Who Am I
It’s 2013, I am eight years old, living in my third home in two years, and my room is white. White sheets atop a white bed, a white toy chest at its foot. The walls are perfectly pale, with no scuff marks or pin holes, and the fresh paint knows not of poster tape or blue tack. They are clean and barren, except for one framed painting of Winnie the Pooh’s Garden. It is hung neatly on one hook, excruciatingly level, centered on the back wall. The room will stay this way for years, scarcely decorated to be packed up at a moment's notice. The younger me who inhabits this room will be much the same.
By the third grade, I had already moved twice, so a third time almost didn’t surprise me. Almost. After living in Illinois, Florida, and now Texas, I was about to leave for Iowa. Our house went up on the market and I alerted my newfound, albeit minimal, friends. My room, previously drowned in cardboard boxes, was organized into a pristine re-creation of a perfect young girl’s room. The room had to look as though I loved it, even if I thought the bare walls were suffocating. Apparently, houses sell better if buyers believe they are being sold a “home” rather than just a “house”. Between photoshoots for the listing and weekly showings, the precise condition of my room could not be tampered with. After months of living in a life-sized dollhouse, Dad quit the Iowa job.
He continued to accept a new job every few months. Always in a different state, sometimes in a different country. Placing the house up for sale each time was easy. My room, like every other room, looked exactly as it had when we moved in. After all, what was the point in decorating when I’d just have to pack it all up anyway? None of his jobs lasted long enough for us to finish moving. Nevertheless, it seemed he always found a new position even further away than the last. Eventually, I stopped believing my parents when they said we weren’t moving, and my friends stopped believing me.
Then, in ninth grade, something changed. Dad got a job in Texas about an hour away. Having him home for dinner every night made me skeptical. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Each evening I dreaded being told he got a new job and we’d have to move again, but it never happened. Slowly, my room began to change. I would leave my books on my bed rather than their shelf, and my clothes would sit unfolded on the floor. I even put up a small, dog-themed calendar above my desk. I used a pushpin to secure it, creating the first dark blemish among snow-white walls.
Throughout high school, my room continued to transform. I filled the walls with pictures and posters, I drilled holes in them to mount shelves and filled those us up with trinkets too. By the time I moved out for college, the paint was chipped and peeling from years of adhesive based abuse. Even though I still knew I would be leaving my room behind, I no longer feared how much it would hurt.
I am aware that three houses in 18 years is far less than some, but I am also very aware that it is far more than others. I have met numerous people who have lived in the same house around the same people their whole lives. This is an almost unimaginable concept to me. As a child, I was always told that I was much more independent than my classmates. I thought I would have to leave any friends I did make, so it was easier for me to learn how to rely on myself rather than others. Even almost 10 years later, I still have trouble fully connecting with my peers.
From the time I was 10, whenever I was asked to create an “about me” or “my experiences” essay, I would write something similar to the above paragraphs. Moving was the one thing I knew I could drive into and relate back to my personal values, but after 8 years I’ve become pretty sick of milking that experience. I realize that much of who I am comes from those formative years, such as my independence and my constant need to personalize all of my belongings, just to prove that I can. However, there are so many other things that make me who I am, they just don’t have a big dramatic backstory behind them.
I originally wanted to go to UT due to my brothers living in Austin, but I got CAPed and decided to come here instead. However, I am glad I applied to UT because they had a free response question that I really liked. It basically just said “Write five sentences that give some insight into you- feel free to be creative.” I think that prompt is much more effective at getting to know who someone is than having them write a single cohesive essay, so I’m going to respond to that prompt here.
I drive with my windows down during winter because the feeling of the crisp, cold air on my face reminds me of living in Illinois and going sledding with my grandpa.
I have kept every card ever given to me since 6th grade, even the ones from people I no longer talk to.
In elementary school I read every single book from the library that had a dog in it and refused to read any other genre; my first job was at a Doggy Daycare and I stayed far too long for what the pay was.
It is impossible for me to study in silence, I always need music, videos, movies, or even all of them in the background.
Although I am majoring in psychology, I always wanted to be some sort of mad inventor as a child until I took a real physics class.
