Admission

When I entered high school, I decided that my bedroom would get a fresh start as well. Its first alterations were the obvious ones—bright pastels on the walls, silky, custom-made orange curtains (made with my mother as a compromise for keeping the walls toned down) and shifted furniture. But these are all standard items; the most important addition has proven to be my bookshelf. I admit most people encounter bookshelves fairly frequently. But everything about this bookshelf, down to the calm and earthy brown—contrasting my unnaturally green wall—to the carefully arranged content, reminds me of something or someone I love. Construction began my first Christmas in high school when I successfully followed my parents' clues to the parts that would become this wonderful structure. The proceeding days were spent building and finishing the shelf with my dad; the nights on my sister's floor because of the paint fumes. As soon as the paint dried I was constantly "renovating": taping to its walls pictures of sunsets, waterfalls, waves, thunderstorms—nature at its best—along with a tessellated math assignment I spent an entire weekend perfecting (my teacher felt bad when she found out although I reassured her I had enjoyed it). The first occupants of this spacious high rise were the fantasy and science fiction books I read in middle school. As I changed and grew, however, the demographics of the incoming denizens shifted. They now form a menagerie ranging from the classics my mother snuck upon the upper shelves—which were reluctantly, then excitedly, adopted and read—to highly specialized visitors from the local library that frequently join their ranks. Balanced throughout are other odds and ends: stone animals from my nature-loving, rock-hound grandfather, soccer medals, a snow globe of the "tour Eiffel" from a rather crowded cigar shop we found while lost in Paris, a Lego rocket from the summer reading project that first made me expand into non-fiction. Hidden behind the lower cabinet doors is the more costly treasure—my collection of non-fiction, from astronomy to neurology to genetics, I have developed as my passion has grown and found its niche within the immense and iridescent depths of science. A stack of Spanish books defend their territory although they seem slightly out of place. They have helped me pass a series of "tests" beginning with the AP test, to reading Spanish books in their original language, to tutoring, culminating with a test that, as urban rush hour traffic abashes the driver's test, put my first test to shame. I found myself with my Spanish speaking aunt, English speaking father and siblings, and my semi-bilingual self in Tia's Miami parlor for a several hour visit. Although at first uncertain, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself able to converse and translate her fascinating stories about the exotic fruits she had growing in her own backyard, trips to Spain with my mother and the strange food they stomached for pleasure or necessity. (Hidden between the various words lay insights into the reasons my mother's actions seem strange—protective or frugal—to me.) Learning for its own sake was and is satisfying, but doing something constructive with knowledge is exhilarating. One might think this bookshelf is my brain-child, but in truth it is closer to my sister. It is being created not by me, but by the same forces that are molding me into who I am. Without my father's handiwork, my mother's books, my grandfather's passion, my teachers' assignments and my maternal grandparents' language, this bookshelf could never exist. I am forever indebted for the forces that have caused the once-dead, plain planks of wood to again sprout into something wonderful.