Even at five feet, six inches, the actor Dustin Hoffman held his own against Tome Cruise in the movie Rainman and went on to win his second Academy Award for Best Actor. Michael J. Fox (5’5”) constantly uses taller actors to his comedic advantage. Height has enhanced the athleticism of “Muggsy” Bogues, the shortest player in the history of the NBA at five foot three. He’s used that edge to lead his basketball team in steals (they don’t call him “Muggsy” for nothing). Their height has put no limits to their work in the arts or athletics. Neither will mine.
I’m five foot five. I’ve struggled with it at times, but I’ve realized that being five-five can’t stop me from joining the Senate. It won’t stem my dream of becoming an astronaut (I even have the application from NASA). My height can’t prevent me from directing a movie and excelling in Taekwondo (or even basketball). At five foot five I can laugh, jump, run, dance, write, paint, help, volunteer, pray, love and cry. I can break 100 in bowling. I can sing along to Nat King Cole. I can recite Audrey Hepburn’s lines from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I can run the mile in under six minutes, dance like a wild monkey and be hopelessly wrapped up in a good book (though I have yet to master the ability to do it all at once). I’ve learned that my height, even as a defining characteristic, is only a part of the whole. It won’t limit me. Besides, this way I’ll never outgrow my favorite sweater.
优秀英语essay范文第4篇：
Hurricane Maria devastated Puerto Rico, and my Massachusetts city had also been torn apart. In a city where nearly half of the population is Puerto Rican, the destination of people fleeing the island had immediately come into question, “Why are they coming here? Our schools already don’t have enough books for our students, never mind Puerto Rican refugees.”
These are words out of my French and Irish uncle’s mouth. As he looked in my brown eyes and proclaimed his son’s lack of an AP English book was more important than the life and well-being of a child that looks like me.
It is enlightening to begin to take notice of the ignorance that surrounds your identity. It is eye-opening to hear words of hate and intolerance spew from the mouths of people you love, people who claim to love you. I have heard people express how they really feel when they forget about my dark complexion and let a joke slip, to follow up with, “Well not you, you're not really Puerto Rican."
To be seven years old and shrouded in a feeling of discomfort for who you are; making an effort to sound and act “white” among my white family and friends. Thanksgiving with my blue-eyed and freckled cousins was an event that displaced me. My Abuela’s house was where my Puerto Rican cousins flourished. They spoke fluent Spanish and shook their heads when I asked what they were saying. I “didn’t care” about my culture to them.
It is in this limbo that I find myself more aware of the dubious eyes on me when I’m asked if I am Muslim or Italian (as if Muslim is an ethnicity). When they compliment my “different” name, their eyes widen when they learn that I am from the “whiter” side of the city, but nod in understanding when I clarify that my Mother is white. I notice that these glances are consonant with the fact that the grocery store I work at in the neighboring town made thousands of dollars in their donation cups for Hurricane Harvey victims, but not one mention of Puerto Rico’s disastrous conditions. It is from these glances that I realize both these adversities are not of equal importance to the store where I was one of four Hispanic employees.
I am Puerto R
