Diversity Statement opinions?
Posted: Wed Oct 12, 2011 11:28 pm
Hello all,
been looking around on the forum for awhile, up in Canada...I am applying to Harvard, Stanford, Columbia, in the top 5 and NYU, Boalt, and UPenn. I have both a personal statement and a diversity statement, this is the latter. I would really appreciate some opinions. Mind you, this letter is much less formal than my personal statement. Thanks to everyone, hope it's a good read!
---------
I love Cairo in the winter because the air reminds me of cool Canadian autumns and damp Parisian rains. Savouring my deep breaths, I listened intently over the rumble of the crowd, trying to make out what the sermon was about. I could decipher a few words, “Tahrir”, “Mubarak”, and “Nizam” (Nizam translates to “the system”). I looked around to see if I could find the group I was with. Ramez was easiest to notice; he was wearing a straw cowboy hat, aviator sunglasses, a red t-shirt with a hammer and sickle emblem, and an Egyptian flag for a cape. I spotted him leaning against a tank, chewing on a toothpick and holding an animated discussion with a veiled lady and his fiancée. I waved at him, he yelled across the crowd, motioning for me to come over with both hands in the manner typical of an excited Egyptian. He presumptuously introduced me as the only Marxist Capitalist he knew and then quickly cajoled me into their conversation on gender equality.
Ramez, an engineer and son of a construction magnate, provoked a new and unique rationality. Growing up across North America, Europe, Asia, and Africa, I had become accustomed to the contradictions of culture. In the 2nd grade, I received my first lesson in physics at my father’s workplace, watching a Porsche 911 in a giant wind tunnel. I lived through the Gulf War, attending the 6th grade with a gas mask in my knapsack, teaching ESL to my Japanese friend Yoshihiro, and picking hibiscus flowers stained with oily rain to woo my first crush. Fast food for me is the sight of McDonalds’ grand opening in a desert metropolis. Mercedes cars lined up at the drive through and women robed in black wearing the scent of Chanel No5, ordering Happy Meals and Big Macs. In whatever memory my mind can recall, the influence of globalization is prevalent, as a child I understood this as a fact of life, as a man I see it as force of nature, merging the disparate, and leaving behind artefacts of dialectic.
After giving my listeners a brief rendition of T.H. Marshall’s theory on the relation of social rights to capitalism, something dawned on me. This revolution was not about Mubarak or the Nizam, this was globalization manifesting its will in the voice of the Egyptian people. The rapid advancement of telecommunications, internet, and the dissemination of information to all levels of society, created a cohesive awareness of the human condition as a whole. We were not only demanding the removal of the Regime; more importantly we wanted to dissolve the barriers between us and our potential, we wanted our rights. Standing in the shadow of the pyramids, Egyptians demonstrated to the world, that they had a contribution to make to the rest of humanity. I smiled at the conclusion, and took a deep breath of satisfaction. The sermon had subsided to the melodic drone of the prayer call, and the rumble of the crowd gave way to the sound of hurried feet to a rendezvous.
I had just met Christine and Bassel, and now our hands were clasped as we formed part of a protective circle around the prostrated lines of worshippers. The scene evoked a dramatic frame, an instant crystallized in time, etched for a purpose. No matter the moment; walking in the spirals of Mecca, standing beneath the awe inspiring columns of the Vatican, or at the feet of the Lincoln Memorial, spirituality has always seemed a historical force to me. Religion has been an integral part of Egypt’s history. Walking the streets of Cairo, one sees the cosmopolitan wisdom that temples, mosques, churches, and synagogues have all brought to the city. Our hands linked together a chain of beliefs that found its anchor in the beginning of civilization itself. Something grand was expressing itself through us, with a new voice, and we were part of its song. I took a deep breath and smiled, the prayer was over, and the purpose was clear. I decided to wade through this sea of hopes, listening for the waves of discussion to rise again.
Ibrahim was a taxi driver; he had six kids; four girls and two boys. They had all been camped out in the square for days. His oldest daughter, Abeer, was a student at Cairo University, the first of her kin to educate herself; she worked as a live-in maid to pay her way. Her aspiration was to become a medical doctor. Hossam was a surgeon and his wife was a teacher at a German language school. They had just gotten married a few weeks before, and were both at the square every day since the end of January. Sami, a retired engineer who owned a successful high end furniture chain, was camped out with some of the workers from one of his factories. An old woman selling tissues was carrying her granddaughter on delicate shoulders to see the masses. In one ear I could hear Oum Kulthoum recordings, and in the other Pink Floyd tunes being strummed out on a guitar. I was reminded of Gaudi’s Park Guell; a mosaic of irregular colors and shapes that transcended aesthetic norms. In Tahrir, the mosaic was dynamic and fleeting; a state of nature held together by an ever so delicate balance of tensions. All that we needed was a sovereign will to induce harmony from the multitude of voices. I took a deep breath and smiled, for the composition would be difficult, but the coda would be grand.
As I got into the taxi, I tapped my feet on the edge of the door to shake off the snow. The driver probed to see if he could bait me into conversation. I gladly acquiesced to his efforts and began to expound the details of my trip. He was French-Canadian, and had a natural affinity for the idea of revolution. As I watched his emotive gestures and bright eyes, I realized the potential of my experience to ignite a certain kind of inspiration. The idea of change elicits in people a shared hope in the face of uncertain prospects. So much of our motivation to endeavour forward comes from belief in hope. My story was a chance to remind people of that shared human conviction. My phone buzzed; 19 new messages. I took a lozenge into my mouth, breathed deeply and smiled. Over the next few days, my voice was sure to give out.
been looking around on the forum for awhile, up in Canada...I am applying to Harvard, Stanford, Columbia, in the top 5 and NYU, Boalt, and UPenn. I have both a personal statement and a diversity statement, this is the latter. I would really appreciate some opinions. Mind you, this letter is much less formal than my personal statement. Thanks to everyone, hope it's a good read!
