College Application Essay No. 99

One evening in the late October of my freshman year, my parents called my brother and I into the living room. We shared a worried glance when we saw how visibly upset they were. The past few years had been difficult for our family. The economy had taken a serious toll on my father, an equipment salesman who worked on commission. Each week it seemed, someone else was let go. His job was in constant jeopardy, and he returned home late and exhausted each night. Our financial troubles were magnified when my mother contracted a serious case of Lyme Disease. The medicine that would supposedly cure her had nearly killed her. Our family watched with panic as her health deteriorated, bringing on a host of daunting medical bills. Both of these things weighed heavily on our minds as we entered the room.

Sadly, our parents explained that we were very short on money. They reiterated the aforementioned points, saying that things had become even worse at my fathers job. “We are so sorry”, they finally explained, but they just couldn‘t afford to buy Christmas presents this year. I exhaled a huge sigh of relief, asking, is that all? While, admittedly, we may have been disappointed we set about assuring them that we weren‘t upset. Yet, we found ourselves faced with a new dilemma. We had always celebrated Christmas, but had no real religious affiliation with the holiday aside from the fact that my mother had been raised Catholic. The holiday had always been about presents for my brother and I-- so what to do now? Surely, we thought, there must be some way to celebrate that isn’t founded on either religion or consumerism. After much deliberation, we came up with

two ideas. The first, mine, was that we would write one member of our family a letter in lieu of a gift. For this, we chose names from a Santa Claus hat. The second part of our new holiday plan was that we would each be responsible for one dish to be served at Christmas dinner.

This was a cause of great excitement. My mom is full-blooded Italian, and a fiercely talented chef. While my father was not exposed to quite the same culinary upbringing, he was a fast learner. Before my brother and I were born, our parents ran a semi-illicit gourmet cake business out of my Grandmother’s apartment. Luckily, as their children, we inherited their talent. What had begun simply as dinner plans quickly morphed into a good-natured competition. As the only children in the household, my brother and I teamed up and decided to make Spanish paella. We spent weeks driving to different stores, seeking out the proper ingredients. We filled an entire cupboard shelf with sweet paprika, dry rice and chorizo. We camped out at the local seafood store, specifying, please, no gulf shrimp. Finally, we ordered a large round paella pan.

Christmas morning, before the sun even rose, our family assembled in the kitchen. It was a glorious melee of smells! My mother frosted cinnamon buns as my father sautéed onions, the sweet and the savory mixing with the ocean scent of seafood. My maternal grandparents arrived, carrying a vat of traditional Italian wedding soup. Together, we chopped and laughed, singing loudly and-- it must be said--off key to Nat King Cole Christmas carols. When it came time to make the paella, the whole family stopped to watch. In all honesty, we had no idea what we were doing. Nevertheless, we improvised beautifully, screaming only when the too-hot pan spat out hot kernels of rice onto our

         
arms. We cooked for hours, until, finally the paella was ready. It was beautiful to look at, red-orange and steaming. The clams mouths were slightly parted, as even they could not resist the fragrant steam rising from the pan. We arranged our food carefully on the table, all proud of the dishes we had created.

Just before eating, we handed out our letters to one another. We read them silently first, and then, at our mothers behest, aloud. Our tears flowed freely, rolling down our cheeks and onto our plates. At that moment, I was so overwhelmed with love for my family. Each letter was artfully written, expressing more honor, pride and devotion than any material object ever could. In years past, the holiday felt as if it was over when the last present was opened. My gifts brought me happiness, but it would always fade, replaced by a feeling of profound emptiness that I was not yet wise enough to recognize. But this year, my heart swelled with joy. Free of religion, presents, and tradition in general, I felt as if I was celebrating Christmas for the first time. As for the paella? It was the best meal that I had ever eaten.

