Dinner at My House Is a Sight to Behold. the Culture Clash That I Have Only Recently Come

Rough Draft #1

Dinner at my house is a sight to behold. The culture clash that I have only recently come to be aware of is made especially apparent during this daily occurrence. On one side of the table, my father struts his New Jersey Irish upbringing by accompanying his meal of pasta with a large heaping of Motts applesauce. On the other end sits my Mexican mother, eating her pasta with the spiciest hot sauce that she can find at the local grocery store. My mother, the pediatrician, vents her hatred toward the insurance companies that prevent doctors from practicing good medicine, while my father discusses the impediments that doctors create when it comes to creating the medical insurance packages that he sells to hospitals. And, when it comes to politics, my mom’s liberal ideology balances my father’s left leaning conservatism. It is no wonder that debate has played such a large part in my life. 154

“No regrets.” This is my Model UN mantra. And, after three days of sapping competition, I have none. My three years of research, preparation, and practice have earned me the opportunity to travel and debate as a member of my school’s prestigious debate team. And, although I have participated in many conferences throughout high school, something about this particular debate is different. After nearly a week of touring New England before the conference, my mind is crowded with Bostonian images of the marriage between the ancient and modern. My California eyes are still shocked by the fiery disguise that has exploded upon the omnipresent trees. Now, sitting in an old, wooden building in Brown University, surrounded by portraits of deans and the bodies of excited youths, I feel content. Among a small group of friends, I feed off the crowd’s nervous energy and bask in the mutual support that we share, even in times of competition. Still wearing the credential that reads, “South Africa,” I feel in my hands the piece of carved wood that symbolizes my effort, my research, and the confidence that I have gained. The intellectual competition that I have been forced to practice ever since I shattered the heels of both my feet playing soccer has paid off. Yet, the physical award means nothing in comparison to the experience of the past three days. My years in Model United Nations have provided me with an unmatched opportunity for growth. The shyness that I possessed at the beginning of high school has been replaced by a quiet aplomb that allows me to embrace new people and situations. And the nerves that used to drown my personality have left along with the shaking that accompanied my first speeches. I have traveled, I have grown, I have improved, and I have no regrets.

304 Rough Draft #2

The room around me is large and familiar. The bookish mustiness is just strong enough to overcome the tangible energy that presides wherever groups of middle school aged teenagers abound. I feel a bit too tranquil to be sitting amidst the chaos that overcomes, even a library’s, order. Even though I have not belonged to this school for several years, I easily recall the insecurity that sends some children into disruptive cliques and others into solitary corners. And I remember the day that changed my outlook on it all. It was after another day of fourth grade that my mom came, as usual, to pick me up from school. She looked healthier than she had in days, and possessed in her eye that perceptible spark that endeared her to everyone she met. I began to recall how I had spent my day explaining assignments to my autistic seat partner, showing the foreign exchange student around campus, walking a friend to the nurse’s office after she scraped her leg, and enduring the frustration of leading a group project in science. When we arrived at home, my mom prepared me an extra large snack, while she listened to my sister’s stories of kindergarten. As she turned her back to load the dishwasher, she noticed my sister demanding a glass of water from me. And she watched as I obediently abandoned my food in order to comply. Later that afternoon, when she had me alone, my mother told me something that allowed me to drop my heavy load and sprout wings. “Mi’ija, it is not your responsibility to save everyone.” Remembering this, I realize the exact moment when my life changed. I look up to see the young girl that I mentor approaching me, head down, back hunched over under the weight of countless books and folders. I pull a chair out next to me as she nears my table, and I smile as she sets down her load. As her shy blue eyes glance up to greet me, I see that she has found a safe haven amidst the clamor of school, of adolescence. For an hour, I watch her inhibitions fall away slowly, methodically, until her laughter shatters the forced mumble of the library. And I realize that, while I may not have the save the world, I can lead people out of harm. 393

Rough Draft #3

Immediately following birth, circumstances appear stagnant. Life is filled with strangers and acquaintances, the familiar and the new. Yet, changes are rapidly occurring, bombarding new lives with a sense of normalcy that consists only of utter chaos. My childhood was happy. I was formed during a time of utter familial upheaval. Tragedy was normal. I was content.

“Hi, m’ija!” I hear my mom’s voice yelling, weakly, as my short, legging clad legs attempt to take two stairs at a time. I bound toward the guest room, expecting to see my normally busy mother making a bed or folding laundry, and ready to give her a kiss hello. But, I am stopped. The wooden chair from the desk has been placed at the door, simultaneously blocking my entrance, and providing me a place to sit, ten feet short of my goal. My mother is near, yet unobtainable. My disappointment is crushing. After almost an entire life of visiting my mother in the hospital, and quietly playing by her side while she recuperated in bed, it is still hard for me to bear the cruel fact that this vibrant woman is sick. I sit at the door, attempting to hide my disappointment from the one person who is never fooled by my well-practiced façade. My mom attempts to mask her fatigue by asking energetic questions about my friends, my day at school. But I am the one person who can always tell when she is faking. Memories rush back, and I am afraid again. My pain stabs her body twice as hard as any chemotherapy ever could. But, I know what to do. I sit, telling her about my day, and adding color to my stories in order to provide entertainment and extend the visit. My eyes sparkle as I speak, but my mind continuously replays one fact: she is in remission. I only have to stay away from my mother until her tests have been completed, and the radiation that detects her cancer is gone from her body. Only a number of days, hours, remain. But, for the moment, my mom’s own body is dangerous to me. I pray for a permanent end to her bouts with chemotherapy, and to my daily trips to the hospital. After a number of minutes, this scenario begins to feel normal again. My fears loosen as I realize that my mother is near. I walk downstairs toward the kitchen for my after school snack, and I once again fall into my role. Without thinking, I put my sister’s booster seat into the chair with arms, set out two placemats, two napkins, two glasses of lemonade, and a box of Goldfish. I call my sister, who allows me to help her into her booster seat. We talk easily, like old friends, even though she is three years younger than me, and only in preschool. When she finishes her drink, I pour her more, and when she is no longer hungry, I wipe her hands and mouth and clean up the trail of crackers that cascades from the table to the floor under her seat. I pour my mom a glass of pink Crystal Light, and walk it upstairs, leaving it at the door for her to retrieve when I am a safe distance away. My sister sets up her Barbie dolls on the floor of my room, and I settle down at my new desk in order to do the worksheets that have been assigned for homework.

Perhaps spiritual strength is genetic. My grandfather worked as a migrant worker during the depression, illegally joined the army at the age of fifteen, fought in two wars, and raised three children. Most importantly, he escaped. He managed to leave a broken family in search of opportunities, and, in doing so, he began a lifetime of breaking stereotypes. It was because of this that my mother managed to be the first person in her family to leave the barrio and go to college. My mother fought her way out of poverty and into the professional world. She married a man of a different culture, survived cancer, and raised two children. And then there’s me. My mother calls me an “old soul.” But, I believe that my soul is the young, vibrant, alive, continuation of two beautiful souls that came together and grew. I was forced to nurture a hurt, and save a family. This has shaped me, made me strong, confident, happy, independent, and aware of what is truly important. I was once called a “quiet leader” by a man who did the same. I have a family to prove it. 772