Cover Letter 

I was born and raised in Italy for half my life, until me and my immediate family moved to Brooklyn, New York. In Italy they start teaching English in the first grade, which didn’t help because all I could remember were the ABCs. I was placed in ESL the minute I got into school, that took me away from learning any sort of grammar, and technicality’s when it came to writing in English. This led to my insecurities about writing in English, since I didn’t really know the proper structures of sentences, or where commos, semicolons, and periods should go. I gave up on trying to score well on anything that had to do with writing in English. 

Being able to write about the moment my view of my own writing changed is a full circle moment for me. I was able to embrace one of my greatest insecurities when it came to my education. As I wrote my essay, I learned the deeper meaning of the English language, and not just the way it’s spoken, but also written. Learning that I am one of the people that is striving to write in Standard English just so other don’t see me as a “stupid immigrant” really hurts me. I worry about the shame I feel, realizing that it’s been erasing where I came from.  

This isn’t something I only experience, but so many others as well. The way the education system is set up made immigrants and even non-immigrants change the way they wrote and spoke in professional settings to sound “smart”. So, I wrote about my journey of writing my college essay to show that our doubts about writing mostly exist in our minds.  Although I try to sound as “proper” as possible, my writing of the assignment isn’t my focus. I want to show other immigrants like me that just because we aren’t born here doesn’t mean we cannot amount to our goals. A language barrier doesn’t matter if you have a passion. I emphasized how upset I felt before any success in my journey because even though I did succeed, doesn’t mean I didn’t have to go through hardships and doubts before I got there.  

I always strive to have purpose in the message I convey when speaking and writing because that’s when I feel that others listen to what I want to say. Writing is now one of my strong suits and not because I sound sophisticated but because I carry a purpose, passion, and love for what I write. I take pride in my message; I know that every time I write at least one person will resonate with what I have to say. 

I hope that in this LLN assignment the focus isn’t on how sophisticated I sound or if my structure is pristine. But if my message is shown to be true, that my journey is living proof that success isn’t only based on how smart one sounds when they write, but how much drive they have in what they are writing about.  

                                                I’m not actually stupid 

The thought of writing my college essay gave me such anxiety, and not in a way most of my high school friends have it, but in a way of being worried about the admission staff thinking I was stupid. I spent multiple sleepless nights trying to figure out how to tell my own mother I didn’t get into any college because I’m simply stupid. I talked a lot, but once the topic of college essays came up, all I could do was keep my mouth shut and bite the inside of my cheek until it went numb. I was ashamed of the way I wrote and my thought process behind writing, because I would never be able to articulate my words into sentences I could write on paper.   

When colleges came to visit my school, I dreaded it. I would try to find the furthest seat from the front of the auditorium and tune out the admissions’ representatives, but it was a lost cause. Trying to tune them out only made them louder in my head. Every minute that went by, I’d slowly sink into my seat increasingly, as if quicksand was engulfing my body, suffocating me. In moments of anxiety, I relied on my ADHD to distract myself, but this was something I couldn’t escape.  

During the assemblies, a constant flashback replayed to me trying to answer the Common App questions over the summer. Having to sit in my room and use Google Translate to translate a quarter of the words was defeating. I never struggled to do anything by myself; I always did everything involving English alone, but this was the first time I had no clue on what I was doing. I never asked for help. I never needed help.   

At the beginning of my senior year, my favorite faculty member, Ms. Knowles, offered to help me with my essay. At first, I was skeptical because deep down I believed no one could help with my horrible writing, but I still took the help. I wrote a couple of drafts, showing Ms. Knowles, but there was a lot to work on. I didn’t only know that because she pointed out my mistakes, but because I didn’t try my best, I thought my fate was already set. A sense of guilt washed over me as my mom started asking how the process of the college essay was going. That night, I spent three hours completely rewriting my essay. I felt confident in what I wrote before going to bed, but the next morning, I started doubting myself once again because I had to actually show Ms. Knowles what I had written.  

We were in the library when I admitted to her for the fifth time that I rewrote my essay, and she asked to see it, never complaining about my change of plans. Trying to hide my shaky hands, I shared my Google Doc so she could read it at home. The next time we met to work on my essay, she told me she had goosebumps reading my introduction. All of a sudden, my eyes started burning, and tears welled up in the corners. Ignoring that feeling, I tried to change the topic by asking her what I had done wrong, but this time, there were only a few comments on the document. I thought she was just being nice because I’ve been trying to write the essay for two months.   

She proceeded to tell me how much I had improved in my drafts, and for the first time ever, I wasn’t so self-conscious; I started to become proud of myself. Within two days of writing the last draft, I finished my essay completely. I even got the courage to read it to my mother, although she didn’t understand some of it; she listened to my reading and even clapped for me at the end. “Neni, you sound so smart in English, you are so lucky”, my mother remarked. The same burning feeling that was in the library happened again, but this time I didn’t swat it away; I embraced it. I cried happy tears, and at that moment, I stopped being so angry at myself.  

Although the essay was completed, I still had the supplements I had to do, but this time I wasn’t afraid. I let Ms. Knowles help me again, this time not worried that I would be judged or that I was a lost cause. We sat in the library together, going through each college I applied to and seeing which needed supplements. I had 16 supplements to do, which caused my anxiety to peek through again. Once I started writing, it disappeared, realizing to myself that I got this.  

As the days grew closer to the deadlines to apply, being worried faded away. In each application, I embraced the fact that I knew three languages and that I wasn’t born in New York. I stopped victimizing myself, using what I thought were weaknesses as strengths. I explained all my hardships as lessons that improved my skills that I obtained in my journey.   

Getting my first acceptance email solidified that what I worried about was not true, that I’m not stupid. Calling my mother and telling her I got accepted into my first college was an unforgettable feeling. The acceptance to the City College of New York was just the start of the rest of my acceptances. Email after email, I was getting accepted into most of the colleges I applied for, making me think it cannot get better than this.  

On Wednesday, March 26, 2025, I received a letter that completely changed all the doubts I had about myself. Not only did I receive an acceptance letter from Wheaton College in Massachusetts, but I also received a 38-thousand-dollar scholarship. Even getting a handwritten letter from a staff member expressing their excitement at the diverse background I had.   

Although I didn’t attend Wheaton, I proved my doubts wrong.  It is important to remember that we all have hardships that we have to endure; what you do is greater than what your mind thinks. It wasn’t the way I wrote that limited me; it was me. Learning that what I have gone through wasn’t my weakness was the hardest lesson I’ve ever had to learn. I began to love the quirks in my writing because they make me who I am. How I write shows the story of who I am, the beauty of all that I’ve experienced.

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