How Technology Has Impacted Literacy

Let’s be frank. The last time I spell-checked something I wrote on Facebook was during a heated debate involving Middle Eastern foreign policy. (In case you were wondering, it’s spelled “Muammar Gaddafi”). Not wanting to appear completely illiterate, I right clicked; assuming that a helpful little box would pop up informing me of the correct spelling. No such luck.

 Now its not that I don’t know how to spell-- I can, and I have the third grade spelling bee certificate to prove it. But I’ve become so used to my computer doing my work for me that I no longer have to rely on my own knowledge. Information found online can now substitute what should be found in our minds. It can be said that technology has caused an intellectual regression. So, where does this leave literacy?

The truth is: it depends on the person. It is perfectly acceptable, for example, to write in fragments as long as you can define “syntax” when the time comes. Just because you can use proper grammar and sentence structure, doesn’t mean that you have to. Only when text-lingo seeps into your academic or professional life does it become a problem. When we are around our family, we alter our way of speaking out of politeness. Now, we must do the same with writing.

Personally, I think that the biggest obstacle has been capitalization. “Grammar Gestapo” that I am (Sofia says, and I agree, this is better than Nazi because of the delightful alliteration) I strongly oppose the use of extraaaa letterssss and terms such as YOLO- (You Obviously Lack Originality). and so these common errors never show up in my writing. But capitalization—even I don’t capitalize text messages. I have to constantly remind myself when handwriting essays.

As tedious as this can be, I don’t particularly mind. I value the traditional form of literature over all else. I find that it can be quite a sensory experience. The touch of real paper, the smell of aging books: none of this can be replaced by the kindle fire. And, in case you all missed the joke- FIRE KILLS TREES. Oh, the irony.

Best Poem Ever?

You can’t ask me to choose. Picking just one poem would be like asking a mother to choose her favorite child—she couldn’t possibly.

For me, poetry is about searching for the right words, finding other people who have experienced the same things I have and stated them in the loveliest way possible. The English language is far from beautiful, but it has become even less so as of late. Only in poetry do glimpses of the old dialect reveal themselves. Eloquent speech has long been abandoned in our culture.

I can, however, share a couple of my favorites. I find that I am most drawn to poems about the human experience. The poem, What do Women Want? By Kim Addonizio shares the story of one woman who expresses her sexuality as both a vulnerability and a power that she possesses. The dress she mentions throughout symbolizes the aforementioned traits simultaneously. At first her motivations seem callous, as she declares that she wants to wear the dress “until someone tears it off me”. She imagines sauntering down the street and having men stare at her, worshipping her beauty and confidence. Yet there is sadness, evidence that she has been hurt by a past relationship. The speaker states, her tone challenging, that she wants this dress to “confirm your worst fears about me.” She hopes it will protect her, that she will be able to hide her insecurities and flaws behind a sheath of red fabric. What I love so much about this piece is that it is left very open ended. The speaker never lets on as to whether she ever finds this perfect red dress to carry her “into this world, through the birth-cries and the love-cries too,” or if she is able to find security within herself.

My second favorite poem is not one poem, but a collection. I found them on an anonymous blog a while ago, and read them so many times that some I have memorized. I haven’t been able to find them again, much to my annoyance. But I think they deserve mention. The author, whoever he is, writes in a style similar to Pablo Neruda’s. Yet his work is made even more beautiful because it is untainted by fame. His words have a very private air about them, and I feel lucky to have been able to read them—if only the one time.

            There are countless others that I could mention here. But I think it is more important that people discover their own favorite poems. I am consistently surprised as to which pieces affect different people most strongly. Especially for those who have an appreciation for it, poetry can be a very personal experience. To answer the initial question, there is no one best poem.

The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly of School Assigned Texts

On October 14^th, 2011 I discovered that Sparknotes had videos. Actual novel summaries! Not only are they illustrated, but they are less than seven minutes long and the narrator has a very soothing voice- a good thing when it comes to hour three of your open essay revisions.

