Next Generation Scholars

Among the fresh-cut, rolling hills and parking lots filled with BMWs, I wrongfully tried to keep my newly assigned identity hidden. With my mouth sealed, I transitioned from Target hoodies to Polo shirts. I never spoke of my time spent living in a single room with my whole family or the childhood humiliation of the subsidized lunch line. . .more of Jin's essay.

Every Saturday, since I was little, I get up early to clean the house. My mom, being the house cleaner she is, has had years of experience. Under her professional eye, my work is never finished; she sees dust and dirt where no one else would notice. . .more of Juan's essay.

My father sleeps in the extra bedroom, where he is treated as an unwanted guest. There in the seclusion of his tiny room, his heart has faded. His hope is gone. His inability to contribute financially has led my mother to give him the cruel name of “in the way.”

Growing up with a father who is clinically depressed and a mother consumed by disappointment, I have struggled to search out my own happiness and find my own path. . . more of Alex's essay.

“Bismi Allahi alrrahmani alrraheemi.” The Suras always soothe, center, and connect me to Allah, allowing me to sleep peacefully. On the morning of September 11th, I woke and watched the World Trade Center fall to rubble. That morning I felt like the rest of the world, helpless and terrified. . . more of Joe's essay.

In my sanctuary, I was immune to the screams of my mother and father.

Then, one night, everything changed. As I sat under the table, my mother

fell into view bleeding from the back of her head. My father stood above her.

Later, he would stand in this same way as he told the doctor she had slipped

accidentally. As I watched my mother suffer, I knew the magic of the table

was gone. . . more of Javi's essay.

“Choo-choo…chugga-chugga…choo-choo!”Muffled toddler train imitations float down from above. As I climb the stairs it seems the train is gaining speed. “CHOO-CHOO”. . . more of Joseph's essay.

“How many of you have ever done theatre?”

There was a deafening silence.

“I’ve done a little.”

This statement that changed everything was almost inaudible. . . more of Cat's essay

"Immigration came to take my Daddy away!" Giselle's whisper rips my attention away from the old, dirty crayons on the table. At that moment, my view of the Bahia Vista after school SNAP program changed forever.My mind was no longer focused on teaching Giselle 7+9. I struggled to explain why our people were being hunted. . . more of Melissa's essay.

"I can’t eat pepperoni.”

Instantly the “you-don’t-know-what-your-missing” look spreads around the pizza parlor. Jews like me have grown accustomed to this reaction from goyum, gentiles. They are rendered speechless when confronted with foods blacklisted by Go. . .more of Jason's essay.

“Nuh moh thah suh, puk ka wut tho ah luh hut thoh.”

Everything is silent. The room drops to its knees. I am four years old, the only one left standing. The monks’ chanting fills the air. This chant inspires every part of my Thai American experience. . . more of Neil's essay.

Before I submit this application, I must be honest: I’m an addict. Don’t red flag my

file; I have no criminal record and my friends won’t be staging a tearful intervention.

I am addicted to photography. . . more of Rin's essay.

Three homicides in a half hour. I’m in the “The Bloody Six.” I see the abandoned child

care center we will temporarily call home, battered down houses, a person walking by

with a shopping cart filled with his life possessions, and signs around the whole block

that read “Thou Shalt Not Kill”. . . more of Aaron's essay.

The sad thing was the reality was not as sweet as everyone had imagined. From our tiny

apartment, I struggled to understand why I had failed. I had worked hard, made all the right

choices, but the lack of a nine-digit number. . . more of Emiliano's essay.

“Sandy, come home…right now.”

There was a shaky tone in my mother’s voice I had never heard before. I remember the walk

home, the leaves on the trees didn’t blow the same way they always did. They swayed in an

uncomfortable and meaningless way. . . more of Sandy's essay.

I look out the window before the sun has awakened from its sleep. It’s dead

silent outside. For as far as I can see, nothing is moving except two dark figures

below me, waving and blowing kisses. These figures are my parents. . . more of

Juan's essay.

Our little house is filled with blended memories of me bringing home A’s on my

history papers along with days where grandpoo was in the hospital fighting cancer.

While my father spent the majority of my childhood in prison at San Quentin,

my mother, little granny, big granny and grandpoo raised me with love and

discipline, which has taught me to be a respectable young man. . . more of

Wesley's essay.

I lick my lips and squint my eyes so that all I can concentrate on is keeping my shaky

five year old hand steady. I lean back and admire the fruit of my arduous labor, a

piece of graph paper filled with rows and rows of horizontal lines, vertical lines, and

circles. . . more of Edgar's essay.

Since the moment Bubba was born, I have sat with him for hours at a time, in my

arms, wondering what kind of man he will become. As we sit together, I tell myself

he is going to be something far more than the confines of our society’s expectations;

he will rise above the limited opportunities afforded African American men. . . more of

Janeene's essay.

At the age of eleven, I hid in the closet with my older brother. This wasn’t a

childhood game of hide and seek. My older brother and I were concealing a

secret. Everyday, we tried to become comfortable with the security of the dark,

but the fuse of our secret was running short. . . more of Vinney's essay.

The smell of poori frying while my grandmother tells me stories is the foundation of my

childhood. With a sharp eye over a pot of curry, and a quick hand to shoo flies, my

Daddi would tell me tales of the Krishna’s mischievous ways. . . more of

Nikita's essay.

While Miley Cyrus will never portray a “parachute kid” on the Disney channel,

we live in communities across the country. We are a growing subculture of

young immigrants dropped in America by our families. We sacrifice our

familiar surroundings for a future not possible in our home countries. . .

more of Melissa's essay.

“Your face is Chinese, but you don’t speak Chinese and you live in America . . . How

are you Chinese?”

The question was posed to me by an old Chinese woman, deep in the heart of China.

It was not the ancient riddle I expected to hear in the land of my ancestors. . . more

of Lindsay's essay.

Surrounded by our origami money flowers, dragon vases filled with wine and the

family tree I made in 2^nd grade with construction paper and crayons, I watched her

listen to my grandfather’s chest. In the silence broken only by grandfather’s labored

breathing, I prayed for the best. . . more of Wendy's essay.

One day, I walked into my house to find a man watching T.V. I figured he was a

friend of mom’s so I went to start my homework. Later, the guy was still there so

I asked my mom about him.

“He’s wearing jail clothes, Angie. That’s your father. Can’t you tell?” I didn’t believe

her. My father was serving a life sentence in San Quentin. . . more of Angie's essay.

"Watson, you are no longer a child. You are a human being; you are our investment."

My grandmother's words echo within me. It was the morning my father passed away.

I was seven years old and it felt as if my childhood was being taken away. . .

more of Watson's essay.

"I was terrified, and I called 911."

There I was trying to decode my father’s rushed cursive. The power of his voice

showing through his poor English mixed with Vietnamese. He had left for work

that morning to discover his car missing. Crime happens all the time, but when

crime happens to you every day--two broken car windows, one stolen car stereo,

and now, a missing car. . . more of Elizabeth's essay.