Application Essay Questions

Application Essay Questions I heard nothing but the gentle hum of the air conditioner accompanied by the whirring of the electric foot rasp, and the occasional ring of a phone echoing through the hallway of closed doors. My mom had become a therapist attending her clients’ hands and feet under a white-bulb lamp with watchful eyes and open ears. A man hurrying by bumped into my shoulder as I continued down the street, bringing my mind back to the present. I treasure and protect the papers because they contain the only insight I have into half of my DNA. His essay is the sole connection I have to a man I will never meet. I will never know more about my donor than what he chose to reveal in his personal essay. To me, “home” was a small room with a twin bed, a desk piled with yearbooks, magazines, newspapers, and a dresser covered in college flyers, polaroid photos, and an assortment of candles. I felt naked as my safety blankets of being recognized or at the very least understood on a verbal level were stripped away, for the Puerto Ricans did not care about my achievements or past life. I was as much of a clean slate to them as they were to me. My previous need for control had come from growing up with strict parents, coaches, and expectations from my school and community. Learning in an environment without lenience for error or interpretation meant I fought for control wherever I could get it. This manifested itself in the form of overthinking every move and pass in soccer games, restricting the creativity of my play, and hurting the team. After weeks of songwriting and immersing myself in music, I determined that trust, vulnerability, and acceptance are love’s inherent ingredients. I found I could apply my acceptance of his relapse to different experiences in my life, whether teenage gossip or catastrophe. I can’t control the actions of others; I can only alter my perspective. Thanks to my mentors, I can identify and create almost every type of Northeastern mayfly, caddisfly, and stonefly. I have paint under my nails and charcoal dust in my hair. I check out too many books from the library and always bring them back overdue. I scribble notes on my hands and in my journals and find scraps of paper in my pockets. My mother left her own family behind, but keeps the door open to those who seek to be a part of ours. Reluctantly, I realized I had to open my own door as well. After years of fighting myself and others for control, I realized it was my struggle for control that was restricting me in the first place. After that night, dad immediately resumed working his AA program, but I found myself stuck to work out my emotions alone. Nobody there knew who I was or cared about my accomplishments. I seemed to be removed from the little town as I continued to wander. As I got older, I realized that there are more worry lines than laugh lines. Deep trenches of lineaments cross her forehead, revealing the hardships of a childhood spent in poverty. The most recent are the lines chiseled around her thin mouth, as if out of marble. They are from pursing her lips in an attempt to suppress the pain after my Papou was taken by the same merciless hands that took her daughter away, but this time, those hands looked like cancer. To my mom, however, “home” was where family met work â€" all her little worlds collided. Six years after she fled from Moldova to Cuba, she and my father headed for the U.S. by raft. I am perpetually in love with hiking boots, the clunky kind. My donor’s file is the first item I packed when I recently had to evacuate my home during a hurricane.