Now, I’m not advocating cheating. I truly did read the books, cover to cover. (Well, I read the first and last chapters.) But all jokes aside, I came to rely heavily on Sparknotes when it came to my grade. Once I began reading, I couldn’t help but become involved with the story. Before I knew it, hours would have passed and, while I was interested enough by the text itself, I had absolutely nothing to say regarding the motifs in Heart of Darkness. It isn’t that I wasn’t paying attention to the text, but I find it difficult to view the story from an academic standpoint. It is my experience that school- assigned texts are viewed less as books, and more as “educational tools” the more you read. Some of my favorites have showed up on the reading lists these past years, only to be torn to pieces by character analysis and the dreaded analytical essay. Part of the joy of reading is the freedom to interpret the story in whatever way you wish! In the classroom, once-vibrant stories become generic. Or, even worse, the assigned text is so dry and academic that it is completely un-relatable to begin with.

A more productive approach might be to allow students the freedom to choose their own novels…within reason, of course. Clearly there are books in circulation that do not uphold to academic standards. Yet there are plenty modern books worth reading, which hold messages just as provocative as those in Shakespeare’s writing. Furthermore, students will be far more likely to complete assignments and read the books if they hold their interest. Outside of school, reading is perhaps the most important way that we learn new things. It is of vital importance that a proclivity for literature is established early on, so that it becomes more of a hobby and less of a chore.  

            My intention is not to undermine the importance of reading the classics. They do hold value, and are often beautifully written. Because so many modern books and movies draw on the plots of older books, it is essential to give them the recognition that they deserve. 

I only feel that literature could be approached differently in the curriculum: as a personal experience, rather than a strictly academic one.  

My First Experience With Literature

My literacy had two beginnings: the pretend beginning, and the real beginning.


There's this picture of me in my old house, when I was maybe two years old. Our kitchen has one of those half-walls and on the other side was a bookshelf. My mom used to leave me sitting in my baby chair while she cooked dinner, right on the other side so she could keep an eye on me. In the picture I’m looking intently at the book in my lap. My face is ridiculously serious. It’s starting to get dark so I’m squinting in this exaggerated way that was the reason my mom took out the camera in the first place. I’m holding one corner of the page in my chubby hand, super delicately. I already know how important this is going to be. And if you look carefully, you can even see the title of this book I’m "reading": the Home Depot Home Improvement Guide: revised second edition.


I should clarify. I wasn’t actually reading at age two. But I so wanted to be! I had seen my older brother leafing through workbooks and I had seen my mother squinting at old recipes, written in big, loopy cursive. I began to watch intently as their pencils scratched across the pages, hoping that if I stared long enough I would magically understand. Much to my annoyance, this didn’t happen. When I got a little older I picked up a few simple words here and there, but it wouldn’t be until much later that I would read in earnest.


For a while I put reading out of my mind. Then, in second grade, my teacher pulled a dusty box out from behind her desk. She passed out red-dot easy readers, the first in a series of color-coded levels of books. I was positively jazzed. I ran home and slapped it down on the kitchen counter, giving my mother the most serious look I could muster in a ladybug hat. "Mom”, I remember asking urgently, tugging at her skirt. "Can you please teach me how to read now?"


The aforementioned photograph was not the first experience I had with reading. My parents read to me all the time when I was young. I know, because I still have crates upon crates of books, full of vibrant watercolor illustrations and personified animals. They practically overflow from my attic, and I’m constantly stepping around them. But this picture by the bookshelf shows one of my very earliest memories, maybe even my first. It also calls to mind a specific literary device. (Can you guess which one, Ms. Diana?) Foreshadowing.


Now that I’m older, I read and write constantly. A book or four can always be found on my bedside table. There is a beaten-up copy of Pride and Prejudice in the backseat of my car, my own poems scrawled in the margins. And no, the Home Depot Three-Step Home Improvement Guide probably has nothing to do with it But, then again, it has everything to do with it.