Not Just Another Number

One of the required essays on the QuestBridge College Match application was the biography essay. Students are given a chance to tell their personal story and to explain the factors and challenges that have most shaped their personal lives and aspirations. What a beautiful opportunity to get to know someone! The QB application allows each student to stand out individually, whereas, regular college applications have little room for personal expressions.

In 2008, Rachel and I went on a college campus tour after her application was accepted, and we interviewed with a college admissions officer. He was friendly and told us that he cried when he read my daughter’s essay. Rachel has agreed to let me share her biography essay with you.

My daughter Rachel

My eyes shifted to the left, then right. I looked up expectantly at the smiling man, his thick head of hair grayed more from wisdom then age. Silently, he put a finger to his lips and I nodded firmly in response. The quiet exchange of sweets passed from grandfather to granddaughter took place unbeknownst to the naïve mother. She didn’t need to know that her chuckling father watched on as I eagerly devoured five cookies, one after the other. My grandfather always gave me five cookies when my mother spent an eternity in the bathroom curling hair, darkening eyelashes, and painting lips red. Always five; never three, or just one. Ironic, since my grandmother, bringing all the dusty and seemingly ridiculous superstitions with her from China, believed that the number five brought ill fortune. The meticulous woman even went out of her way to ensure that the top of the Christmas tree bore six branches, never five.

I have never thought that I was born into an unlucky life, though certain circumstances would lead many to believe that fate sometimes frowns upon my existence. My parents divorced when I was three, my grandparents died when I had not even turned nine, and I have not seen my biological father since the age of eight. It may sound as if pain fills the crevices of my early life and that sorrow tears away the innocent world where childhood is supposed to exist. I will admit that looking back, I have faced much grief and still do today. However, I would never trade my upbringing with someone else. Too many wonderful memories and wonderful people reside in my past to yearn to erase the heartache that also exists there.

After the separation, my mother made the hardest decision of her life: she decided to return home and live with her parents, facing failure and shame as she walked through her second divorce. No longer did I see my father every day, instead spending time with my grandparents while my mom worked two jobs in defiance of charity. Unconsciously, I began to learn about my Chinese background as I listened and understood my grandmother’s Cantonese infused English, inhabited a house where Buddha and mythical goddesses adorned every tabletop, and filled my growling stomach with white rice every night.

During that time, I only saw the joy in every moment, as every child comprehends the thrill of simple things more than any adult will. Such things included trips to the supermarket with my grandparents every day. Yes, I did indeed go grocery shopping with two elderly people on a daily basis. Now, most children hate shopping because they’d rather be playing at home and in all reality looking at fruits and vegetables does not keep a child’s mind occupied. I do not remember loathing these bland excursions, however, instead looking forward to riding the mechanical penny horse after checking out. Nonetheless, I soon learned that such basic delights also carry ill fortuned charms.

On one such trip to the grocery store, my grandmother, pushing her cart in the parking lot, fell and did not get up. The wailing of the ambulance and the bright lights that assaulted my eyes horrified my five year old self. I remember how the salty tears would not stop falling and how I inhaled erratically with each breath. The one thing I recall most, however, was not the trauma of the situation, but instead the kindness that I received. A little black girl, who observed the whole scene, gazed at me as her eyes brimmed with sadness and understanding. “Here,” she whispered, offering me her juice box. I shook my head to say that I didn’t want it, and she nodded back. “It’s okay,” she said, and even though I couldn’t stop sobbing I believed her.

My grandmother’s fall and other distressing incidents that occurred can be called ill-fated, but from that day on, I had faith that everything will fall into place correctly. I hold fast to this conviction. I have grown and learned that material possessions, perfect family dynamics, and veiling the evils in this world cannot sugarcoat life. I don’t know why my biological father abused alcohol and drugs, why my grandmother chose to end her life, or why my family has to face foreclosure on our home. However, I now understand that everyone endures trials and hardships, but that doesn’t mean fortune favors some and spites others. I don’t believe in lucky numbers like my grandmother did. I make my own luck and I know that one day the silver lining will eclipse any dark clouds hovering from my past.