hey kids, another essay. this one answers #3 - any other information, family circumstances, or hardships that are not evident on the app. please tell me what you think of this roughdraft and no - “THIS SUX0RS” - i’d love it if it was all constructive-like 
thanks!
“Oh goodness, can she speak Bengali yet?” The amused voices of my relatives flowed over my head, switching over from English to Bengali, the language of Northeast India. I understood every word, and I wanted desperately to answer for myself, but I couldn’t. Since childhood, I had learned to understand Bengali, but not to speak it.
Although my parents made every effort to teach me their mother tongue when I was a toddler, I lost all grasp of the language when I entered preschool. Over the years, a system of communication developed in which my mother would speak to me in Bengali, and I would casually reply in English, unaware of the bewildered looks my friends gave each other as they struggled to understand a seemingly one-sided conversation. I couldn’t avoid the odd stares in India either, where my relatives nudged each other, asking for a translation of my strange words. My inability to speak my parents’ language represents a unique struggle in my life. I could easily listen and learn about my culture. It was far more difficult for me to speak and contribute to it.
Fortunate enough to grow up in a family that encouraged respect for diversity in cultures, I have always felt proud of my unique heritage. I never felt ashamed of my dark eyes and hair or irresolute in my love of Indian classical dance. I was always happy to attend Indian cultural shows with my parents or listen to Bengali music in the car. These activities required no input from me; I was free to relax and enjoy the work of others. I understood and treasured the music and poetry and dance of my culture, but I had no interest in reflecting its beauty upon a larger, more global community.
My mentality changed upon entering high school. Here, in an ever-changing sea of over three thousand faces, I recognized the importance of speaking up and making my voice heard. My parents had given me so many opportunities to cherish the most ancient traditions of their country, still prevalent today. They had spoken to me in their language, and I had done nothing but listen mutely. Now, I had the chance to offer that same gift to a new community. I had spent so many years as a shy guest in another world; finally, I invited others into my own.
Over the next four years, I worked with others in an attempt to bring together Indo-American teenagers curious about their culture but too embarrassed to ask their terminally “uncool” parents questions. In addition, we invited students completely unfamiliar with India’s history and customs to learn with us. For the first time, the annual Multicultural Faire featured not only an Indian food stand, but a henna booth, fashion show, and traditional dance. I felt incredibly gratified after the Faire, shivering in my traditional salwar kameez (long tunic and sheer pants), when several students congratulated me for my work and told me that they wanted to get involved the following year, in any possible capacity. They echoed my sentiments of only a year or two before; tired of watching others perform, they chose to act.
As my high school career comes to a close, I am proud of the slender but colorful threads I have woven through my school’s diverse tapestry – or sari, if you will, as that is an Indian woman’s traditional garb. I may never speak my parents’ language with nonchalant fluency. Nonetheless, I can speak my own slightly garbled Bengali with anybody willing to listen…and reply in kind.