Admissions Essay - Yo Soy El Chinito! :: Medicine College Admissions Essays

Admissions Essay - Yo Soy El Chinito   The following is an account of a day in my life. It begins with a dream Andale, es todo, I say (All right, thats it). The medication is bringing your blood pressure spur to normal. Youll be fine. By the way, how are the kids? I pat my patient Pancho, a farm laborer, on his brawny shoulder and escort him down the hallway of the Mendota Clinic.   I wake up. Lying in bed, I contemplate how vividly my dream depicts the future I aspire to administering primary care in Mendota, a low-spirited farming community in central California where I grew up. Mendota is populated mostly by Hispanics. I remember how everyone called me el chinito (the little Chinese), and knew my family because we were the only Chinese family in town. In high school, I observed many physicians come and go at the Mendota Clinic where I volunteered those departed did not speak Spanish or have extensive exposure to Hispanic culture. Moreover, I was saddened because I saw many people, in particular migrant farm workers, succumb to preventable diseases. In malevolence of persistent signs of illness, most of them went without treatment because they lacked health insurance or were unwilling to visit a doctor for fear of what they might discover. Members of underserved communities, such as Mendota, bear more than a well-trained physician if they are to receive the health care they need. They need a physician who is also trustworthy, affable, and understanding of their plight a friend. I yearn to be that person serving in Mendota.   After brunch, I go to the gym, although forthwith I do not plan to work out. Winston, a wheelchair-bound 45 year old who suffers from cerebellar myoclonus, awaits me to assist him with his workout and shower, as he has for the foregone four years. Winstons neurological disease, since its onset during his college years, has prevented him from properly coordinating his movements and fully contracting his voluntary mu scles. Over time, the disease has progressively robbed him of the physiological functions which most people conceive for granted in daily life--such as the ability to rule clearly, pronounce words accurately, and walk. Seeing Winstons favorite blue plaid shirt invokes my recollection of our starting line encounter. I was working out when I saw Winston slickness from one of the weight machines.Admissions Essay - Yo Soy El Chinito Medicine College Admissions Essays Admissions Essay - Yo Soy El Chinito   The following is an account of a day in my life. It begins with a dream Andale, es todo, I say (All right, thats it). The medication is bringing your blood pressure back to normal. Youll be fine. By the way, how are the kids? I pat my patient Pancho, a farm laborer, on his brawny shoulder and escort him down the hallway of the Mendota Clinic.   I wake up. Lying in bed, I contemplate how vividly my dream depicts the future I aspire to administering primary care in Mendo ta, a small farming community in central California where I grew up. Mendota is populated mostly by Hispanics. I remember how everyone called me el chinito (the little Chinese), and knew my family because we were the only Chinese family in town. In high school, I observed many physicians come and go at the Mendota Clinic where I volunteered those departed did not speak Spanish or have extensive exposure to Hispanic culture. Moreover, I was saddened because I saw many people, particularly migrant farm workers, succumb to preventable diseases. In spite of persistent signs of illness, most of them went without treatment because they lacked health insurance or were unwilling to visit a doctor for fear of what they might discover. Members of underserved communities, such as Mendota, require more than a well-trained physician if they are to receive the health care they need. They need a physician who is also trustworthy, affable, and understanding of their plight a friend. I yearn to be t hat person serving in Mendota.   After brunch, I go to the gym, although today I do not plan to work out. Winston, a wheelchair-bound 45 year old who suffers from cerebellar myoclonus, awaits me to assist him with his workout and shower, as he has for the past four years. Winstons neurological disease, since its onset during his college years, has prevented him from properly coordinating his movements and fully contracting his voluntary muscles. Over time, the disease has progressively robbed him of the physiological functions which most people take for granted in daily life--such as the ability to see clearly, pronounce words accurately, and walk. Seeing Winstons favorite blue plaid shirt invokes my recollection of our first encounter. I was working out when I saw Winston slip from one of the weight machines.