m excited to become a lawyer. Honestly, I’m made to do this. I’m not a fan of numbers and I’m not a brain. I’d make a lackadaisical accountant and I’d be a crappy doctor; however, I will fulfill a dominant career in law. I’m loud, outspoken, articulate, and well-writ. My Mom always told me that if all else failed, my handsome looks would save me. So, if I’ve scared you away with my story, I leave you with that—but I guess you’ll have to give me the benefit of the doubt.
