- Posts: 7
- Joined: Nov 09, 2013
- Sat Nov 09, 2013 11:10 pm
#12382
Hello, I want to share what I hope is my final ps draft, if anyone has time to offer any comments edits or suggestions I would really appreciate it!
My two main concerns: 1. I only talk about one experience, should I try to discuss more? 2. I need to cut 150 words for one of the schools I am applying to, and I am finding it very difficult.
I did not realize I was different until I was 22. Literally overnight, I went from being normal to a strange intruder. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the color of my skin and how I spoke. Everything I did, from waiting for the bus to running at the local YMCA, caused people to stare and call me names. I was a white, privileged young woman living in Central Harlem, and for the first time I was uncomfortable with myself.
My experience as a member of the Jesuit Volunteer Corps challenged me to open up to the reality outside of my bubble. Learning to live and work in neighborhoods of New York City that most people avoid helped me better understand myself and those around me, successfully interact with people from diverse backgrounds, and develop a concrete sense of how I can best serve others. My experience as a Jesuit Volunteer made me realize how I can translate my commitment to others into the practice of law in order to contribute to the development of a more just and sustainable society.
When I decided to follow my passion for helping others through a post-graduate service program, I had little idea of how hard it was going to be, or how much it would affect me. In high school and college, I did service work on my own terms. I only rarely and briefly ventured outside of my comfort zone, and just scratched the surface of the communities I reached out to. As a Jesuit Volunteer, that all changed. I lived with seven other volunteers in an old convent in an almost exclusively African American community. I worked throughout the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens in rent-stabilized apartment buildings where landlords neglected conditions and exploited tenants. And I was the different one; immersed way over my head in an alien environment plagued by injustices that I had no idea how to solve. Not knowing what else to do, I moved forward as if I were still inside my bubble. I did research, made brochures, and went out to tell tenants why and how they should organize a tenant association. But my words were aimless. I had created invisible boundaries around the tenants that I thought I could not cross. My apprehension prevented me from really knowing their lives and responding to their ideas. But the tenants at 2425 Nostrand Avenue in Flatbush Brooklyn, a building primarily occupied by Trinidadian immigrants, challenged me to overcome my fear and preconceptions.
The first meeting I held on Nostrand Avenue was the second tenant meeting I ever led. “Look!” a thin older man shouted after I had delivered my introduction. “I was the president of the old tenant association, we’ve already tried it. Why should we even listen to you?” I was sure that every person in the crowded lobby could feel the sensation of sweat accumulating on the inside of my shirt. “Okay,” I stammered. “It sounds like you all aren’t interested in organizing another tenant association.” After mumbling something about my contact information, I rushed out of the building. I had never been so blatantly called out by anyone who I had tried to help; I felt so lost. I wanted to forget about the tenants on Nostrand Avenue. Then Marie called. She said she was done putting up with broken stoves and illegal eviction notices. She asked me to come back. This time instead of asking tenants to listen to me, I decided to listen to her. A week later at Marie’s kitchen table, she told me they wanted to file a Housing Part petition against their landlord for failure to meet conditions requirements, and they needed assistance. I did not know anything about housing court, but her desperate eyes pulled me in.
Working with the tenants of 2425 Nostrand Avenue was physically and emotionally exhausting. I traveled almost two hours to the building countless times. I spent evenings knocking on apartment doors to collect intake forms and evidence and talked with tenant leaders for hours. I sat with a crying mother in her mold-infested apartment, stood with tenants in the stuck elevator multiple times, and listened to intimidating voicemails from the landlord on tenants’ phones. I experienced suffering and injustice in the most raw and personal way. At the same time, I learned to listen, teach, and collaborate with the people I served. As I grew more invested in the lives of the tenants, I overcame my fear of being different. I broke down the barriers I had constructed and built effective relationships with those around me. I embraced unfamiliarity and invested the time to appreciate peoples’ obstacles, ideas, and potential separate from my own opinions and ego. I helped people succeed on their own terms, and it was the most powerful and fulfilling work I had ever done.
My work as a Jesuit Volunteer pulled me away from the narrow lens through which I viewed the world and I gained a new perspective from within the communities I came to love. The experience was defining because it helped me make sense of my passion for helping others through understanding how I can intertwine direct service with broader system change. I realized my role as an advocate who walks beside the marginalized to help them build change one step at a time. As a tenant organizer, I was able to help tenants build community awareness and long-term campaigns. But I was frustrated with my inability to help them achieve specific results and tangible control. Through my work in housing court to help tenants from Nostrand Avenue win a class action and get the repairs they deserved, I learned how the law can be a powerful tool for those who are otherwise disadvantaged. I am dedicated to studying law because it will allow me to pursue a career in which I use my education, experience, and skills to be an agent of positive change in individual lives and communities.