---------
I love Cairo in the winter because the air reminds me of cool Canadian autumns and damp Parisian rains. Savouring my deep breaths, I listened intently over the rumble of the crowd, trying to make out what the sermon was about. I could decipher a few words, “Tahrir”, “Mubarak”, and “Nizam” (Nizam translates to “the system”). I looked around to see if I could find the group I was with. Ramez was easiest to notice; he was wearing a straw cowboy hat, aviator sunglasses, a red t-shirt with a hammer and sickle emblem, and an Egyptian flag for a cape. I spotted him leaning against a tank, chewing on a toothpick and holding an animated discussion with a veiled lady and his fiancée. I waved at him, he yelled across the crowd, motioning for me to come over with both hands in the manner typical of an excited Egyptian. He presumptuously introduced me as the only Marxist Capitalist he knew and then quickly cajoled me into their conversation on gender equality.
Ramez, an engineer and son of a construction magnate, provoked a new and unique rationality. Growing up across North America, Europe, Asia, and Africa, I had become accustomed to the contradictions of culture. In the 2nd grade, I received my first lesson in physics at my father’s workplace, watching a Porsche 911 in a giant wind tunnel. I lived through the Gulf War, attending the 6th grade with a gas mask in my knapsack, teaching ESL to my Japanese friend Yoshihiro, and picking hibiscus flowers stained with oily rain to woo my first crush. Fast food for me is the sight of McDonalds’ grand opening in a desert metropolis. Mercedes cars lined up at the drive through and women robed in black wearing the scent of Chanel No5, ordering Happy Meals and Big Macs. In whatever memory my mind can recall, the influence of globalization is prevalent, as a child I understood this as a fact of life, as a man I see it as force of nature, merging the disparate, and leaving behind artefacts of dialectic.
After giving my listeners a brief rendition of T.H. Marshall’s theory on the relation of social rights to capitalism, something dawned on me. This revolution was not about Mubarak or the Nizam, this was globalization manifesting its will in the voice of the Egyptian people. The rapid advancement of telecommunications, internet, and the dissemination of information to all levels of society, created a cohesive awareness of the human condition as a whole. We were not only demanding the removal of the Regime; more importantly we wanted to dissolve the barriers between us and our potential, we wanted our rights. Standing in the shadow of the pyramids, Egyptians demonstrated to the world, that they had a contribution to make to the rest of humanity. I smiled at the conclusion, and took a deep breath of satisfaction. The sermon had subsided to the melodic drone of the prayer call, and the rumble of the crowd gave way to the sound of hurried feet to a rendezvous.
I had just met Christine and Bassel, and now our hands were clasped as we formed part of a protective circle around the prostrated lines of worshippers. The scene evoked a dramatic frame, an instant crystallized in time, etched for a purpose. No matter the moment; walking in the spirals of Mecca, standing beneath the awe inspiring columns of the Vatican, or at the feet of the Lincoln Memorial, spirituality has always seemed a historical force to me. Religion has been an integral part of Egypt’s history. Walking the streets of Cairo, one sees the cosmopolitan wisdom that temples, mosques, churches, and synagogues have all brought to the city. Our hands linked together a chain of beliefs that found its anchor in the beginning of civilization itself. Something grand was expressing itself through us, with a new voice, and we were part of its song. I took a deep breath and smiled, the prayer was over, and the purpose was clear. I decided to wade through this sea of hopes, listening for the waves of discussion to rise again.
Ibrahim was a taxi driver; he had six kids; four girls and two boys. They had all been camped out in the square for days. His oldest daughter, Abeer, was a student at Cairo University, the first of her kin to educate herself; she worked as a live-in maid to pay her way. Her aspiration was to become a medical doctor. Hossam was a surgeon and his wife was a teacher at a German language school. They had just gotten married a few weeks before, and were both at the square every day since the end of January. Sami, a retired engineer who owned a successful high end furniture chain, was camped out with some of the workers from one of his factories. An old woman selling tissues was carrying her granddaughter on delicate shoulders to see the masses. In one ear I could hear Oum Kulthoum recordings, and in the other Pink Floyd tunes being strummed out on a guitar. I was reminded of Gaudi’s Park Guell; a mosaic of irregular colors and shapes that transcended aesthetic norms. In Tahrir, the mosaic was dynamic and fleeting; a state of nature held together by an ever so delicate balance of tensions. All that we needed was a sovereign will to induce harmony from the multitude of voices. I took a deep breath and smiled, for the composition would be difficult, but the coda would be grand.
As I got into the taxi, I tapped my feet on the edge of the door to shake off the snow. The driver probed to see if he could bait me into conversation. I gladly acquiesced to his efforts and began to expound the details of my trip. He was French-Canadian, and had a natural affinity for the idea of revolution. As I watched his emotive gestures and bright eyes, I realized the potential of my experience to ignite a certain kind of inspiration. The idea of change elicits in people a shared hope in the face of uncertain prospects. So much of our motivation to endeavour forward comes from belief in hope. My story was a chance to remind people of that shared human conviction. My phone buzzed; 19 new messages. I took a lozenge into my mouth, breathed deeply and smiled. Over the next few days, my voice was sure to give out.