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Successful Harvard Essay
Fish Out of Water:
idiom. a person who is in an unnatural environment; completely out of place.
When I was ten, my dad told me we were moving to somewhere called "Eely-noise." The screen flashed blue as he scrolled through 6000 miles of water on Google Earth to find our new home. Swipe, swipe, swipe, and there it was: Illinois, as I later learned.
Moving to America was like going from freshwater into saltwater.
Moving to America was like going from freshwater into saltwater. Not only did my mom complain that American food was too salty, but I was helplessly caught in an estuary of languages, swept by daunting tides of tenses, articles, and homonyms. It’s not a surprise that I developed an intense, breathless kind of thirst for what I now realize is my voice and self-expression.
This made sense because the only background I had in English was “Konglish”--an unhealthy hybrid of Korean and English--and broken phrases I picked up from SpongeBob. As soon as I stepped into my first class in America, I realized the gravity of the situation: I had to resort to clumsy pantomimes, or what I euphemistically called body language, to convey the simplest messages. School became an unending game of pictionary.
Amid the dizzying pool of vowels and phonemes and idioms (why does spilling beans end friendships?), the only thing that made sense was pictures and diagrams. Necessarily, I soon became interested in biology as its textbook had the highest picture-to-text ratio. Although I didn’t understand all the ant-like captions, the colorful diagrams were enough to catch my illiterate attention: a green ball of chyme rolling down the digestive tract, the rotor of the ATP synthase spinning like a waterwheel. Biology drew me with its ELL-friendliness and never let go.
I later learned in biology that when a freshwater fish goes in saltwater, it osmoregulates--it drinks a lot of water and urinates less. This used to hold true for my school day, when I constantly chugged water to fill awkward silences and lubricate my tongue to form better vowels. This habit in turn became a test of English-speaking and bladder control: I constantly missed the timing to go to the bathroom by worrying about how to ask. The only times I could express myself were through my fingers, between the pages of Debussy and under my pencil tip. To fulfill my need for self-expression and communication, I took up classical music, visual art, and later, creative writing. To this day, I will never forget the ineffable excitement when I delivered a concerto, finished a sculpture, and found beautiful words that I could not pronounce. If biology helped me understand, art helped me be understood.
There’s something human, empathetic, even redemptive about both art and biology. While they helped me reconcile with English and my new home, their power to connect and heal people is much bigger than my example alone. In college and beyond, I want to pay them forward, whether by dedicating myself to scientific research, performing in benefit concerts, or simply sharing the beauty of the arts. Sometimes, language feels slippery like fish on my tongue. But knowing that there are things that transcend language grounds and inspires me. English seeped into my tongue eventually, but I still pursue biology and arts with the same, perhaps universal, exigency and sincerity: to understand and to be understood.
Over the years, I have come to acknowledge and adore my inner fish, that confused, tongue-twisted and home-sick ELL kid from the other side of the world, which will forever coexist within me. And I’ve forgiven English, although I still can’t pronounce words like “rural,” because it gifted me with new passions to look forward to every day. Now, when I see kids with the same breathless look that I used to have gasping for home water, Don’t worry, I want to tell them.
You’ll find your water.
Professional Review by HS2 Academy
Michelle’s essay offers the reader a picturesque and witty journey through their immigrant experience of adapting to their new life in Illinois (Eely-noise!). While some immigrant experience essays can come across as predictable, Michelle deftly crafts an extended metaphor using the idiom of a “fish out of water” to connect their passions for both biology and art with their evolving struggle to master English. The uniqueness comes in the candid and often humorous depictions of Michelle’s everyday struggles with language, from initially resorting to “clumsy pantomimes” to signal an intent to go to the bathroom to their “ineffable excitement” at finding beautiful new words to express themselves, showcasing Michelle’s eventual growth into an articulate writer in full command of the English language.
It's evident that Michelle genuinely loves writing and relishes finding the right words to convey their thoughts, showcasing their tenacity and love of learning.
Michelle’s diverse passions, ranging from music, to art, to biology, are on full display in this essay, but what’s most impressive is Michelle’s nuanced and introspective journaling of adapting to American life and culture. It’s evident that Michelle genuinely loves writing and relishes finding the right words to convey their thoughts, showcasing their tenacity and love of learning. Michelle’s sincere exuberance for growing as a writer and artist shines throughout this essay, with a warmth and humor that’s infectious.
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