PS for T7
Posted: Sun Nov 24, 2013 2:43 am
If someone could look at my PS, I would seriously be indebted forever. This is a long one, since UVA doesn't limit pages, but I don't know if I'm being too redundant and drawn-out and should solidify it more somehow, or if it works better this way.
Any reactions at all would be great guys--if it's horrible, somebody just tell me before I hit "submit," haha.
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I rode through life on a bus, clinging to the window. In my earliest years, when my self-conception was still in its infancy, there was actually a window. I could not have been any more than six, and I caught the bus to school every morning in my shiny shoes and neatly pleated skirt, resigning myself to an empty seat as the bus coughed a cloud of sulfurous fumes and shivered to life. One day, however, I unwittingly decided to eschew routine and sit in the front—and the gang of older kids who ruled this territory despotically was not very happy when it boarded and found me there.
“Get out! Don’t you know this is our spot?” They swarmed me like a growingly wrathful and noisy beehive that had me half-ready to hop out of this seat and flee the scene with my tail tucked; but all I could think was: This is not their spot. Anyone can sit here. Why hasn’t anyone told them that?
“No,” I replied, and turned away.
Immediately, two of the boys grabbed my legs, but my hands flew for the open window and clutched it tightly. The bullies pulled so hard that my entire body lifted off the bus seat and I was suspended tenuously in mid-air, but something inside me refused to give in to these intimidation tactics when I knew I was in the right here. Eventually, the kids exchanged glances and dropped me, clearly perplexed about how to deal with someone engaging in an incipient version of silent protest, and swaggered away to find another place to sit. I righted myself but never let go of that window.
This is one of my most distinct memories of [insert 3rd world country]. It was not long after, when I was eight years old, that my family immigrated to the United States of America.
There were days I remember hiding under my bed, trembling in terror. It was in these moments I felt most powerless, when even a child’s brain could comprehend gross yet unyielding inequality, and retreated into the world of self-pity I had been dutifully customizing since the first day I disappeared into a book. Here, the chaos was obfuscated by bright and fascinating things: stories, and partially digestible philosophy, and the social hierarchies of lion prides, and the ethical future of genetic engineering, and my all-consuming love of The Good Earth–all swam around tirelessly in my mind as I tried to transcend the coffin-like oppression of my mouse-den and the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
Though my cheerful veneer concealed it well, my life was a literal battlefield. With every crushing defeat I suffered, I would dissociate myself from my physical and spiritual wounds and absorb knowledge though an almost religious need for something resembling stability. It had already become apparent when I was very young that my surroundings were completely out of my control, so I sought to control intangible things that could not be commandeered from me as easily, like words and ideas. Reason was my god and flooded through me, presenting its mutability to my child-like hands, illuminating Morality’s manifold nature, the variegated and infinite spectrum of gray that most people could not perceive until well into adulthood. I was unusually logical and free-thinking for my age, and I was blessed with the gift of writing. Ultimately, it was this gift that saved my life, because a child could not manage all the pain and strife I endured without transferring those overwhelming feelings onto paper constantly; there was respite in the third-person. Through destruction I discovered I could create, and it was an intoxicating power.
Still, self-deprecation ruled me perennially. I grasped desperately for clarity’s window, but the hands that were always tugging at my legs boasted preternatural strength. In school, I shied away from the positive recognition I incurred as the “smart kid,” because the irony that such instances emanated was almost unbearable—in responding graciously I was an actress, grinning hollowly at these travesties and distributing “thank you”s as if I actually believed them. When my AP English teacher held me after class and told me my essay (which I had written in thirty minutes the period before) was the best she had ever seen from a high school student, my face reddened in embarrassment and I felt apologetic that I had, purely accidentally, evoked such a reaction in her. While externally I was a gregarious and strong-willed girl, in reality I was paralyzed by my inability to reconcile the complexities that had grown within me. I spent a lifetime fielding a cycle of vitriol, violence, and love. There were such intense pressures at my back to succeed and serve as an ambassador for my [insert ethnicity] heritage, yet the idea of succeeding was, after years of abuse, incomprehensible to me. Despite my potential, my paralysis prevented me from applying myself fully in school. I coasted by with good grades purely through the grace of my intellect and genuine intellectual curiosity, but both my teachers and parents knew I was only presenting the “tip of the iceberg” here.
