I’ve already posted under another thread (something like “essay due tomorrow!”). I will probably be reusing this essay for regular decision colleges (not early), and so I’d like to hear what anyone has to say about this essay:
I finished my Harvard app in time by the way. Fingers are crossed, but I'm going to work on other apps until I am told whether I got in or not.
Since the essay's already been posted on this board, I guess it can't hurt to repost it (unless someone sees it who hasn't and uses this essay to apply to the same schools which may be a problem). Anyway, without further ado, here's something I spent time doing. Feel free to make me feel like I want to cry in the corner:
(sorry about the formatting, the tabs and spaces I try to put in at the beginning of each paragraph don’t want to show up)
The pasta was al dente, the sauce was thick and chunky, and the chicken was just right. The two families on either side of the table, my family and the DiFabios, lifted their glasses, full of red wine, for a toast. I translated my father’s words, “Siamo molto felici perche abbiamo la capacità di essere qui con sua famiglia di nuovo!” [We are very happy because we are able to be here with your family again!] With that, there was laughter around the table, and I, too, lifted my glass for a toast well said.
I thought back to the reason I was in Rome, to the painful event ten years prior that had changed my life. I was a carefree four-year-old catching a fun ride on the back of a rickety carriage. As my foot slipped from the bumper of the carriage, it became stuck in the spokes of the wheel, and a sharp pain shot through my leg. My tibia snapped. The fracture, although extremely painful, had a positive influence on my life – it extended my stay in Italy and I became enraptured with both the country and its culture.
At that time, my family was fleeing persecution the of communist Russia, seeking freedom in America. We were in transit, hoping to be granted political refugee status by the U.S. government. Having left home with little money and possessions, my parents desperately needed help to support our family. Renato DiFabio was kind enough to offer my father odd jobs around his house and small business, even though he did not need the help. He saved our family from the streets by paying my father enough to make rent. As our family became better friends with this generous man and his family, we became less upset that my fracture delayed our flight to New York City after we had been granted refugee status.
Even now, I am puzzled by the way our families were able to share closeness without speaking the same language. I craved to speak with Chiara, Renato’s daughter, who was also four and my tricycling buddy, so I turned to television — my “Italian school.” Since the heavy cast kept me bedridden, there was plenty of time to educate myself. Television puppets became my teachers. Though I did not realize it at the time, I was watching Sesame Street in Italian. As I lay there in my bed, I learned the Italian alphabet, numbers, and soon was able to put a few words together in Italian.
I could not lie in bed forever. My parents began to take me to the park with a cast on my foot in order for me to get fresh air, but I refused to sit still as the other children played. Escaping my parents’ vigilance, I often slipped onto the field to play soccer with my new friends. Surprisingly, my handicap proved to be an advantage, since my cast enabled me to hit the ball harder and farther than any of the other children. Thanks to Sesame Street, I could count the number of goals I scored each game and also socialize with the other children via a common language.
Our reunion dinner with the DiFabios lasted several hours, and none of us could eat another bite. With great effort, Renato got up from the table to pick up a photo album. Until this point, I had been translating in both directions, in-between bites. Now, it was time for the pictures to speak. There were images of Chiara and I playing catch, with my cast proudly displayed. Everyone in the room was able to share the memories contained within that album. The final picture was a group photo of our families in front of the plane on which my family left Italy so long ago.
We took that plane to Brooklyn, where my parents slowly established themselves at their new jobs, and we all had to learn another language – English. I became fluent in English, but my passion for the Italian language remained. From elementary school to high school, I studied Italian, hoping that one day I could revisit the country and converse with local residents. Thanks to the excellent Italian teachers I have had throughout the years, my dream was realized that warm summer night, over dinner with the DiFabios.
Reluctantly, the families said goodbye. Some tears were shed, mostly in happiness. We promised a return visit before long. With a feeling of sadness, the DiFabios gave us a ride to the airport. I was caught by how much Italy had grown on me yet again. My face lit up when Renato suggested another group photo in front of the airplane, just as we had posed ten years ago. We boarded the plane with a feeling of content, no longer sad. Though no one said anything, we were all sure that history would repeat itself, that my family was bound to come back for another visit to this captivating country.