So...close...
Yesterday I finished all but two of my required essays. And the last two don't even count, because it'll be like modifying my old essays to fit a new prompt. The end is near!
The only problem is that now I have about 7 essays for people to edit, and Ms. Colglazier keeps leaving school early. *cries* So any help would be really appreciated. That having been said, anyone up for some reading? (be critical! i really need these to be good)
The first essay was one that I wrote for this prompt. The second piece is an essay I wrote for a competition, but that also fits the prompt. Which one do you guys like better? Any suggestions as to what I should cut?
PS - If you seriously edit these essays (as in more than 3 comments and lots of help with cutting out stuff) I will love you forever and bake you a cake. I promise (or at least for the second part). Just edit, tell me where to find you, and I will give you baked goods when we get back from break. I love you all!
2. Tell us about the environment in which you were raised-your family, home, neighborhood or town-and how it influenced the person you are today.
Option #1:
My life has been a never-ending symphony, with new movements constantly beginning while others end. People come and go like soloists, adding their own unique voice to the song of life. There have been moments of triumph, set to crashing cymbals and trumpet calls. Then there were moments of sorrow, accompanied by a single lonesome violin whispering to the darkness. It is when all these elements come together, the voices intermingling and working towards a common theme, that the symphony takes on a life and becomes my own.
Composed of everything from classical to klezmer, salsa to hip hop, my symphony has been one of diversity. Being multiracial, I was born to the tune of Bach from my father and Tito Puentes from my mother. My mother, a jíbara from the hills of Mayagüéz, moved to the U.S. from Puerto Rico in the seventies. She brought with her all the innocence and simplicity of a Catholic-schooled island girl. Never having dated before, she married her first boyfriend: my father, proof that “opposites attract.” Raised in the backwoods of Connecticut, my father was a full-blown hippie, attending the March on Washington and becoming a self-proclaimed Buddhist/Mystical Christian by the time he was 15. Whether by fate or coincidence, my mother’s simple, homely cuatro melody and my father’s radical, postmodern classical music came together and created me, an eclectic mix; simple yet uniquely passionate. My father’s rebellious spirit and my mother’s calm, collected reasoning have both managed to weave themselves into my own rational, yet free-spirited, song. Knowing that it was open-mindedness that led my parents to meet, I have maintained the same degree of acceptance for all people. I march to my own tune: why shouldn’t they?
Growing up, more parts were added to my own unique opus: rap from the hallways of my so-called “ghetto” middle school, indie rock from crew carpools, and reggeton from Hispanic Alliance. A trip to Ecuador added the forlorn dirge of the forgotten to the medley, a constant reminder of my duty to help others. Back in Puerto Rico, the flute-like grace and calm of my grandmother’s song was extinguished by hepatitis and HIV from a bad blood transfusion, instilling in me the desire to help bring modern medicine to developing countries. At the same time, the bells of children’s laughter rang in my ears while I participated in tutoring and mentoring programs. The ringing has remained in my ears ever since I began mentoring in fifth grade: a friendly reminder of the pure joy that can only come from the love of children.
This is my life: my symphony. Whether in a major or minor key, harmonious or discordant, it is me. The instruments may come and go, the melodies may vary, but the music plays on, rising and falling with the beat of my heart.
(472 words: need to cut 272)
Option #2:
“Man, there’s nothing good on TV,” my sister complains as she flops down into a plush chair. She flicks through 200 stations, pausing briefly to witness a catfight on MTV and finally settling on watching Spongebob reruns. From the kitchen my mother’s shouts can be heard over the crackling of fried platanos.
“Why don’t you go play outside,” she urges. “It’s such a nice day!”
There is no response. “Ave Maria purísima,” my mother impatiently mutters, continuing to stir her arroz con gandules. “That TV brings nothing but trouble. When I was young, we didn’t even have TV. We played with chickens.”
I smile from amidst a mountain of biology notes. Here we go again, I think to myself. My mother grew up in Puerto Rico. Not the island seen in the magazines and on the Travel channel, but the hot, sticky Puerto Rico, where horses roam the streets and children play with lizards instead of Tonka trucks. It was no surprise that my mother transferred to Boston University at age 22. She longed a better job and economic stability. Though her heart would always remain in Puerto Rico, she knew there was an improved life for her in the mainland. Thus, Marisol Aldahondo, my mother, became the first of her family to leave her tiny tropical island, as well as all that she knew, behind.
“Rice and beans again?” My father catches a whiff of my mother’s cooking and groans, fleeing to his room to read Jung and Harner. Though he practically inhales books these days, my father didn’t always have that luxury. Growing up in rural Connecticut to a poor family, he was left to care for himself while his alcoholic mother and abusive father fought in the background. His education began roughly, as he was held back in elementary school. Yet my father would not be discouraged. Determined to break away from the mold set for him, he became an avid reader and eventually excelled in his studies. The first of his family ever to attain a college education, my dad vowed never to fall into the traps of alcoholism or drugs, as his mother had. When he finally finished his graduate work from Boston University and started a family, he promised his children would have better opportunities than both he and his wife had had in their youth.
It is with pride that I say I am the product of my parents’ dreams. Now, as I set my own goals, I am not concerned with when my next full meal will be, or whether or not I will have a job when I am older. Instead, I dream of attending medical school and finding a cure for cancer. Through their patience, tenacity and faith, my parents have been able not only to succeed, but to excel in life. With their inspiration, I am sure that I will be able to do the same. But for now, I think it’s time to eat some rice and beans.
(word count: 500, must cut 300)
•Which essay did you feel was better written? (please only edit that one)
•Any suggestions as to what I should cut out?
