I Will Not Be Eaten Alive
Common App Essay
He appeared in front of my eyes like a bright ray of sunshine cutting through the blinds in the morning. His insides growled at me, I was the only one he wanted, the only one who could possibly satisfy his hunger. As he screeched to a stop, I could see the tinted faces of his previous victims, each one looking at me begging for help. Before I could run, my mother clenched onto my hand, and the doors swung open right in front of me. I was deafened with fear. There was no going back. The pain on my face reflected onto my mother’s, and we both wept as we said our goodbyes. I tried to be strong, after all, school only lasted six hours; I would be home in no time.
A cluster of screams and laughter broke through the barriers in my ears. All I heard from that moment on were erratic clucks and chirps like the chickens back home, but in my extravagant red gown, I was the alien in the room. The other children had a sort of cultivating beauty: pale, blonde, and with colorful jewels as eyes. When the teacher announced something, as obedient as soldiers, they all marched to a circular rug and sat in the most peculiar way with their legs crossed. I couldn’t quite figure it out, but luckily I was able to hide my legs under the layers of my dress. Out of all the clucking and nonsense something very familiar came crawling into my ears. “A, B, C, D…” A song my mom had sung to me many times since we first arrived in America. I shouted out with all my might to prove to everyone in the room that I indeed could speak. “…E, F, G, H, I, J, K, ello-mello…” Suddenly, a thunder of laughter filled the room. The humiliation rose upon my face until I matched the ruby color on my dress. From then on, I vowed that I would never again drench myself in too much confidence, that I would never speak up, that I would always be the alien in the room, and most predominantly, that I was incapable.
These were kids who were raised by doctors and CEOs, while I was raised by a single mother who never even made it to the seventh grade. After school, when they went back to their king size beds in their two-story homes, I crossed to the other side of the highway to a mattress on the floor of a crowded living room. I convinced myself that I would always be inferior in their eyes, that I was rather pathetic for the Silicon Valley way of life.
I went down a path of depression, crossing tantalizing tracks and diabolical self-created obstacles; I was my only enemy. When I envisioned where my life was headed, I desperately went out in search of help. With therapy I was able to build myself a foundation, something sturdy to keep me up during a storm.
Children of immigrant parents don’t have first-hand access to a net of advisors. We come here in search of new opportunities, but instead are hammered back in the dirt. Nothing is handed to anyone in a silver platter. If I wanted to break the trend and be the first in my family to attend a four-year university, then I must go and create those resources on my own.
I have accepted the fact that my best might be different from those who come from a line of prestigious careers. I, myself, have my own expectations. I am an incomparable, anomalous being with a friable background and overcoming my deficits has genuinely made me more resilient. I know college will be challenging, but the obstacles I’ve had to encounter have prepared me for the academic, social, and emotional transitions I will have to face.
