Nhờ chú vha và các a/c đi trước chỉnh sửa giúp e admission essay. Con biết grammar v vocab của con chưa ổn nên essay còn nhiều lỗi, mong chú và các a/c tận tình giúp đỡ.
Life without language: all the ideas, thoughts, and emotions present, but unable to express. That is how I picture myself when I first immigrated to America. It was a cold winter day in February. I was standing astonishingly in a city dubbed “The Windy City”, Chicago. The first things I notice were all the signs, guideposts, and banners in front of me were written in a type of language I could not read. All people there looked very different than people in my country with brown hair and blue eyes. The sound when they talked was a horrible dissonance to me because I could not understand it. I felt isolated and lonely in a crowded place while being around of tons of people.
The first day of school in America was a disaster. I was clumsy like bird lost in the middle of nowhere. I went straight to the front office to get my schedule. Remembered some English words my aunt taught me, I awkwardly said with a strong Vietnamese accent: “Hello, my name Kha Pham…Sche…du…le, please.” Luckily, the lady got what I was trying to say, she took me to the counselor and helped me to find my schedule. For the first time speaking English, there was someone understand me. I was a bit excited. But that thrilling moment was not last long until I learned that I was the only Vietnamese student there, which meant there would be no one talk my language. I could not make friends with other students because of the language barrier: I did not know English and of course they did not speak Vietnamese neither. Some had tried but our friendship did not last long because we could not get connected. Sometimes, they got frustrated of the confused look on my face when they tell me something. Some others did some hurtful imitations when I speak Vietnamese and they often gave me a weird look because of my Asian appearance. I despised my native country and Vietnamese language. I wished I was born in American instead.
One year later, everything seemed to get better. I got some English knowledge in my head and some American looks on my appearance. I made few friends, participated in class discussions, and became familiar with the fact that I was the only Vietnamese in school. I felt like a bird in its cozy nest more than a lost bird.
The hatred of my native language no longer existed in me but I spoke it less frequently, limiting it to only in front of my parents at home. Using Vietnamese in school would never happen because I did not want those embarrassing imitations happen to me again. But until one day, when I was in the middle of class, I got a call to the office. When I got there, I saw two students sitting on the chairs in the counselor room with confused and nervous looks on their faces that I was very familiar with. A déjà vu feeling hit me when I look at their hair style and their rural clothing. Yes, they were Vietnamese students. The reason they called me there to help them translate some paper works and help those students get familiar with the new school. We quickly became close friends not only because we spoke the same language but also we have many similarities in hobbies and interests. After school that day, the mom of those students came up to me, gave me a hug and said in Vietnamese “Thank you so much for helping us. I don’t know what we can do without your help.” A wave of pleasure suddenly rose in me when I heard such a genuine show of gratitude. But there was also a little surprise because for a very long time I had not had the feeling of that very familiar fellow hug.
After that day, I realized that my Vietnamese is not useless at all. I can use it to help other people who first immigrated to this new country. It is a special gift that I got from my parents, my family, and my homeland. Until this day, I have to say that I proud of my country and its Vietnamese language.
Life without language: all the ideas, thoughts, and emotions present, but unable to express. That is how I picture myself when I first immigrated to America. It was a cold winter day in February. I was standing astonishingly in a city dubbed “The Windy City”, Chicago. The first things I notice were all the signs, guideposts, and banners in front of me were written in a type of language I could not read. All people there looked very different than people in my country with brown hair and blue eyes. The sound when they talked was a horrible dissonance to me because I could not understand it. I felt isolated and lonely in a crowded place while being around of tons of people.
The first day of school in America was a disaster. I was clumsy like bird lost in the middle of nowhere. I went straight to the front office to get my schedule. Remembered some English words my aunt taught me, I awkwardly said with a strong Vietnamese accent: “Hello, my name Kha Pham…Sche…du…le, please.” Luckily, the lady got what I was trying to say, she took me to the counselor and helped me to find my schedule. For the first time speaking English, there was someone understand me. I was a bit excited. But that thrilling moment was not last long until I learned that I was the only Vietnamese student there, which meant there would be no one talk my language. I could not make friends with other students because of the language barrier: I did not know English and of course they did not speak Vietnamese neither. Some had tried but our friendship did not last long because we could not get connected. Sometimes, they got frustrated of the confused look on my face when they tell me something. Some others did some hurtful imitations when I speak Vietnamese and they often gave me a weird look because of my Asian appearance. I despised my native country and Vietnamese language. I wished I was born in American instead.
One year later, everything seemed to get better. I got some English knowledge in my head and some American looks on my appearance. I made few friends, participated in class discussions, and became familiar with the fact that I was the only Vietnamese in school. I felt like a bird in its cozy nest more than a lost bird.
The hatred of my native language no longer existed in me but I spoke it less frequently, limiting it to only in front of my parents at home. Using Vietnamese in school would never happen because I did not want those embarrassing imitations happen to me again. But until one day, when I was in the middle of class, I got a call to the office. When I got there, I saw two students sitting on the chairs in the counselor room with confused and nervous looks on their faces that I was very familiar with. A déjà vu feeling hit me when I look at their hair style and their rural clothing. Yes, they were Vietnamese students. The reason they called me there to help them translate some paper works and help those students get familiar with the new school. We quickly became close friends not only because we spoke the same language but also we have many similarities in hobbies and interests. After school that day, the mom of those students came up to me, gave me a hug and said in Vietnamese “Thank you so much for helping us. I don’t know what we can do without your help.” A wave of pleasure suddenly rose in me when I heard such a genuine show of gratitude. But there was also a little surprise because for a very long time I had not had the feeling of that very familiar fellow hug.
After that day, I realized that my Vietnamese is not useless at all. I can use it to help other people who first immigrated to this new country. It is a special gift that I got from my parents, my family, and my homeland. Until this day, I have to say that I proud of my country and its Vietnamese language.