Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Describe a defining experience from your life.(Major essay, personal statement)
We were flying for nine hours over the invariable blue infinity of the Atlantic Ocean. I already had the impression that we left Sofia Airport a week ago, when, all of a sudden, I saw the brown shape of land under us. I couldn't remove my face from the narrow window, as the big Jumbo 747 passed over Newfoundland and approached the north coast of the U.S.A. That was my first sight of the New World, the event I've been dreaming of since I was eight. At that time I read my first novel written by an American author - The Last of the Mohicans by James Fennimore Cooper. Since then I had the most cherished fantasies of seeing this glorious land where different cultures and civilizations met and clashed for existence. And the moment I first beheld America, I found out that even then, at sixteen, those fantasies from my early childhood were still alive deep inside my heart. Half an hour later, the yellow beaches of Long Island emerged under us and I saw the endless multitude of houses called Suburbia. If I have to be honest, I was a little disillusioned. This picture appeared so ordinary and predictable. I expected a forest of skyscrapers covering all visible land, or at least the Statue of Liberty. But unfortunately, I didn't see anything of the kind. The plane landed at J.F.K. Airport. I was so excited and impatient to see my parents, that I almost forgot my bag on the luggage shelf. I hadn't seen them for nearly three years. They came to the land of unlimited opportunity to begin a new life, away from the rotten society of communism in Bulgaria. My father graduated first in his class from the Polytechnic Institute in Prague and was an engineer on the top of the line in my country. But he wasn't recognized in his field and was submitted to all kinds of outrages because of the fact that he didnt join the communist party in Bulgaria. He came to America at the age of forty and began from the very bottom. For three years he worked as a helper for some construction company in Brooklyn, carrying garbage and mixing concrete. He worked often 16 to 18 hours a day for a minimum salary of $4 an hour. But he endured everything with the only hope to bring his children to America and to provide them with the opportunity of a valuable education and better life than his own. And then, when I stepped on American land, I realized that his dream had come true and his efforts were worth it. But when I first saw my parents in that crowded waiting room at the airport, I felt very strange and uneasy. My mind was put between the memory of them and the actual reality, and the big difference confused me. They had changed so much, that I had a hard time accepting them as the same people I knew three years ago. My father had grown fatter and the number of white hairs on his head had greatly increased. A large percentage of my mom's hair had whitened, too; however, she was prettier, and as it seemed to me, younger. When I got to them, I put the luggage on the floor and hugged them both. Yes, it was different, much different from the last hug between parents and their child. This was a hug between adults, glad to see each other again, after a long time. At least, that's how it felt for me, and I knew that it couldn't go back. Nobody said anything, although there were so many things to say. My father took one of the suitcases, I took the other, and we headed to the parking lot in front of the airport. We got to a purple Oldsmobile station wagon: our car. I had almost forgotten the word 'our'. It just had lost the meaning of something that one shares with people close and dear to him, with his family. During the three years spent in the French boarding school in Plovdiv, Bulgaria, I got used to take care of myself and to depend on my own decisions and judgments. I excelled in school and everything I did, thanks to my own efforts and hard work, and my own enthusiasm to be the best. Then I decided to prove to the world my will and learned four languages in three year. During those hardest years of my life, however, while I was undergoing the complex change from a child to an adult and needed the most the spiritual and moral support of my parents, they were missing and I was left to cope with the biggest cataclysm in my life alone. It is true that my grandparents tried hard to play the invaluable role of parents but the vital influence of my real ones was irreplaceable. On the way home I was looking through the window at the beautiful views outside. It was April and the first signs of spring were embellishing everything. But I was indifferent to the splendor of nature. I was too busy making a summary of my short life and thinking how the enormous change, which I was undergoing, was going to change the course of my future. How would I live with my parents again? What would happen to my education? How would I integrate in this society completely new to me? Would I see my friends and my country again? All these questions were flooding my brain and made me feel dizzy. Suddenly, I felt exhausted of all the dilemmas that confronted me and I wanted to forget everything. Besides the confusion in mind, the jetlag from the ten-hour flight contributed to my complete exhaustion. My eyes closed by themselves and in a moment I fell asleep without even realizing it.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
What personal experience determined your life choices to the greatest extent. (major essay)
My interest in medicine began with the personal and national tragedy of the nuclear meltdown at Chernobyl in the spring of 1986. My little brother Damian was born on Christmas day, 1980, when I was four years old. I still remember how happy I was when the doctor opened the door of the waiting room in the Sofia General Hospital and announced that it was a boy. No one could have predicted what would happen five years later, on a beautiful Saturday morning in the spring of 1986. My family had just arrived at our summerhouse in the Balkan Mountains of Bulgaria for the weekend. As I played outside, my mother struggled to put Damian to sleep. She was worried because the boy had been crying all day long and seemed to be suffering from some kind of allergic reaction. Soon after we got back home that evening, Damian experienced violent seizures and lapsed into a coma. My parents, hysterical, rushed him to the hospital and brought me along. We stayed there late into the night, watching through the windows of the emergency room as doctors tried frantically