In kindergarten, I decided to talk back to my teacher. It was nearing the end of our first semester, and the class Christmas
party was in full swing. Naturally, one of our festive activities as a class was to conjointly assemble a
Nativity set. Under the autocratic eye of our teacher, Mrs. Buchanan, all thirteen of us swarmed around the
juice-stained rainbow show-and-tell mat. Later, I overheard Mrs. Buchanan gently scolding a student for
attempting to fit a piece where it shouldn’t have gone. “Silly Grace,” she chided. “Don’t you know that
square pegs will never fit into round holes?” My seven-year-old brain scurried to come up with a retort, for
I was absolutely fed up with my teacher’s semester of transgressions. “You’re wrong, Mrs. Buchanan,” I
said a little too emphatically. “What if the diagonal of the square is smaller than the diameter of the circle?
Wouldn’t it just be like throwing a piece of toast through a basketball hoop, then?”
This was the earliest occasion that I can remember displaying my innate contemplativeness to the outside
world. Despite the fact that I ended up scoring my first time-out and a parental lecture on the van ride
home, this was perhaps the most enthralling and gratifying experience of my early childhood. But why?
Why did I find such solace in being openly defiant? Over my adolescent years I have ruminated on this
question exhaustively, yet I’ve found no logical answer. It’s hard to explain an instinct, a calling. Perhaps
the best I can do is tell the story.
This ingrained, deeply analytical side of me has burgeoned throughout my life. Practically, it has helped
me excel in my studies, to earn high marks and keep a spotless transcript. Less practically, but vastly
more important, it has propelled me towards a life of inquisitiveness, entailing sleepless nights spent preparing for Advanced Placement
exams and standardized tests; taking 17 online courses (courtesy of Harvard’s free classes) over subjects
ranging from Contemporary Chinese Literature to the Fundamentals of Neuroscience. It would be unfair to ignore the catalysts I’ve had along the way, however. My parents had an
indelible effect on my scholarly achievements (my father, a poet/professor of literature/editor; my mother
a war refugee and immigrant from El Salvador). They vowed to cultivate interesting and educated adults
out of their three young girls because they themselves had to individually seek out their own extended
educations. Consequently, from a young age, I have seen the sphere of inquiry as a privilege, a
supernatural endowment: something far more sacred than I could have found on a Sunday morning. I say
all this to come to the simple conclusion that I have an insatiable appetite for wisdom, and that this
perpetual famine of my intellect will carry me along a lifelong journey of learning, growing, and inquiry, no
doubt being enriched by my collegiate career. This appetite translates into the desire to teach others, which meant an inexorably fulfilling career as an educator.