Box of Crumbs Essay PDF

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*Just as a side note, you cannot type Korean or other languages when you submit your essay. I had to change “내 이모” to “My aunt” and “사랑해” to Saranghae. Essay I (Biographical Essay) (800 words) We are interested in learning more about you and the context in which you have grown up, formed your aspirations, and accomplished your academic successes. Please describe the factors and challenges that have most shaped your personal life and aspirations. How have these factors helped you to grow?

The Box of Crumbs In a rectangular box, I kept my precious earnings. Countless hours of hard work and dedication, stashed away in nothing more than a metal container, with only the static friction of cheap aluminum holding it closed. In this precious box, I collected eraser crumbs. Hundreds of eraser crumbs, the precipitate of hours spent on homework and doodles. With these crumbs I would make my own clay, mashing them into an unsanitary mixture of sweat, eraser, and the occasional hair strand. I rolled these crumbs into balls, flattened them into pancakes, coiled them into snakes. I had an infinite supply of my personal clay that I could use to make whatever I pleased. Mi Vida en Los Angeles Los Angeles. The City of Angels, home of the Dodgers, melting pot of cultures. The city where I was born and raised, where I developed my identity encompassed by cultural diversity and financial adversity. The city where I came face to face with the hardships of life, experienced by both me and those around me.

There was no makeup to cover the problems on the face of LA; from a young age, I came face-to-face with the harsh reality of life. Yet in the ugly face of adversity, I found beauty. From the elderly homeless man who reeked of marijuana that I played tennis with, to my friend’s single mother who worked minimum wage to support her kids; from my passionate North Korean math teacher, to the friend I taught multiplication to after school while we waited for our parents. Every experience left a shaving, a crumb, a memory in my mind that I could mold and build into my character. With every stroke of my racket I learned from the elderly man not to prejudice others by appearance. With every visit to my friend’s apartment I witnessed the power of love in the form of an overworked mother. With every lecture I gave and received I learned what practice and dedication could accomplish. I crafted the foundation of my character using the experiences from my life in LA. The Old Man At home I confronted the remnants of my dad’s difficult childhood, a childhood as an orphan, as an alien in the United States after being adopted by a caucasian family of 6; the remnants of his childhood which emerged in his fits of frustration as an adult and as my father. From the time I was three, I faced the onslaught of his emotional and physical abuse which only worsened as I grew older. I learned to fear the sharp sting of his back-scratcher, which eventually snapped in half; his white-knuckled fist, taut with anger and uncontrolled emotions; the blunt force of his metal pole that slammed into my backside. He spat words of hatred that made him almost unrecognizable in his monstrous rage. With my battered emotions and years of grudge, I continued to add to my pile of crumbs. Every blow only added to the clay, forming a viscous paste with which I used to build upon myself and heal my wounds. I learned resilience, learning to get up when I fell and ignoring the dark thoughts in my head. I learned to be a protector, intervening when I witnessed my

sister in the same position I was in. But I also learned forgiveness, letting go of bitter memories and holding onto the endearing moments I could treasure. 내 이모 (My aunt) It was 2:00 AM. I was, as demanded by my workload, awake. My mother called; she was at the hospital with her sister. My aunt. But she was more than just my aunt. She was my second mother, who bathed me in the kitchen sink and picked me up from school. She was a woman of struggle, who lost her savings after moving to America, who developed breast cancer 5 years ago and was now grasping for life while the tumors in her brain ate away at her existence. She was lucid that day. She called to tell me that she loved me. I knew that would be the last time I heard her voice. “사랑해.” I love you. From my aunt, I collected the memory of her life, her optimism and relentless faith in God. I collected her years of turmoil, years of agony and suffering, years of never giving up. She would live forever in our memories. From my aunt, I learned about life. I learned to cherish every moment, to laugh, to cry, to live in the present because there might not be a tomorrow to say I love you. We are insignificant crumbs, worthless until we leave a part of ourselves in someone else’s box; it is only together that we can grow and craft something beautiful, something filled with meaning.

The Box of Crumbs (650 Word Shortened Version) In a rectangular box, I kept my precious earnings. Countless hours of hard work and dedication, stashed away in nothing more than a metal container. In this precious box, I collected eraser crumbs. Hundreds of eraser crumbs, the precipitate of hours spent on homework and doodles. And with these crumbs I would make my own clay, mashing them into an unsanitary mixture of sweat, eraser shavings, and the occasional hair strand. I rolled these crumbs into balls, flattened them into

