Travel And Language

When I was very little, I caught the travel bug. It started after my grandparents first
brought me to their home in France and I have now been to twenty-nine different
countries. Each has given me a unique learning experience.

At five, I marveled at the Eiffel Tower in the City of Lights. When I was eight, I stood in
the heart of Piazza San Marco feeding hordes of pigeons, then glided down Venetian
waterways on sleek gondolas. At thirteen, I saw the ancient, megalithic structure of
Stonehenge and walked along the Great Wall of China, amazed that the thousand-year-
old stones were still in place.

It was through exploring cultures around the world that I first became interested in
language.

It began with French, which taught me the importance of pronunciation. I remember once
asking a store owner in Paris where Rue des Pyramides was. But when I pronounced it
PYR–a–mides instead of pyr–A–mides, with more accent on the A, she looked at me
bewildered.

In the eighth grade, I became fascinated with Spanish and aware of its similarities with
English through cognates. Baseball in Spanish, for example, is béisbol, which looks
different but sounds nearly the same. This was incredible to me as it made speech and
comprehension more fluid, and even today I find that cognates come to the rescue when
I forget how to say something in Spanish.

Then, in high school, I developed an enthusiasm for Chinese. As I studied Chinese at my

school, I marveled how if just one stroke was missing from a character, the meaning is
lost. . I loved how long words were formed by combining simpler characters, so Huǒ (火)
meaning fire and Shān (山) meaning mountain can be joined to create Huǒshān (火山),

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which means volcano. I love spending hours at a time practicing the characters and I can
feel the beauty and rhythm as I form them

Interestingly, after studying foreign languages, I was further intrigued by my native

tongue. Through my love of books and fascination with developing a sesquipedalian
lexicon (learning big words), I began to expand my English vocabulary. Studying the
definitions prompted me to inquire about their origins, and suddenly I wanted to know all
about etymology, the history of words. My freshman year I took a world history class and
my love for history grew exponentially. To me, history is like a great novel, and it is
especially fascinating because it took place in my own world.

But the best dimension that language brought to my life is interpersonal connection.
When I speak with people in their native language, I find I can connect with them on a
more intimate level. I’ve connected with people in the most unlikely places, finding a
Bulgarian painter to use my few Bulgarian words with in the streets of Paris, striking up a
conversation in Spanish with an Indian woman who used to work at the Argentinian
embassy in Mumbai, and surprising a library worker by asking her a question in her native
Mandarin.

I want to study foreign language and linguistics in college because, in short, it is

something that I know I will use and develop for the rest of my life. I will never stop
traveling, so attaining fluency in foreign languages will only benefit me. In the future, I
hope to use these skills as the foundation of my work, whether it is in international
business, foreign diplomacy, or translation.

I think of my journey as best expressed through a Chinese proverb that my teacher

taught me, “I am like a chicken eating at a mountain of rice.” Each grain is another word
for me to learn as I strive to satisfy my unquenchable thirst for knowledge.

Today, I still have the travel bug, and now, it seems, I am addicted to language too.

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 Dead Bird

Smeared blood, shredded feathers. Clearly, the bird was dead. But wait, the slight
fluctuation of its chest, the slow blinking of its shiny black eyes. No, it was alive.

I had been typing an English essay when I heard my cat's loud meows and the
flutter of wings. I had turned slightly at the noise and had found the barely breathing bird
in front of me.

The shock came first. Mind racing, heart beating faster, blood draining from my
face. I instinctively reached out my hand to hold it, like a long-lost keepsake from my
youth. But then I remembered that birds had life, flesh, blood.

Death. Dare I say it out loud? Here, in my own home?

Within seconds, my reflexes kicked in. Get over the shock. Gloves, napkins,
towels. Band-aid? How does one heal a bird? I rummaged through the house, keeping a
wary eye on my cat. Donning yellow rubber gloves, I tentatively picked up the bird. Never
mind the cat's hissing and protesting scratches, you need to save the bird. You need to
ease its pain.

But my mind was blank. I stroked the bird with a paper towel to clear away the
blood, see the wound. The wings were crumpled, the feet mangled. A large gash
extended close to its jugular rendering its breathing shallow, unsteady. The rising and
falling of its small breast slowed. Was the bird dying? No, please, not yet.

Why was this feeling so familiar, so tangible?

Oh. Yes. The long drive, the green hills, the white church, the funeral. The
Chinese mass, the resounding amens, the flower arrangements. Me, crying silently,
huddled in the corner. The Hsieh family huddled around the casket. Apologies.

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 So many apologies. Finally, the body lowered to rest.

The body. Kari Hsieh. Still familiar, still tangible.

Hugging Mrs. Hsieh, I was a ghost, a statue. My brain and my body competed.
Emotion wrestled with fact. Kari Hsieh, aged 17, my friend of four years, had died in the
Chatsworth Metrolink Crash on Sep. 12, 2008. Kari was dead, I thought. Dead.

But I could still save the bird.

My frantic actions heightened my senses, mobilized my spirit. Cupping the bird, I ran
outside, hoping the cool air outdoors would suture every wound, cause the bird to
miraculously fly away. Yet there lay the bird in my hands, still gasping, still dying. Bird,
human, human, bird. What was the difference? Both were the same. Mortal.

But couldn't I do something? Hold the bird longer, de-claw the cat? I wanted to go
to my bedroom, confine myself to tears, replay my memories, never come out.

