UC Personal Statement
(definitely far from perfect, but I guess it served the purpose. I'm pretty sure this is the right version of my essay...)

"The only difference/that I see/is you are exactly the same/as you used to be"

Jakob Dylan’s voice reverberated off the interior of my father’s blue ’89 Corolla as I rolled down Mission Blvd. on a bright summer day. I mouthed the lines softly, gazing blankly at the street ahead of me.

"The only difference/that I see/is you are exactly the same/as you used to be"

Was this me? Am I exactly the same as I used to be? I wonder this aloud.

"The only difference/that I see/is you are exactly the same/as you used to be"

I have changed. After a nightmarish junior year, I have most certainly changed.

Last year was the most difficult and painful year of my entire life. It was a year in which I had to rethink aspects of myself I had always taken for granted, most notably my academic success. Ever since I was an elementary school tyke, I had always done well in school. I was the one who finished all the Dr. Seuss books in the first week of kindergarten. I was the one who skipped midterms and finals because she finished with the highest grade in the class each quarter. I was the one people called up those nights before labs were due. And so forth. My junior year, then, was something of a life shock.

I took my first steps toward the crash when I over-committed myself at the end of sophomore year. Armed with millions of creative ideas, I took on the presidency (i.e. responsibility) to rejuvenate a dying gourmet club, as I wanted to use food as a means of bringing some culture to our school. Academic Challenge was another club in which I was involved. I had contributed much to the club since freshman year, so when May rolled around, I was elected president. Friday Night Live was yet another club to which I was devoted. Having served capably as treasurer sophomore year, I was reelected to a second term. Tennis and the school newspaper were additional activities in which I was involved.

The first few months of junior year went relatively well. I was keeping up in my rigorous honors and AP classes and I worked around my activities. But it didn’t take long for me to lose my balance. Major problems surfaced in my clubs, and when no one else was there to solve them, I took time out of my own study hours to do it, My willingness to take the extra time was taken advantage of. People yanked at me from all directions, demanding, demeaning, dismissing. It hurt. As my self-confidence shrank, I found myself more and more incapable of doing anything, even sitting down to study. I turned in assignment after assignment late, or not at all. I fell further and further behind. In the end, I froze, stunned by defeat, slashed by abandonment, and incapacitated by my failure.

And I had to face what I had become: a depressed, unhappy mess. At the end of the year, I learned my report card included a generous dose of C’s and a glaring D in Honors English. The latter grade hurt the most, as I have always taken some pride in my writing ability.

I spent most of my summer trying to face my demons. I was lucky to have been selected to attend a journalism program sponsored by the San Jose Mercury News. Not only was I able to learn more about the craft from people established in the industry, I also met people who really affected me. While covering a story, my partner, Duc, and I ran into a band of homeless teens on the street. We had just come from Original Joe’s, and I still carried my leftover ravioli and bread in a doggie bag. At first they wouldn’t talk to us. But after Duc and I gave our bread to them, they opened up. For the next hour their stories unfolded. The oldest in the group, a 24-year-old, had been passed from foster home to foster home since she was small. Her last foster parents had kicked her out when she was eighteen, and she has been roaming the streets since. She has held jobs before, but there are barriers. Skill is not the only thing that matters, apparently. Decent clothes are necessary for the interview, and transportation once a job is found proves to be difficult, especially when they can’t afford to take the bus. Another girl spoke of the medical treatment she received at the public health center. She came out in a worse condition than when she came in, but there was nothing she could do about it. The doctors would just argue, "Well, at least you HAVE medical treatment."

But they are not bitter. They had each other, as trite as that my sound, and I could feel the love that held them together. As we parted, Duc reminded me of the leftovers I still carried. I ran over to them, stopped the 24-year-old, reached out my hand, and said, grinning weakly through tears, "Ravioli from Original Joe’s." Her face lit up about 10,000 watts, and she ran to the others with the treasure. How happy they were with something as small to me as my leftovers! And I was upset because of what?? I had everything compared to them! I had a roof over my head, food to eat everyday, a good doctor I could call if I felt sick, and parents who loved me and provided for me. Who was I to whine? My problems paled in comparison to theirs.

Yes, my problems did hurt. Yes, I went through my own personal hell. But I’ve learned and grown so much from the experiences of this past year. Through the mistakes I made during the year, I’ve learned that I have limits as a human being. I’m not superwoman, nor am I supposed to be. I can only be Pearl, an idealistic, oversensitive C-Span junkie who has learned to stand up all the taller because of her nightmarish junior year.

But rather than being bitter about the past, I’m not. In fact, the past twelve or so months have significantly altered me… in a good way. I’ve been humbled. I’ve been forced to take a step back and look at the world on a larger scale. I can see now that no matter from what walk of life a person hails, regardless of wealth, status, intelligence, or appearance, a person is a person. Human. Mortal. Imperfect, but wonderful exactly because of that. We are all people with lives to live, stories to tell, and dreams to chase. Understanding that, I feel, has made me a better journalist. After this year, this duty has so much more meaning to me. My eyes – and my heart – have been opened.

As the last guitar riffs of "The Only Difference" pound out of the speakers in my car, the lyrics ring in my ears. I smile, knowing I am not the same as I used to be, and as the light changes, I ease my foot onto the gas pedal and accelerate into the night.