<p>This is just a rough draft that I wrote, however, I am hoping to get some pointers and opinions from anyone who reads it. I understand that the topic is quite cliche and overused, but I don't want to be like others who make up some bs story to make themselves stand out. I was writing to be genuine and honest, hoping that admission officers can see the truth in where I come from, my journey and what I have to offer. I'll very much appreciative to those who will take the time to read this. Thank you so much in advance. </p>
<p>To many, home might be a house or apartment that they've lived in all their lives. Their memories are etched on the walls, and rooms of the house. For me, home was never just one place and in a lot of ways it was never a house or an apartment that we lived in. When my parents and I immigrated to the US, we lived with a variety of family friends. We slept in the living rooms of their apartments or even in their son's small bedroom. Although they were places that I lived in, I never really considered them to be my “home. “</p>
<p>Immigrating to America was a difficult transition for my parents and especially for me. In the Philippines, I was surrounded by countless aunts, uncles and cousins. I was accustomed to a life of being showered with familial love and the security of knowing that they were always nearby. In America, my family did not have this kind of stability. Needless to say, my first impression of the US was cold, distant, and unfamiliar. I was being forced to accept this strange, new place as my “home.” Consequently, I rebelled against this notion and my attitude became very stubborn and disrespectful towards my parents. As a child, I did not understand the opportunities and advantages that my parents were trying to provide for me in America. School, a place that I had once perceived as a secondary home back in the Philippines, became an overwhelming environment for me. I was thrust into a place that was so foreign to me. It was difficult to make friends with children who were from such a different culture. I was not fluent in English and learning it was difficult. This only exemplified my feelings of being unsuited for America.</p>
<p>It was in this period of time that my parents introduced me to an after school program called, SIPA. It stands for "Search to Involve Pilipino-Americans." Through this program I was able to become part of a community that shared my cultures and traditions. SIPA was not only for Filipino-Americans, they accepted a variety of young adults of various races into their program. Being surrounded by people of all different kinds of ethnicities, in a place that let us share our culture together taught me to become accepting of my new environment and to appreciate what it meant to live in America. It was in SIPA that I learned that I was not alone; that there were kids from every part of the world living in America who were going through the same difficulties as I was. Some of them were in worse positions. I realized that, despite the hardships of coming to live here, my parents had made the right decision. Although the melting pot of cultures was still a bit overwhelming, SIPA was my home away from home that helped me withstand the difficulties. It taught me to be embrace my new surroundings, while helping me uphold the values of being a Filipino. Although I am no longer part of this community, I live by these teachings everyday and hope to extend the morals and values I was taught to others and to use them avidly in my future.</p>