<p>It's the diversity prompt. At first, I was quite proud of it. However, I have had a couple people read it and they have said anywhere from "One of the best college essays I have read in a long time.." to "Cliche -- garbage" -- yeah, I know that person was pretty harsh. Rate it 1-10 and tell me what good/bad too please. Thanks</p>
<p>"What are you?" What people usually mean when they ask this is, "What is your ethnic background?" However, I always reply with, "I am a human." I am a shaggyhaired, Florida-tanned teen, sporting the average interblend of PacSun, American Eagle, and Old Navy brand wear. I am a typical person whose identity is hidden behind a dusty mirror of social prejudices.</p>
<p>The dust begins to disperse as most people, their annoyance betrayed by their wrinkled foreheads, deem me ignorant, assuming I misunderstood the question. But I am human. I am neither attempting to be clever nor am I trying to elude. In an attempt to see the other side, to catch a glimpse at the aged mirror's reflection, the questioning continues until my ancestry is asked. To this, I respond: "I am an Afghan."</p>
<p>Despite my reflection radiating through the mirror, the dust still coats it, masking my reluctance as alleged anxiety. Because people cannot see neither themselves nor me through the mirror, my motives are misinterpreted. They assume, based off their perception, that I have something to hide. But there is nothing. I am simply human. It is a simple declaration, yet the perplexity baffles many, for there is no definitive definition. What does it mean to be human? As mathematicians assert, there are "infinitely many solutions." Beneath the dust, there is a reflection of me, and of you, and we both long for the same desires.</p>
<p>I clean my mirror and realize this innate truth through my daily routine. My mornings are rushed, yet minute details crystallize the moment. While I prepare my classic American PB&J, already thinking about lunch, my mom stuffs the kitchen with exotic spices and curries native to her culture. When I approach my lunch table, I unpack my dusted mirror. As I remove my sandwich and Oreos, I delve into high school conversation, discussing homecoming, probable calculus quizzes, and the presidential election. At this moment in time, the people I am surrounded by constitute as a family, swiping the mirror clean of dust.</p>
<p>I return home, greeted by a family dinner. Here, in my dining room, the spices and curries my mother rustled with in the morning attack my olfactory powerhouse. Slowly, the spices wipe my mirror. Dinner is served. Traditional meals of qorma - a chicken casserole packed with curried onions - and rice pallow a dish consisting of meats, carrots, and raisins circulates around the table. It seems like a different culture and it is, when caked by dust. However, as the mirror becomes clean, it is evident that my two seemingly disparate worlds are identical. My father begins his rant about work, soon accompanied by my mother's addition, and then I contribute with my college worries. At this point, my brother interrupts, talking about his car. Both of these tables are communions, families, and havens, where joy intersects with fear, where Oreos and qormas meet. </p>
<p>As I peer into the mirror; I see my own dustless reflection, and I realize my roles in Vanderbilt University will not be to diversify the campus but rather reveal the commonality within the walls of diversity. I am rockerguy. An Afghan. An American. A human. A Commodore."</p>