to save his life. I was terrified, confused, and unable to understand what was causing so much pain to my family. I had lost strength even for prayers. Unlike many other young Bulgarian children at that time, my brother lived, but only to embark on a long and agonizing struggle for survival. Damian's immune system had been severely damaged from the Chernobyl radiation. He would need to take various medications on a regular basis for the rest of his life. My parents were trying to do everything in their power to ensure the best possible life for him and in the summer of 1990 my family left for the United States. I stayed behind since I had just been accepted to the prestigious French Language Boarding School. The thought of Damian, however, never left me. I set a new goal for myself - to become a medical scientist and find a cure that could help my brother and other people with immunodeficiency diseases. In the meantime, I cared for my grandparents and strove to excel at school. I decided to test the strength of my will and for the next two and a half years I learned French, English, Spanish, and Russian at the level of proficiency. I also participated in science and math Olympiads and volunteered at a homeless shelter and the Bulgarian Red Cross. I became independent, taking care of myself and relying on my own judgment. By the end of my third year I ranked in the top 1% of my class. Then, in the spring of 1993, I received a visa for the United States and finally rejoined my family in New York. The happiness of the reunion, however, was eclipsed by the worsening condition of my brother. He had undergone treatments at some of the leading hospitals in the U.S., with little effect. Damian was extremely depressed and had no motivation. His deterioration threatened to affect his academic career and compromise his future as well as his health. I decided that the best way to help my brother was to inspire him by being a positive role model. This thought gave me tremendous strength. Despite the challenges of a foreign language and new educational environment, I worked hard and excelled academically. I also tutored and volunteered in the homes of elderly people afflicted by stroke. In the summer of 1994 I was accepted on a full scholarship to a science program at Columbia University. It focused on Genetics and Molecular Biology and presented a great opportunity to do research. After I completed the program, I continued working with a Biochemistry professor on a project involving bacterial conjugation for which I wrote an original thesis report. The project was awarded the semifinalist title in the Westinghouse Science Talent Search. The results were gratifying. Damian was moved by my personal example and continuous support. Despite his condition, he became enthusiastic about academic and extracurricular activities. His schoolwork improved substantially and in the spring of his freshman year in high school he joined the soccer team. He regained his confidence and made new friends. At Harvard I concentrated in Biochemical Sciences and took some of the most challenging courses offered. An example is the Introduction to Molecular Immunology I took in my third year. Despite the challenging nature of this medical school-format course, I was fascinated with the subject and intrigued by the experiments in the field. The material was relevant to my brother's struggle with immunodeficiency disease and I saw parallels between his condition and AIDS. For that reason, I decided to join a lab at the Dana Farber Cancer Institute where I had the opportunity to do research in the field of HIV vaccine development and write my senior thesis, which was awarded a summa cum laude. In conclusion, the most valuable asset I can bring to the medical profession is my deep-felt commitment to helping people with serious disease. I will never forget the effects of the Chernobyl disaster, which cost the lives and health of thousands of innocent people, one of which was my brother. As a witness affected personally by that horror, I vowed never to give up my dream of helping people worldwide. I believe the best way to fulfill this promise is through the study and practice of medicine.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Common Application: Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, or risk that you have taken and its impact on you.
A princess at the age of five' I reigned over my imaginary kingdom in the library's children's area every Saturday morning. The cushy seat was my royal throne and the endless shelves of books were my domain. As ruler of a magical land, I had the power to explore Africa, to fly with Babar, or to cross the Boston streets with ducklings at the slight flip of a page. Rows of adventure laid at my disposal. I loved the children's area, the tollbooth to my Wonderland. As I grew older, I still visited the library and knew the librarians by name. However, I spent more time researching in the nonfiction section than daydreaming in the children's area. Sports, music and academics had replaced my adventures into fantasyland. My reign as princess existed only in memories. One Saturday morning, while I returned a reference book, the head-librarian Jennifer voiced her troubles to me. With furrowed brows, she told me apprehensively that the story lady had just phoned in sick. Yet she loath to cancel story hour the sight of eager kids already seated at the children's corner. Sensing her dilemma, I volunteered to be the storyteller for the day. Entering the children's area was like meeting an old friend, but being the storyteller - the center of thirty pairs of eyes' made my stomach churn. With clammy hands, I gingerly picked up a copy of The Three Little Pigs and began to read in a shaky voice. 'Speak slowly. Enunciate. Don't rush,' I inculcated. 'The children count on you to bring the story to life. Don't screw up!' I reminded myself. 'This is just like reading to your brother at night. Confidence. Control. Think of this as giving a concert. Be passionate! Wait - read slower - you can do it. Don't be shy to be a fool. Have fun!' With these encouraging thoughts, I became the raconteur, painting pictures with my voice and hands. When the wolf in the story 'huffed and puffed', I stretched my neck, inflated my cheeks and blew obnoxiously. When the wolf finished devouring a pig, I leaned back, rubbed my stomach and licked my lips slowly. The children and parents laughed, mimicking me by sticking out their tongues and oinking like pigs. Together, we all became the wolf and the three pigs. At the conclusion of the last page, I felt breathless but elated; invigorated by the children's cheers, I opened another tale. Story time has brought me back to the children's section; it has reminded of my imaginative past and returned me to my carefree youth. Every weekend, I reenter magical dragon guarded castles and fairy kingdoms to embark on arduous quest. However this time, I am more than the starry-eyed child who flips though pictures books looking for adventure' I am now 'The story lady', the 'li-berry-ann', the friendly face who safeguards the crowns for the future princes and princesses.