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My Essay for Stanford:

“Grab a Coke and receive a great discount on admission! Six Flags Great America: it’s playtime!” “What! That’s daylight robbery! How can they get away with charging thirty bucks for a CD?” My uncle made it a habit to provide personal commentary on every commercial that flashed across the television. True, it was a little irritating, but nothing I couldn’t live with. “Wrestling isn’t even a sport! Everyone knows its fake, but I just don’t understand what could compel people to watch such a ridiculous show?”
Eventually, I began to ignore his interjections, adding the occasional nod to prove I was listening. Casually, a Salvation Army advertisement faded onto the screen. It rolled from image to image, depicting people scavenging through piles of garbage to find a day’s meal. An emaciated little boy cried to his mother for food; she sat helplessly with nothing more to offer him than her empty hands. “These beggars should find jobs instead of demanding our sympathy! It’s their lack of ambition that put them there in the first place!”
I smoldered in my seat for a bit, frustrated by my uncle’s lack of understanding. After fumbling through my pockets for my keys, I left the house and, setting a brisk pace, made my way to the east side of Los Angeles. I roamed the streets for about an hour before I encountered the cozy shops and rickety street carts that peppered the Los Angeles sidewalks. The air had a sharp, metallic quality as if I had pennies in my mouth.
I saw him squatting on the side of the road, clad in faded black jeans and a worn orange t-shirt. He occasionally shook the paper cup in his hand, rattling the coins inside as if to alert the world of his presence. I had never met a beggar outside the walls of a volunteer center, and I was nervous to say the least. I approached him, slowly, and introduced myself. He eyed me warily, and agreed to the favor I asked of him only after significant persuasion. We began to walk back to the house and arrived shortly before dinnertime.
Through our conversation, I had come to know the man’s name was David. As David and I strode up the front porch, I suddenly realized what I was doing. Was bringing a beggar home too brash a way to make my uncle see what real poverty was?
I slowly opened the front door, only to find the house devoid of activity. “xxx Mama,” I yelled to my uncle. “Coming,” his voice echoed back. I requested David to have a seat on the couch. As my uncle bounced down the stairs, he grabbed for the banister midway and came to a premature halt. Glancing from me to David and back, he asked in a falsely polite tone, “XXX, who’s your friend?” I introduced my uncle to David, and after a pause, he cautiously sat down across from us.
David launched headlong into his life’s story, beginning with his childhood in LA. He never knew his father, and his mother was a prostitute, but he found a niche in the neighborhood gang. His account meandered from drug addictions to prison sentences, with the occasional effort to find a job. David related the difficulty of finding a job due mainly to his appearance; finally, rejection after rejection destroyed his hope of getting a job and he settled on begging in the streets.
After David had finished, I pointed to him and demanded from my uncle, “Now which part of that was his fault? What was his mistake?” My uncle didn’t answer. He pointed to the door and forcefully asked David to leave. Instead, I made a grab for David’s elbow and led him upstairs to my room. I handed him a couple of Dave Matthews Band t-shirts and a pair of shorts. I took the stairs three at a time on the way down and took an armful of food from the pantry. After stuffing cans of Campbell’s Soup and boxes of Chips-Ahoy! into a grocery bag, I emptied the twenty-five dollars I was carrying into David’s hands. He smiled.

By Aab123 (Aab123) on Friday, October 08, 2004 - 12:32 am: Edit

Eh, I'm indian too so I'm gonna be nice about it.

Not that good. It just seems too conversational and not really that deep.

By Vinny919 (Vinny919) on Friday, October 08, 2004 - 12:44 am: Edit

Yeah, a little too conversational, but thats easy to change. Just take out the actual quotes and kinda say something like "He asked my who my friend was" instead of "Rohan, who's your friend." Also, you might want to include some of your own emotions during all this. It'll make it more personal and not just some story. Although we can sort of see what kind of person you are through your actions, this isn't a 400 page novel, so you need to let us into your mind quickly. Overall though, I think it's a good idea and a good essay.

By Cleanfreak (Cleanfreak) on Saturday, October 09, 2004 - 06:37 am: Edit

the essay is not really about you...