pancakes, coiled them into snakes. I had an infinite supply of my personal clay that I could use to mold into whatever I pleased. Mi Vida en Los Angeles I grew up in LA. The City of Angels, home of the Dodgers, melting pot of cultures. The city where I was born and raised, where I built my character and identity encompassed by cultural diversity and financial adversity, where I came face to face with the hardships of life, experienced by both me and those around me. There was no makeup to cover up the problems on the face of LA; from a young age, I came face-to-face with the harsh reality of life. Yet in the face of adversity, I found beauty. From the elderly homeless man who reeked of marijuana that I played tennis with, to my friend’s mom who worked minimum wage as a single mother with two kids; from my passionate North Korean math teacher, to my friend I taught multiplication to afterschool while we waited for our parents. Every experience I had left a shaving, a crumb, a memory in my mind that I could mold and build into my character. With every whack, every stroke of my racket I learned from the elderly man not to prejudice others based on physical characteristics. With every visit to my friend’s apartment I witnessed the power of love in the form of an overly exhausted mother. With every lecture I received and gave I learned what practice and dedication could accomplish. The Old Man At home I confronted the remnants of my father’s difficult childhood, his childhood as an orphan, as an alien in the United States. The remnants which emerged in his fits of frustration as an adult and as my parent. I faced his onslaught of emotional and physical abuse, scarred by the blunt force of a metal pole and the words of hatred that made him almost unrecognizable in his monstrous rage. Gathering the battered emotions and years of grudge, I healed my wounds with the thick paste of my undesired memories and continued to build my character with the eraser

crumbs of my past. I learned resilience, making myself stronger each time I crumbled. I learned forgiveness, letting go of bitter memories and holding on to the endearing ones. 내 이모 It was late at night, a familiar setting reinforced by the relentless workload of my schedule. My mother called; she was at the hospital with her sister. My aunt. My second mother who bathed me in the kitchen sink. My aunt who lost her savings after moving to America, who developed breast cancer 5 years ago and was now grasping for life while the tumor in her brain ate away at her existence. She was lucid for that day, and called to tell me that she loved me. In the depths of my mind, I knew that would be the last time I heard her voice. I replied: “I love you” I collected the memory of her endless supply of life, her optimism and relentless faith in God. I collected the years of turmoil, the years of agony and suffering, the years of never giving up. In the end, she was victorious. She was the one who never stopped living. She was the one who would live forever in our memories. From my aunt, I learned about life. I learned to cherish every moment, to laugh, to cry, to live in the present because we are nothing without the impact we have on others. Individually we are specks of dust, nothing more than an insignificant crumb; it is only together that we can grow and craft something beautiful, something filled with meaning.

The text appears to be a poster used by the American Civil Liberty Union during their campaigns to spread awareness on racial stigmatization among Americans. It is named “The Man on the Left” and takes the structure of a wanted poster; the color scheme, font and layout are features that add to it.

Text 1 is an advertisement or poster from an awareness campaign by the American Civil Liberties Union. It borrows visual structures from a wanted poster, such as font, colour and layout, to make its readers more aware of the problems of racial profiling in America. The layout of this advertisement is essential in constructing meaning and making its audience aware of the problem of racial profiling. The “man on the left” is Dr. Martin Luther King. Even though he is a good man, who has fought peacefully for civil rights, he is “75 times more likely to be stopped by the police while driving” than the white, serial killer, Charles Manson, on the right, only because King is black. The reader senses that this is not fair. The two black and white headshots, the weathered edges of the poster and the nails, make the poster look like something from a Wild West scene, such as a ‘wanted’ poster. To suggest that Martin Luther King is a criminal is a false accusation, and this is what shocks the readers. In effect the layout makes readers think more about the injustice of the police stopping black and Hispanic people without reason. Secondly, the poster uses the same fonts and font sizes as a wanted poster, which makes readers intrigued by its message. The heading, which includes a statistic, captures the reader’s attention in the same way that a sensational heading of a wanted poster would. It uses a serif font that is similar to those of the Wild West days, which makes the reader think that the men in the pictures are criminals who are wanted ‘dead or alive’. The black lines above and below the heading add gravitas to its meaning and reinforce the ‘wanted poster’ analogy. The very small font under the photographs suggests that the copy of this advertisement will be detailed. The problem of racial profiling in the

context of Florida is explained here in detail: “Police stop people based on their skin color, rather than for the way they are driving.” It is shocking to learn that 80% of people pulled over are black or Hispanic, even though they constitute only 5% of all drivers. There is a call to action, in this text with the fine print, which recommends that readers send a fax to their Member of Congress. This call to action reminds readers of their responsibility as citizens in a democracy to stand up to the injustices of racial profiling. The fonts and fonts sizes are effective in capturing readers' attention, making them aware of racial profiling and encouraging them to make a difference. The use of colour contributes further to the text’s purpose of making readers think about racism as a problem. The various shades of brown and the curled up corners make the poster appear as if it has been weathered and bleached by the sun. It suggests that the criminals in the poster have been at large for a long time. In effect it suggests that racial profiling has remained an unsolved problem in America for a very long time. The black and white headshots imitate those of a wanted poster as well, as these posters are cheaply made for mass production. This suggests that racial profiling is a widespread problem and crime. Ironically the text uses a text type commonly created by the police in order to be critical of the police. The colours of this wanted poster trigger a response from the reader that makes them think about justice and their rights. All in all Text 1 borrows the visual structures of a wanted poster in an effort to make readers more aware of the problems of racial profiling. By alluding to Martin Luther King and Charles Manson, readers question why black people should be falsely accused of crimes. The use of fonts, color and lay out are used effectively by the ACLU to spread awareness about racial profiling and remind them of their rights as American citizens....