My two main concerns: 1. I only talk about one experience, should I try to discuss more? 2. I need to cut 150 words for one of the schools I am applying to, and I am finding it very difficult.
I did not realize I was different until I was 22. Literally overnight, I went from being normal to a strange intruder. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the color of my skin and how I spoke. Everything I did, from waiting for the bus to running at the local YMCA, caused people to stare and call me names. I was a white, privileged young woman living in Central Harlem, and for the first time I was uncomfortable with myself.
My experience as a member of the Jesuit Volunteer Corps challenged me to open up to the reality outside of my bubble. Learning to live and work in neighborhoods of New York City that most people avoid helped me better understand myself and those around me, successfully interact with people from diverse backgrounds, and develop a concrete sense of how I can best serve others. My experience as a Jesuit Volunteer made me realize how I can translate my commitment to others into the practice of law in order to contribute to the development of a more just and sustainable society.
When I decided to follow my passion for helping others through a post-graduate service program, I had little idea of how hard it was going to be, or how much it would affect me. In high school and college, I did service work on my own terms. I only rarely and briefly ventured outside of my comfort zone, and just scratched the surface of the communities I reached out to. As a Jesuit Volunteer, that all changed. I lived with seven other volunteers in an old convent in an almost exclusively African American community. I worked throughout the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens in rent-stabilized apartment buildings where landlords neglected conditions and exploited tenants. And I was the different one; immersed way over my head in an alien environment plagued by injustices that I had no idea how to solve. Not knowing what else to do, I moved forward as if I were still inside my bubble. I did research, made brochures, and went out to tell tenants why and how they should organize a tenant association. But my words were aimless. I had created invisible boundaries around the tenants that I thought I could not cross. My apprehension prevented me from really knowing their lives and responding to their ideas. But the tenants at 2425 Nostrand Avenue in Flatbush Brooklyn, a building primarily occupied by Trinidadian immigrants, challenged me to overcome my fear and preconceptions.
The first meeting I held on Nostrand Avenue was the second tenant meeting I ever led. “Look!” a thin older man shouted after I had delivered my introduction. “I was the president of the old tenant association, we’ve already tried it. Why should we even listen to you?” I was sure that every person in the crowded lobby could feel the sensation of sweat accumulating on the inside of my shirt. “Okay,” I stammered. “It sounds like you all aren’t interested in organizing another tenant association.” After mumbling something about my contact information, I rushed out of the building. I had never been so blatantly called out by anyone who I had tried to help; I felt so lost. I wanted to forget about the tenants on Nostrand Avenue. Then Marie called. She said she was done putting up with broken stoves and illegal eviction notices. She asked me to come back. This time instead of asking tenants to listen to me, I decided to listen to her. A week later at Marie’s kitchen table, she told me they wanted to file a Housing Part petition against their landlord for failure to meet conditions requirements, and they needed assistance. I did not know anything about housing court, but her desperate eyes pulled me in.
Working with the tenants of 2425 Nostrand Avenue was physically and emotionally exhausting. I traveled almost two hours to the building countless times. I spent evenings knocking on apartment doors to collect intake forms and evidence and talked with tenant leaders for hours. I sat with a crying mother in her mold-infested apartment, stood with tenants in the stuck elevator multiple times, and listened to intimidating voicemails from the landlord on tenants’ phones. I experienced suffering and injustice in the most raw and personal way. At the same time, I learned to listen, teach, and collaborate with the people I served. As I grew more invested in the lives of the tenants, I overcame my fear of being different. I broke down the barriers I had constructed and built effective relationships with those around me. I embraced unfamiliarity and invested the time to appreciate peoples’ obstacles, ideas, and potential separate from my own opinions and ego. I helped people succeed on their own terms, and it was the most powerful and fulfilling work I had ever done.
My work as a Jesuit Volunteer pulled me away from the narrow lens through which I viewed the world and I gained a new perspective from within the communities I came to love. The experience was defining because it helped me make sense of my passion for helping others through understanding how I can intertwine direct service with broader system change. I realized my role as an advocate who walks beside the marginalized to help them build change one step at a time. As a tenant organizer, I was able to help tenants build community awareness and long-term campaigns. But I was frustrated with my inability to help them achieve specific results and tangible control. Through my work in housing court to help tenants from Nostrand Avenue win a class action and get the repairs they deserved, I learned how the law can be a powerful tool for those who are otherwise disadvantaged. I am dedicated to studying law because it will allow me to pursue a career in which I use my education, experience, and skills to be an agent of positive change in individual lives and communities.
