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Spectating growing up is fun, but I didn't move quickly through my own childhood because I loved "the baby benefits" of being the cutest the longest, getting the last piece of cake first, and being talked to like a grownup long before deserving it.Besides, I imagined adulthood as a defeat by nature: I'd cease to exist, sucked down by time's undertow, kicking and struggling against being dragged away from the shore of my ideal childhood.Here, we learn about Issraa's personal values and how she strives to overcome misconceptions while staying true to herself.
Writing about identity conflict, especially when that conflict is caused by other's perceptions vs.
the author's own, often reveals so much about the writer that you can't help but feel that you are walking away with a more complete understanding of the narrator.
My older brother and I travelled to Honduras to work with Chorti Mayan children in three scarily poor little mountain schools in the summer of 2013.
Before departing, I lost myself dreaming of a magical place and mystical people.
In response I stood there muttering sounds I naively thought were Spanish before sinking into the hell heat of embarrassment.
But the kids' laughter lofted my spirit like an unexpected cool breeze.Check out these college essay examples for inspiration!With moments to spare, I catch a glimpse of the boarding platform for my train. Like a compass with a broken magnetic strip, I can’t decide my true North.I was teaching the kids but also re-learning from them what a fun world it is when you're curious.On the last day I dug a hole and nailed boards to a wooden pole.I practiced Spanish conversational language while Popol Vuh, travel books, maps and books on Honduran culture covered my bed.My thoughts were drunk on visions of exotic Latin American culture, but by the morning we finally left, fear had replaced fantasy.The mountain footpath I walked daily to small huts made of hay and mud to teach the children felt literally narrow, but it also felt figuratively narrow: like the thin ribbon of numbers, art, and language that connected us.I enjoyed every minute of their attention while learning to include them by listening to their views.As the plane climbed sharply up into the Philadelphia sky, I told myself the nausea was airsickness, but I knew it was really fear sickness. When I heard the customs agent say "Welcome to Honduras, sir," that "sir" struck me as ironic because it implied maturity and I felt far from being an adult.Then as we drove out across the country, my admiration for Mayan culture and South American Kerouac narrative shimmered together in the heat of the Honduran sun.