Oct 15, 09, 08:39pm - Attached on merging:
Puzzle Pieces - Columbia University EssayHey guys! This is the personal essay I'm writing for Columbia University! It's my dream school. Please edit, or tell me what you think! Thanks. :)
Prompt: Write an essay which conveys to the reader a sense of who you are. Possible topics may include, but are not limited to, experiences which have shaped your life, the circumstances of your upbringing, your most meaningful intellectual achievement, the way you see the world - the people in it, events great and small, everyday life - or any personal theme which appeals to your imagination. Please remember that we are concerned not only with the substance of your prose but with your writing style as well. We prefer that you limit yourself to approximately 250-500 words (or 1-2 pages).Puzzle Pieces
The smell of kebab and other meats I couldn't quite place lingered in the air. A staccato of footsteps and a symphony of voices resonated in the house. To anyone else it would seem as if a loud fight was going on, however, to the trained listener, like myself, this was just an average conversation. Why must getting ready for every family outing become such a great ordeal? I thought to myself. Equipped with enough food to feed an army, and cars full of old blankets and plates, we set off to Woodmere Park to celebrate the first day of summer.
My family had a habit of turning every small, insignificant event, such as the first day of summer, into a huge episode. Whether it was because they actually considered these events of great importance, or whether they were looking for excuses to have family "get-togethers", I wasn't sure. Either way, I was still dragged to these, in my opinion at the time, "boring family rituals". I couldn't see the enjoyment in being stuffed into a car like a forgotten article of clothing into an already full suitcase, only to arrive at a park where I'd be mauled by mosquitoes and stories of "back home." Or worse, being forced to help my grandfather with the puzzles he consumed his time with.
After a grueling one hour drive, full of rambunctious laughter from the adults and loud Hindi music, we finally reached the park. I escaped from the car and breathed deeply like a prisoner denied fresh air. I proceeded out of the car by slamming the door. Just before sighing in relief, I realized my mistake as I heard my father shouting. "Do you have a brain? What if you broke the door? That costs money! You have no sense of value, do you?" I almost answered his questions with a snide response, but decided against it, thinking better of it. "You grew up in America, but that doesn't mean you have to act like one. Back in Afghanistan..."
Here we go again, I thought. Everything always led back to a drawn-out, exaggerated anecdote from "back home." By the time he was done lecturing me he was more talking to himself and venting his own frustrations about America with statements like "This country is unfair to foreigners..." and "I try ten times harder than these people just to make the same..." I rolled my eyes at, "these people" and "this country," though I did sympathize with my parents and their situation. They were high society people living low class lifestyles who were trying to raise me to be the best Afghan daughter.
Too bad, we're living in America.Growing up, school was the only place I could escape the crazy lifestyle I had at home. I could be whoever I wanted to be, which at the time I thought, was my "true self." In middle school, I dissociated myself from my Afghan culture and tried to adopt a more "American" persona, as my parents would put it. During Ramadan, when people asked me why I didn't eat food, I would respond with a simple, "I'm not hungry," and proceeded to change the topic. I dreaded the after Christmas ritual of sharing what presents we received and often created stories to steer suspicion from who I was. I failed to notice it at the time, but I had attained a dual identity, one that conformed, and the other that questioned.
It wasn't until high school that I started to accept my Afghan culture. Strolling through the halls, I could hear several languages besides English being spoken and often spotted flags from different countries attached to backpacks. The notion of shifting from conformance to individuality was startling at first. Eventually, upon meeting some of my now closest friends, I learned from them to be more open with myself. Without realizing it, I had made more friends being different than being the same. Now, during Ramadan, I can explain why I'm not eating, and during Christmas time I can feel comfortable not receiving presents.
"Bia, bia, Mariam!" my Grandfather shouted. Shaking me from my reverie, I looked up from where I was reading under the shade of a tree and saw my grandfather looking at me expectantly with a smile plastered on his face. He was working on his latest puzzle, a picture of two doves sitting next to each other. Placing my book to the side, I walked up and sat myself beside my grandfather so we could finish the puzzle together.
People may be said to resemble, not the bricks of which a house is built, but the pieces of a picture puzzle; each differing in shape, but matching the rest, and thus bringing out the picture. I am from two completely different cultures and belong to neither one. My cultures, like the pieces of a picture puzzle, create the picture that is me.
Mariam Mahbob
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