Thank you!!!
The only problem is that now I have about 7 essays for people to edit, and Ms. Colglazier keeps leaving school early. *cries* So any help would be really appreciated. That having been said, anyone up for some reading? (be critical! i really need these to be good)
The first essay was one that I wrote for this prompt. The second piece is an essay I wrote for a competition, but that also fits the prompt. Which one do you guys like better? Any suggestions as to what I should cut?
PS - If you seriously edit these essays (as in more than 3 comments and lots of help with cutting out stuff) I will love you forever and bake you a cake. I promise (or at least for the second part). Just edit, tell me where to find you, and I will give you baked goods when we get back from break. I love you all!
2. Tell us about the environment in which you were raised-your family, home, neighborhood or town-and how it influenced the person you are today.
Option #1:
My life has been a never-ending symphony, with new movements constantly beginning while others end. People come and go like soloists, adding their own unique voice to the song of life. There have been moments of triumph, set to crashing cymbals and trumpet calls. Then there were moments of sorrow, accompanied by a single lonesome violin whispering to the darkness. It is when all these elements come together, the voices intermingling and working towards a common theme, that the symphony takes on a life and becomes my own.
Composed of everything from classical to klezmer, salsa to hip hop, my symphony has been one of diversity. Being multiracial, I was born to the tune of Bach from my father and Tito Puentes from my mother. My mother, a jíbara from the hills of Mayagüéz, moved to the U.S. from Puerto Rico in the seventies. She brought with her all the innocence and simplicity of a Catholic-schooled island girl. Never having dated before, she married her first boyfriend: my father, proof that “opposites attract.” Raised in the backwoods of Connecticut, my father was a full-blown hippie, attending the March on Washington and becoming a self-proclaimed Buddhist/Mystical Christian by the time he was 15. Whether by fate or coincidence, my mother’s simple, homely cuatro melody and my father’s radical, postmodern classical music came together and created me, an eclectic mix; simple yet uniquely passionate. My father’s rebellious spirit and my mother’s calm, collected reasoning have both managed to weave themselves into my own rational, yet free-spirited, song. Knowing that it was open-mindedness that led my parents to meet, I have maintained the same degree of acceptance for all people. I march to my own tune: why shouldn’t they?
Growing up, more parts were added to my own unique opus: rap from the hallways of my so-called “ghetto” middle school, indie rock from crew carpools, and reggeton from Hispanic Alliance. A trip to Ecuador added the forlorn dirge of the forgotten to the medley, a constant reminder of my duty to help others. Back in Puerto Rico, the flute-like grace and calm of my grandmother’s song was extinguished by hepatitis and HIV from a bad blood transfusion, instilling in me the desire to help bring modern medicine to developing countries. At the same time, the bells of children’s laughter rang in my ears while I participated in tutoring and mentoring programs. The ringing has remained in my ears ever since I began mentoring in fifth grade: a friendly reminder of the pure joy that can only come from the love of children.
This is my life: my symphony. Whether in a major or minor key, harmonious or discordant, it is me. The instruments may come and go, the melodies may vary, but the music plays on, rising and falling with the beat of my heart.
(472 words: need to cut 272)
Option #2:
“Man, there’s nothing good on TV,” my sister complains as she flops down into a plush chair. She flicks through 200 stations, pausing briefly to witness a catfight on MTV and finally settling on watching Spongebob reruns. From the kitchen my mother’s shouts can be heard over the crackling of fried platanos.
“Why don’t you go play outside,” she urges. “It’s such a nice day!”
There is no response. “Ave Maria purísima,” my mother impatiently mutters, continuing to stir her arroz con gandules. “That TV brings nothing but trouble. When I was young, we didn’t even have TV. We played with chickens.”
I smile from amidst a mountain of biology notes. Here we go again, I think to myself. My mother grew up in Puerto Rico. Not the island seen in the magazines and on the Travel channel, but the hot, sticky Puerto Rico, where horses roam the streets and children play with lizards instead of Tonka trucks. It was no surprise that my mother transferred to Boston University at age 22. She longed a better job and economic stability. Though her heart would always remain in Puerto Rico, she knew there was an improved life for her in the mainland. Thus, Marisol Aldahondo, my mother, became the first of her family to leave her tiny tropical island, as well as all that she knew, behind.
“Rice and beans again?” My father catches a whiff of my mother’s cooking and groans, fleeing to his room to read Jung and Harner. Though he practically inhales books these days, my father didn’t always have that luxury. Growing up in rural Connecticut to a poor family, he was left to care for himself while his alcoholic mother and abusive father fought in the background. His education began roughly, as he was held back in elementary school. Yet my father would not be discouraged. Determined to break away from the mold set for him, he became an avid reader and eventually excelled in his studies. The first of his family ever to attain a college education, my dad vowed never to fall into the traps of alcoholism or drugs, as his mother had. When he finally finished his graduate work from Boston University and started a family, he promised his children would have better opportunities than both he and his wife had had in their youth.
It is with pride that I say I am the product of my parents’ dreams. Now, as I set my own goals, I am not concerned with when my next full meal will be, or whether or not I will have a job when I am older. Instead, I dream of attending medical school and finding a cure for cancer. Through their patience, tenacity and faith, my parents have been able not only to succeed, but to excel in life. With their inspiration, I am sure that I will be able to do the same. But for now, I think it’s time to eat some rice and beans.
(word count: 500, must cut 300)
•Which essay did you feel was better written? (please only edit that one)
•Any suggestions as to what I should cut out?
Thank you!!!