- Think about what questions you have when you hear the words "college application."
- Prepare to discuss.
- Better understand the common Application.
- Begin to understand the common application essay.
- http://www.wimp.com/myvoice/
- Based on yesterday's video, your essay/draft # 1 is due on Thursday. Remember, this can be handwritten or typed. This does not get posted on our blog.
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Taking the Stairs, Two at a Time
By:
Sana Suhail
When my grandmother
died, no one was there to hear her last words. But I am pretty sure she called
out my name once or twice. My grandmother came to live with us five years ago.
I remember sitting on the beaten-down couch of our apartment, struggling with
my English homework, when my aunt called from back home. “Brother,” she cried
desperately to Father, “Mother is in a critical stage, I have no money for her
treatment, please take care of her. I beg of you.” My father got off the phone,
crossed to the small tin box we kept in the kitchen, took out our savings, and
started counting them. My mother argued with him about how long we had
struggled to make our ends meet and how we would never be able to buy a car if
he just kept wasting their hard earned money. But two months later, my father
and I were on our way to LaGuardia to pick up my grandmother and welcome her to
the Land of Opportunity.
The first day she was
here, we sat her down on my bed, propping her small, fragile body upright with
pillows. My father left for work earlier than usual that day, but I knew deep
inside that he was saddened to see Grandmother so weak. My mother and I spent
that day buying her medicine and making her soup. She was hesitant to speak,
because of her hacking cough and persistent wheezing. But when she did, it
would be the same few lines: “Where am I?” and “Take me back.” Eventually, my
mother retuned back to her job and I returned back to middle school. I despised
every day I had to go that wretched school. The teachers snickered under their
breaths when I couldn’t understand what they asked, my classmates threw wet paper
balls at my back, and bully me because I only had three shirts and two pairs of
pants. When I got home, I cleaned out my grandmother’s bed pan, poured her
fresh juice, opened the window to the foggy New York air, and sat by her
bedside, holding her calloused, yet delicate hands in mine, tracing the maze of
blue and green veins branching under her translucent skin.
One day, while sitting
with her, I got so frustrated with the big English words in my literature book
that I screamed and slammed it on the floor. My grandmother, who had just
drifted into sleep, awoke, startled by the noise. Immediately, I regretted
doing so. She laughed quietly and beckoned for me to sit next to her on the bed
and began telling me a story. It was about a little boy who did terribly in
school and would come home every day, crying to his mother, telling her his
dreams would never come true. But his mother never gave up on him and encouraged
him to keep trying, and eventually that boy grew to be a very successful man.
“That man your father,” she finished, her eyes glistening with nostalgic tears.
“Never give up, my young Aaliya, the path to success never was straight.” So, I
picked the book up off the floor, lay it on my lap, and began reading out loud
to my grandmother, who listened intently. She liked how the words sounded
coming out of my mouth. The cadence, the rhythm, the beat of syllables was
synonymous with the faint beating of her heart, though both of us were
oblivious to the meaning of the text.
From that day on, there
was nothing I looked forward to more than coming home from school and listening
to my grandmother’s stories. At one point she had told so many, I began writing
them down, word for word, in case I ever forgot. For those brief two hours
after school, before my parents got home from work, our otherwise hollow
apartment filled up with the creativity of my grandmother’s tales, as my pen
skated along the sheets of my notebook. It was our little sanctuary, void of
the troubles and worries of the world.
When I began high
school, my grandmother’s health took a turn for the worst. Almost every day,
she was rushed to the emergency room and the doctors prescribed her one
expensive drug after the other. Soon, our savings ran so low that some nights
we slept without eating supper. I could understand my parents’ frustration; sleeping
on an empty stomach was not what they had had in mind when they had come to
America: what happened to the streets paved in gold? But what I perhaps missed
the most were the stories my grandmother told. Now, when I came home, she was
usually sleeping or too ill to speak. Without her reassuring words, her tales
of inspiration, I felt more vulnerable to my classmates’ taunts and high school
became a nightmare.
There were some days
when she was able to speak and for those days she asked me to take the stairs,
two at a time, so we wouldn’t waste a minute. “I don’t have much time,” she
whispered. Her every breath became valuable; my trembling hands, barely
gripping the pen, mimicked hers, as I feverishly wrote down everything she said.
My father began coming home less and
less, my mother barely came out of her bedroom; it was as my grandmother and I
were the sole inhabitants of the apartment. I still came home and poured out my
worries, my frustration, my confusion to her, and she listened intently, although
she didn’t understand American customs.
The last time I spoke
to my grandmother was in the spring of senior year. I came home with an
acceptance letter to Yale University clutched tightly in my hands. I had tried
not crease the envelope nor the letter too much. I had read and reread it so
many times, but I was still in disbelief. A girl like me, who still didn’t
understand idioms and colloquilisms, who had a dying grandmother, whose family
didn’t even own a car despite having lived almost a decade in America, was here
holding an acceptance letter to an Ivy League school with a full scholarship. I
remember taking the stairs two at a time, rushing into my grandmother’s bedroom
and telling her. She just sat there, unblinking. My smile disappeared.
“Grandmother, are you alright? Did you take your medicine?” I asked.
“Yes, Aaliya, I am
fine, but this letter means you will have to go far from me soon. Who will take
care of me then? Who will listen to my foolish stories?” tears streamed down her
face. I realized I was seeing my grandmother cry for the first time. She
outstretched her arm and I collapsed on to the bed, the acceptance letter
drifted to the floor, forgotten.
“Grandmother, as long as you’re here, I will never leave you,” I promised.
“No, Aaliya, it is time for you to begin your future, realize your dream. You
earned it. My blessings are always with you,” she replied.
That evening, both my
parents returned from work in a jovial mood. My mother had gotten a raise from
the factory bought a decent dinner for the first time in months. As we sat down
to eat, I remembered my acceptance letter and went to my grandmother’s room to
retrieve it, it was still on the floor next to her bed. I picked it up and
glanced at Grandmother’s face, it seemed to glow with a tranquility I envied.
My parents were elated to hear about my acceptance and together we prayed for
my success and Grandmother’s health. For once, everything seemed perfect.
The next day I left
early from school. My grandmother’s sorrowful words of me leaving still echoed
in my head. I took the stairs two at a time to our apartment, went into my
grandmother’s room and found her in the same position as I had seen her last
night, except now she was not breathing. I shook her a few times, lifting one
limp arm, then the other, discovering my notebook of stories wedged under her
arm. I opened it to the last piece of advice my grandmother had given me:
“Denial is the greatest obstacle to success. Accept your fate and move on.”
Of course there is a
void where my grandmother once used to be. Her stories, her values, her life
lessons were the foundation of my character. But the most I can do for her now
is continue to defy the odds, continue to succeed, continue to leave my own
legacy. One day I want someone to listen to my stories, write them down, implement
them. Every now and then as I walk down the narrow streets of New York, I hear her
words of wisdom echoing off the buildings, suspended among the skyscrapers. And
I always take the stairs, two at a time, just so I don’t miss anything.
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