Even burdened with my contradictory attitude towards school, I was accepted into the [insert mid-ranking UC school here], and I felt like an inmate who had been given another shot at the outside world. As a freshman in college, I became acquainted with this wonderful thing called “peace” that inhabited the six hour drive separating me from my customary fear for my life, along with my mother’s, and my sister’s. Maybe one second of peace was all that I had needed. On that very first day of school, I walked out of my first Environmental Studies class mopping a tear from my eye. What I had heard in there had burrowed its way through all the walls I had industriously erected through eighteen years, and found its way to the real Me who had always been passionate about environmental issues. This Me had sometimes needed to take a backseat to the Me who was holding myself together and the Me who was bitterly resisting my parents’ efforts to mold me into an affiliate of their elitist philosophy—but I was not a victim. People had devoted themselves to making me feel powerless, but it was me who was perpetuating these effects by believing the voices that called me worthless and struck me down. I had to look myself in the eye and come to terms with the fact that I had been hurt--I could not erase this from my past anymore than I could tear free a piece of my physical body—but the longer I chose to dwell in this dark place and construct my life here, the more I was relinquishing control of my future and squandering my own potential to fulfill my dreams.
I have to thank my Environmental Studies professor, [insert name of well-known prof], who passed away [insert date] for reminding me of the change I wanted to catalyze and aiding me in such a decisive victory against myself. I was fortunate to have him as my professor on my very first day, and under his continued tutelage, my passions unfurled and I could cultivate them without an edge of fear or shame. For most of my academic career, I had been a mass of unshaped energy that lacked direction, but once I discovered a purpose for myself, I saw that I was utterly focused and tenacious. I understood now that there were no obstacles—only challenges that we could either meet with full commitment, or respond to half-heartedly when we already suspected our failure.
To my surprise, I realized I was strong. My friends and peers, though greatly intelligent by their own merit, were overwhelmed easily by small stressors: studying, long papers, midterms and finals, pop quizzes, reading assigned books to their entirety, tough graders—all these made them balk and wilt; but I had surmounted struggles greater then these when I was only a kid watching my surroundings burst into pandemonium, and I held a professional degree in grabbing windows and holding on. The day I received my Bachelor’s Degree with Highest Honors, I can truly say, marked one of the greatest achievements of my life. It was a culmination of my growth beyond my physical environment—the very thing I had been praying for that afternoon spent under my bed. Today, I am a product of my hard work and determination, and I understand people must be responsible for their own successes and failures. I have walked in both worlds, and never again will I be ruled by circumstance.
Any reactions at all would be great guys--if it's horrible, somebody just tell me before I hit "submit," haha.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I rode through life on a bus, clinging to the window. In my earliest years, when my self-conception was still in its infancy, there was actually a window. I could not have been any more than six, and I caught the bus to school every morning in my shiny shoes and neatly pleated skirt, resigning myself to an empty seat as the bus coughed a cloud of sulfurous fumes and shivered to life. One day, however, I unwittingly decided to eschew routine and sit in the front—and the gang of older kids who ruled this territory despotically was not very happy when it boarded and found me there.
“Get out! Don’t you know this is our spot?” They swarmed me like a growingly wrathful and noisy beehive that had me half-ready to hop out of this seat and flee the scene with my tail tucked; but all I could think was: This is not their spot. Anyone can sit here. Why hasn’t anyone told them that?
“No,” I replied, and turned away.
Immediately, two of the boys grabbed my legs, but my hands flew for the open window and clutched it tightly. The bullies pulled so hard that my entire body lifted off the bus seat and I was suspended tenuously in mid-air, but something inside me refused to give in to these intimidation tactics when I knew I was in the right here. Eventually, the kids exchanged glances and dropped me, clearly perplexed about how to deal with someone engaging in an incipient version of silent protest, and swaggered away to find another place to sit. I righted myself but never let go of that window.
This is one of my most distinct memories of [insert 3rd world country]. It was not long after, when I was eight years old, that my family immigrated to the United States of America.
