You Can Shave the Beast, But Will the Fur Grow Back? Essay examples --

You Can Shave the Beast, But Will the Fur Grow Back? I live in Brooklyn, New York City. I was born and bred there. I am one of eight million New Yorkers. New York City is sometimes described as a "melting pot," meaning we are like different Kool-Aid powders that dissolve into a uniform color and flavor. My view differs, though. I think we are eight million different insoluble liquids layered one on top of the other, appearing like oil floating on water. When stirred these liquids are rustled from their respective positions, almost coming together, only to revert to their original separated composition a second later. I'm sorry, Dr. King, we haven't all "sat at the same table" yet. This polarization and social indifference, I believe, stems from the ruthless, heart-hardening, cutthroat environment of our city. But underneath this coarseness, I wonder if there isn't a sliver of pillow-soft care and empathy for those wishing to escape the city's coldness. New Yorkers are stereotypically known as a crass and rude group, devoid of compassion. Having visited other places in the world I can frankly attest that I have never experienced apathy so widely spread throughout a populace as I have felt living in New York. The "New York attitude" isn't unique to lower class individuals who are down on their luck; it transcends class, gender, and race. It's evident in the Wall Street white collar, the ghetto rogue, the chubby mothers of three-and me. It's a compelling force. I've been trained, conditioned like one of Dr. Pavlov's dogs, to behave this way; to bark on demand, to push as I'm being shoved, to hate when hated. I was sucked into the vacuum of hate at an early age. When I was twelve years old, I got a taste of the caustic mali... ...form to the street below, I accidentally bump hard into somebody. I offer an apology to this fellow and stick my hand out in good will. He responds with a vile grunt and an ice-cold stare and mumbles, "Fuck off," before hurriedly scurrying away. Predictable, like a hackneyed cliche from the tobacco-chewing mouth of a vociferous Texas football coach in a half-time motivational talk with his players, is the behavior of this rough-hewn New Yorker. I tried leading this horse to water. He refused to drink. This new-found compassion to lead, to rectify, has lifted my soul halfway out of the hostile, rancorous dark New York mire. The remaining half of my soul is being held back by the stubborn horses whose reins I'm holding onto. They refuse to join me, to whinny and trot along the green meadows of tolerance. They keep bucking. But letting go will only pull me back in. You Can Shave the Beast, But Will the Fur Grow Back? Essay examples -- You Can Shave the Beast, But Will the Fur Grow Back? I live in Brooklyn, New York City. I was born and bred there. I am one of eight million New Yorkers. New York City is sometimes described as a "melting pot," meaning we are like different Kool-Aid powders that dissolve into a uniform color and flavor. My view differs, though. I think we are eight million different insoluble liquids layered one on top of the other, appearing like oil floating on water. When stirred these liquids are rustled from their respective positions, almost coming together, only to revert to their original separated composition a second later. I'm sorry, Dr. King, we haven't all "sat at the same table" yet. This polarization and social indifference, I believe, stems from the ruthless, heart-hardening, cutthroat environment of our city. But underneath this coarseness, I wonder if there isn't a sliver of pillow-soft care and empathy for those wishing to escape the city's coldness. New Yorkers are stereotypically known as a crass and rude group, devoid of compassion. Having visited other places in the world I can frankly attest that I have never experienced apathy so widely spread throughout a populace as I have felt living in New York. The "New York attitude" isn't unique to lower class individuals who are down on their luck; it transcends class, gender, and race. It's evident in the Wall Street white collar, the ghetto rogue, the chubby mothers of three-and me. It's a compelling force. I've been trained, conditioned like one of Dr. Pavlov's dogs, to behave this way; to bark on demand, to push as I'm being shoved, to hate when hated. I was sucked into the vacuum of hate at an early age. When I was twelve years old, I got a taste of the caustic mali... ...form to the street below, I accidentally bump hard into somebody. I offer an apology to this fellow and stick my hand out in good will. He responds with a vile grunt and an ice-cold stare and mumbles, "Fuck off," before hurriedly scurrying away. Predictable, like a hackneyed cliche from the tobacco-chewing mouth of a vociferous Texas football coach in a half-time motivational talk with his players, is the behavior of this rough-hewn New Yorker. I tried leading this horse to water. He refused to drink. This new-found compassion to lead, to rectify, has lifted my soul halfway out of the hostile, rancorous dark New York mire. The remaining half of my soul is being held back by the stubborn horses whose reins I'm holding onto. They refuse to join me, to whinny and trot along the green meadows of tolerance. They keep bucking. But letting go will only pull me back in.