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Eh, I need lots of help to make this more impactful (if that's a word). I got sick of it at the last 2 paragraphs, as you can tell. Also, I'm not sure if my English spelling is correct for the Mandarin words.

I was so frustrated. All the wrong words were reeling into my head: "mayo," "boo shi," and even worse, “Chinese School.” I wondered why my ancestors had not invented a simple word for “no” so I could answer my grandmother. Incapable of reversing the unfurling my tongue had begun of its accented burrs, I did not blame my grandmother when she brought me a full bowl of hard-boiled eggs. Her unknowing eyes wiped the culpability away as she sat down by the metallic table to watch her granddaughter eat. We were two foils—two adversaries—old and young, innocent and unknowing. I could not hold her responsible. I gobbled down those hard-boiled eggs as fast as I could.
That was sometime ago, when my grandmother could live on her own. As often as possible, my family and I made the three-hour car ride to Flushing, New York to visit her.
It had been one of those festive familial events I looked forward to. We would get lost in the New York City streets, my mother would make her protests, and then all that would stop when we would immerse ourselves in the gems of Chinatown culture: buying fruit from the bustling open stands or watching my parents converse freely and genuinely with owners whose stores were plastered in Asian characters in spaces hardly bigger than a bedroom. Finally there was a place where my family could walk and talk, and we did not have to hide behind the stereotype anymore; they could be loud and all the other Chinese people could be loud with them in a ringing proclamation of existence.
However, for the past eight years, the trips have degenerated to becoming a lonely yearly chore for my father and me. Now, we just breeze by the streets and its people to see my grandmother bathed, fed, and shoved around in her one-room apartment. Instead of feeling sympathy for the poverty of my fellow Chinese-Americans, I witness, in its flesh, the death of my grandmother’s mind every year. When she speaks, I still cannot reply, but this time it is because her deaf ears cannot hear herself. Fading translations from my father informed me she advised me to learn Kung Fu even though she did not recognize who I was.
It was only a few months ago since I last saw my relic of history. The new caretaker showed me a hidden book of photographs. I saw a newborn baby in China I will never meet with eyes the same as mine, one that droops and one with an eyebrow imperiously arching over it; a past gathering of my father’s relatives where we boisterously dominated Uno; and finally my great grandmother, standing strong in peasant costume in front of an intimidating door. This trip is different from all the others not because of a simple photo book, but because I stopped wondering what would have happened if I had fine-tuned the perfect Mandarin accent and learned my history. I know that the fine-tuning is in the future, but for now, I must move be strong to make a mark as deep as my grandmother has.

edited it a little bit

By Giraffe (Giraffe) on Sunday, November 30, 2003 - 05:48 pm: Edit

Mayo = Mei you
Boo Shi = Bu Shi

Also, my English teacher told me to not start an essay with the word "I".

What schools are you applying to? It's good that someone else decided to write about Mandarin, even though I took it as a language.

By Chen (Chen) on Sunday, November 30, 2003 - 05:55 pm: Edit

Thanks, Giraffe, for such a quick response. Let's see, Case Western Reserve, UCONN, University of Rochester, Cornell, JHU, NYU, Vanderbilt, WUSTL. Reaches make up the majority of my list, lol.

By Abyss (Abyss) on Sunday, November 30, 2003 - 05:59 pm: Edit

is there a reason why not to begin with I ?

By Chen (Chen) on Sunday, November 30, 2003 - 08:49 pm: Edit

Final. If no one else wants to help, that's OK because I'm going to send it out now

I was so frustrated. All the wrong words were reeling into my head: "mei you," "bu shi," and even worse, “Chinese School.” At that moment, I hated my parents for sending me to an institution that taught me nothing, and I wondered why my ancestors had not invented a simple word for “no” so I could answer my grandmother. Incapable of reversing the unfurling my tongue had begun, I did not blame my grandmother when she brought me a full bowl of hard-boiled eggs. Her unknowing eyes wiped the culpability away immediately as she sat down by the metallic table to watch her granddaughter eat. We were two foils—two adversaries—old and young, innocent and unknowing. I could not hold her responsible. Instead, I gobbled down those hard-boiled eggs as fast as I could.
That was sometime ago, when my grandmother could live on her own. As often as possible, my family and I made the three-hour car ride to Flushing, New York to visit her.
It had been one of those festive familial events I looked forward to. We would get lost in the New York City streets, my mother would make her protests, and then all that would stop when we would immerse ourselves in the gems of Chinatown culture. I loved the free and genuine banter between my parents and storeowners and wondered at the lives of the storeowners who chose to be at the heart of Chinatown culture. Finally there was a place where we could walk and talk, and we did not have to hide behind the stereotype anymore; we could all be loud in a ringing proclamation of existence.
However, for the past eight years, the trips have degenerated to lonely yearly chores for my father and me. Now, we just whisk by the streets and its people to see my grandmother bathed, fed, and shoved around in her one-room apartment. Instead of feeling sympathy for the poverty of my fellow Chinese-Americans, I witness, in its flesh, the death of my grandmother’s mind every year. She fails to recognize my father and I, but we will still come in and sit there to watch her as she stares back at us, making her few understood words important. She advised me to defend myself with Kung Fu.
It was only a few months ago when I last saw my relic of history. The new caretaker showed me a hidden book of photographs, and I discovered why Asians have been so widely known for their photographing fetish. I saw a newborn baby, perhaps a distant relative, in China that I will never meet with eyes the same as mine, with an eyebrow imperiously arching over one; a past gathering of my father’s relatives where we dominated Uno; and finally my great grandmother, standing strong in peasant costume in front of an ancient, wooden door. As they take more pictures, they continue their hopes for a growing story. I shall make my story strong, having seen my grandmother’s laid out for her in her photo book, and forever fear my story ending.