There were days I remember hiding under my bed, trembling in terror. It was in these moments I felt most powerless, when even a child’s brain could comprehend gross yet unyielding inequality, and retreated into the world of self-pity I had been dutifully customizing since the first day I disappeared into a book. Here, the chaos was obfuscated by bright and fascinating things: stories, and partially digestible philosophy, and the social hierarchies of lion prides, and the ethical future of genetic engineering, and my all-consuming love of The Good Earth–all swam around tirelessly in my mind as I tried to transcend the coffin-like oppression of my mouse-den and the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
Though my cheerful veneer concealed it well, my life was a literal battlefield. With every crushing defeat I suffered, I would dissociate myself from my physical and spiritual wounds and absorb knowledge though an almost religious need for something resembling stability. It had already become apparent when I was very young that my surroundings were completely out of my control, so I sought to control intangible things that could not be commandeered from me as easily, like words and ideas. Reason was my god and flooded through me, presenting its mutability to my child-like hands, illuminating Morality’s manifold nature, the variegated and infinite spectrum of gray that most people could not perceive until well into adulthood. I was unusually logical and free-thinking for my age, and I was blessed with the gift of writing. Ultimately, it was this gift that saved my life, because a child could not manage all the pain and strife I endured without transferring those overwhelming feelings onto paper constantly; there was respite in the third-person. Through destruction I discovered I could create, and it was an intoxicating power.
Still, self-deprecation ruled me perennially. I grasped desperately for clarity’s window, but the hands that were always tugging at my legs boasted preternatural strength. In school, I shied away from the positive recognition I incurred as the “smart kid,” because the irony that such instances emanated was almost unbearable—in responding graciously I was an actress, grinning hollowly at these travesties and distributing “thank you”s as if I actually believed them. When my AP English teacher held me after class and told me my essay (which I had written in thirty minutes the period before) was the best she had ever seen from a high school student, my face reddened in embarrassment and I felt apologetic that I had, purely accidentally, evoked such a reaction in her. While externally I was a gregarious and strong-willed girl, in reality I was paralyzed by my inability to reconcile the complexities that had grown within me. I spent a lifetime fielding a cycle of vitriol, violence, and love. There were such intense pressures at my back to succeed and serve as an ambassador for my [insert ethnicity] heritage, yet the idea of succeeding was, after years of abuse, incomprehensible to me. Despite my potential, my paralysis prevented me from applying myself fully in school. I coasted by with good grades purely through the grace of my intellect and genuine intellectual curiosity, but both my teachers and parents knew I was only presenting the “tip of the iceberg” here.
Even burdened with my contradictory attitude towards school, I was accepted into the [insert mid-ranking UC school here], and I felt like an inmate who had been given another shot at the outside world. As a freshman in college, I became acquainted with this wonderful thing called “peace” that inhabited the six hour drive separating me from my customary fear for my life, along with my mother’s, and my sister’s. Maybe one second of peace was all that I had needed. On that very first day of school, I walked out of my first Environmental Studies class mopping a tear from my eye. What I had heard in there had burrowed its way through all the walls I had industriously erected through eighteen years, and found its way to the real Me who had always been passionate about environmental issues. This Me had sometimes needed to take a backseat to the Me who was holding myself together and the Me who was bitterly resisting my parents’ efforts to mold me into an affiliate of their elitist philosophy—but I was not a victim. People had devoted themselves to making me feel powerless, but it was me who was perpetuating these effects by believing the voices that called me worthless and struck me down. I had to look myself in the eye and come to terms with the fact that I had been hurt--I could not erase this from my past anymore than I could tear free a piece of my physical body—but the longer I chose to dwell in this dark place and construct my life here, the more I was relinquishing control of my future and squandering my own potential to fulfill my dreams.
I have to thank my Environmental Studies professor, [insert name of well-known prof], who passed away [insert date] for reminding me of the change I wanted to catalyze and aiding me in such a decisive victory against myself. I was fortunate to have him as my professor on my very first day, and under his continued tutelage, my passions unfurled and I could cultivate them without an edge of fear or shame. For most of my academic career, I had been a mass of unshaped energy that lacked direction, but once I discovered a purpose for myself, I saw that I was utterly focused and tenacious. I understood now that there were no obstacles—only challenges that we could either meet with full commitment, or respond to half-heartedly when we already suspected our failure.
To my surprise, I realized I was strong. My friends and peers, though greatly intelligent by their own merit, were overwhelmed easily by small stressors: studying, long papers, midterms and finals, pop quizzes, reading assigned books to their entirety, tough graders—all these made them balk and wilt; but I had surmounted struggles greater then these when I was only a kid watching my surroundings burst into pandemonium, and I held a professional degree in grabbing windows and holding on. The day I received my Bachelor’s Degree with Highest Honors, I can truly say, marked one of the greatest achievements of my life. It was a culmination of my growth beyond my physical environment—the very thing I had been praying for that afternoon spent under my bed. Today, I am a product of my hard work and determination, and I understand people must be responsible for their own successes and failures. I have walked in both worlds, and never again will I be ruled by circumstance.
Your input is SO helpful.