My college admissions essay was unofficially titled "Rape builds Character." If I can find it, maybe I'll post it one day. But until then, here's what I've got:
My therapist, who I miss dearly and who would disagree with my usage of the word rape, always reminded me that I was not a victim of sexual abuse but a survivor. Sometimes I wish I could still see her, but the certificate of completion from sexual abuse therapy that hangs about my bed brings a similar bliss that will have to do for now. Of course, my certificate is by no means an indicator that I am all better, I am simply past those 13 years of my "life," and onto the next phase.
Before my 16th birthday, college wasn't even a blip on my radar. God knows he'd never let me out of his sight. But after January 18th, 2013, the world was at my feet. One of the things I was told to do to get into this mystical "college" was writing an essay about your life, the sadder the better. One of the only reasons I was unapologetically candid was because no one would ever really see it, yet here I am divulging problematic snippets however I please.
Here's the problem, though. It's not about what I went through, or what the other applicants didn't have to overcome; why do my years of torture make me qualified for all the scholarships and acceptance letters that I received? Of course, as I was applying for all these things, I wasn't considering this. I was just doing as I was told; I knew that my story was at least ten times worse than the one a teacher of mine made up about a dead father to get more financial aid. But looking back now and having a friend like Sandy, who as she says never really went through anything and lived a happy life in her big South Carolina home with her two parents and siblings, has caused a lot of discomfort in my big head.
Although, unfortunately, I know my little brother will have plenty of content for his essay, should he choose to go to college, I want my kids to be like Sandy. I want them to live out their childhood unbothered and oblivious to any kind of suffering besides the occasional knee scrape. I don't want them to have a sad story to tell in order to get scholarships, but I also don't want them to struggle to be seen as worthy of recognition. Because I know there's also merit based scholarships but whose to say that they will meet the unrealistic standards set for children with "normal lives?"
Despite this, I know that my story set me apart from some of, although unfortunately not enough of, low-income families in Miami. I'm eternally grateful for the scholarships I did receive because they did take everything into consideration, and y'all have read enough to know my mom didn't have more than a dime to spare. But something is wrong. I also know that I didn't have a decked out application in the first place because of my situation. But this sucks. Even today, as I was having flashbacks on the bus today I looked around to a beautiful city that I wouldn't live in, had it not been for the very flashbacks I was having.
It makes me uncomfortable to think that out of one in five women who are raped and the third of kids who live in poverty in Miami, I wrote a couple of essays and was rewarded with money. "Sucks! You were poor and were sexually abused for 13 years. Here are a couple of thousand dollars. Good luck, kid." I did nothing to deserve it. I didn't say anything for over a decade, but the second I wrote an essay aimed at some all-powerful decision makers, I'm rewarded for my bravery.
Something is really wrong with that. What kind of world are we living where things like this have to be taken into account and are happening in the first place?