The bird's warmth faded away. Its heartbeat slowed along with its breath. For a
long time, I stared thoughtlessly at it, so still in my hands.

Slowly, I dug a small hole in the black earth. As it disappeared under handfuls of
dirt, my own heart grew stronger, my own breath more steady.

The wind, the sky, the dampness of the soil on my hands whispered to me, “The
bird is dead. Kari has passed. But you are alive.” My breath, my heartbeat, my sweat
sighed back, “I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.”

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 Porcelain God

Bowing down to the porcelain god, I emptied the contents of my stomach. Foaming at
the mouth, I was ready to pass out. My body couldn’t stop shaking as I gasped for air,
and the room started spinning.

Ten minutes prior, I had been eating dinner with my family at a Chinese restaurant,
drinking chicken-feet soup. My mom had specifically asked the waitress if there were
peanuts in it, because when I was two we found out that I am deathly allergic to
them. When the waitress replied no, I went for it. Suddenly I started scratching my
neck, feeling the hives that had started to form. I rushed to the restroom to throw up
because my throat was itchy and I felt a weight on my chest. I was experiencing
anaphylactic shock, which prevented me from taking anything but shallow breaths. I
was fighting the one thing that is meant to protect me and keep me alive – my own
body.

At five years old, I couldn’t comprehend what had happened. All I knew was that I felt
sick, and I was waiting for my mom to give me something to make it better. I thought
my parents were superheroes; surely they would be able to make well again.

But I became scared when I heard the fear in their voices as they rushed me to the
ER.

After that incident, I began to fear. I became scared of death, eating, and even my
own body. As I grew older, I became paranoid about checking food labels and I
avoided eating if I didn’t know what was in the food.

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I knew what could happen if I ate one wrong thing, and I wasn’t willing to risk it for a
snack. Ultimately, that fear turned into resentment; I resented my body for making me
an outsider.

In the years that followed, this experience and my regular visits to my allergy specialist
inspired me to become an allergy specialist. Even though I was probably only ten at
the time, I wanted to find a way to help kids like me. I wanted to find a solution so
that nobody would have to feel the way I did; nobody deserved to feel that pain, fear,
and resentment. As I learned more about the medical world, I became more fascinated
with the body’s immune responses, specifically, how a body reacts to allergens. This
past summer, I took a month-long course on human immunology at Stanford
University.

I learned about the different mechanisms and cells that our bodies use in order to fight
off pathogens. My desire to major in biology in college has been stimulated by my
fascination with the human body, its processes, and the desire to find a way to help
people with allergies. I hope that one day I can find a way to stop allergic reactions or
at least lessen the symptoms, so that children and adults don’t have to feel the same
fear and bitterness that I felt

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 East Meets West

Everyone belongs to many different communities and/or groups defined by (among

other things) shared geography, religion, ethnicity, income, cuisine, interest, race,
ideology, or intellectual heritage. Choose one of the communities to which you belong,
and describe that community and your place within it.

Here's the essay:

I look around my room, dimly lit by an orange light. On a desk in the left corner, a
framed picture of an Asian family is beaming their smiles, buried among US history
textbooks and The Great Gatsby. A Korean ballad streams from a pair of tiny computer
speakers. Pamphlets of American colleges are scattered about on the floor. A cold
December wind wafts a strange infusion of ramen and leftover pizza. On the wall in
the far back, a Korean flag hangs besides a Led Zeppelin poster.

Do I consider myself Korean or American?

A few years back, I would have replied: “Neither.” The frustrating moments of
miscommunication, the stifling homesickness, and the impossible dilemma of deciding
between the Korean or American table in the dining hall, all fueled my identity crisis.

Standing in the “Foreign Passports” section at JFK, I have always felt out of place.
Sure, I held a Korean passport in my hands, and I loved kimchi and Yuna Kim and
knew the Korean Anthem by heart.

But I also loved macaroni and cheese and LeBron and knew all the Red Hot Chili
Peppers songs by heart. Deep inside, I feared that I would simply be labeled as what I
am categorized at airport customs: a foreigner in all places.

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This ambiguity of existence, however, has granted me the opportunity to absorb the
best of both worlds. Take a look at my dorm room. This mélange of cultures in my
East-meets-West room embodies the diversity that characterizes my international
student life.

I have learned to accept my “ambiguity” as “diversity,” as a third-culture student

embracing both identities in this diverse community that I am blessed to be a part of.

Do I consider myself Korean or American?

Now, I can proudly answer: “Both.”

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 Yearbook

“Okay everyone, we have 9 more hours before deadline, let’s make this happen!”

The room erupts. The Student Life editor is in agony because his Siblings page needs
two reshoots, and he has one shot at getting good pictures.

“Make it work!” someone from Arts shouts, as she helps pull out umbrella strobes and
reflectors for the Play Production shoot. Further down the line of computers, a Tech
Arts guy is working with a girl from Academics on proofing the cover graphics, while a
mixed group heads out to interview students for the people pages.

This is what it takes to win Best High School Yearbook at both the state and national
levels.

I remember in ninth grade thinking how cool it’d be to be on yearbook. Yearbook kids
knew which classes everyone was in, they knew which kids were into what
extracurricular, and perhaps most importantly, they knew everyone at school. From
freshmen to seniors to faculty, yearbook gave them a connection to everyone.
Yearbook kids radiated serene confidence in themselves and their work. At my school,
that’s how it is: yearbook is a mini-company of 20.

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