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Major: Write a personal essay that will help us to know you better. Ex. Families, intellectual and extracurricular interest, ethnicity or culture, school and community events to which you have strong reactions, people who have influenced you, significant experience, personal aspirations, or topics that spring entirely from your imaginations. You should feel confident that in writing about what matters to you, you are bound to convey a strong sense of who you are. (500)
I hug the dryer fresh warm blanket closer around me. Outside the ominous sky threatens to pit fat raindrops against my curtain-drawn windows, but I am safe from the blustering gale. I am in my room, my sanctuary where I can think. Drawing a pillow closer to my chest, I curl up on my bed to reread a worn copy of The Glass Menagerie. Laura lived in her imaginary world - what type of world do I live in? Am I like her? I suppose that I am similar to Laura Wingfield that I reflect upon the past. I can vividly recall my kindergarten self planting leaves and counting stars; playground games seemed only like yesterday: swinging on swings, jumping on seesaws and climbing on monkey bars. However, I have moved on. My past does not define me; it only shaped me. No, though I remember my childhood, I am not Laura - I do not live in memories. As a young girl, I was shy and afraid to express my views like Laura. But after I began playing the violin, I grew outspoken and self-assured - my violin pushed me to overcome my introverted nature. My instrument's four resonate strings and warm sound box believed in me by freeing my emotions and allowing me to sing. From each recital and concert, I gained a bit of confidence - until I finally locked my fluttering butterflies in cocoons within my stomach. My violin is my springboard to the world. It gives me the courage to lead story time and the confidence to serve as Academic League Captain. Without my violin, I would probably be the silent Laura, hiding in the classroom corner rather than leading the class discussions. Laura isolated herself in her glass menagerie and never connected with others. I also have an eclectic trinket collection, but I realize that crystal ornaments are only objects. No matter how sparking or clear they are, they lack the warmth, the trust and the understanding found in human-to-human relationships. I build these bonds between hearts. As a Peer Advocate, I connect with cancer patients, pregnant teens, and failing athletes by listening to their personal experiences and supporting them on their path to success. Through counseling, tutoring and encouraging, I have learned how to empathize and identify with others. My world extends beyond inanimate objects into the emotional realm. And unlike Laura, I dream of the future. I embrace change, I question life, and I wonder about tomorrow. Will I do well on my statistics test? Will become a Yalie and study under Dr. Richard Edelson? Will I make a difference? Find success? Find happiness? These questions linger in my mind as my eyelids begin to feel heavy. The play falls from my fingertips as my head drops into the pillow. The sound of pattering rain fades as I slowly drift off to sleep...
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Minor: How have you taken advantage of the educational opportunities you have had to prepare for college?
It was six o'clock. I stood at the main gate clutching my backpack tightly in both hands while watching my dad drive away to his night shift job. His last reassurances echoed in my ears as I turned to walk towards class. I tried unsuccessfully to control my jumpy steps as shivers of excitement and fear ran down my spine. It was my first day of school again; it was my first time as a college student. That night marked the advent of my college experience. The year before, I had completed my middle school's highest math level, and I now had the choice to either skip math for a year or enroll in a community college class. At first, I did not know that to do. I loved math but I felt apprehensive of being a junior high student in a college course. After long deliberations, I decided to take the challenge. I enrolled, and I excelled in the college Intermediate Algebra class. Ever since taking that first math class, I have continued to challenge myself with other courses such as chemistry, French and statistics. College is now familiar territory; college classes are where I can study subjects in depth and satisfy my craving for knowledge.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Name an item that is special to you and explain why it is.
'Mama says they was magic shoes. They could take me anywhere.' Forrest Gump Here he comes again, stomping down the stairs with big thumps. Even as I sit here on the other side of the house, I can feel the ground shake as he approaches. His face soon appears above my soles as his bare feet slide on top of me. The moment I feel his calloused feet against my foot beds, I wonder what our next adventure will be. Hardly a day passes when I am not with him. Every day through sun, wind, rain, and yes, even snow, I protect his feet. People tell him that he is crazy for wearing Birkenstock sandals in the winter, but I know that I am special to him. He is always running'to school, to Student Council meetings, to volunteer at the hospital - so I suppose that is why he and I are always a pair; he just needs to slip me on, and he is set to run out the door. We share many memories. I will never forget those long physics lab periods when he would pour over his work, making sure he examined every aspect of an experiment, or those days he would stay after school just to run extra trials. I could always tell whenever he got frustrated because his right foot would begin to shake, but he never quit; his curiosity would not let him. I remember days in government class when he would get into political debates with his teacher. Sometimes he would win, sometimes he would not, but he always came out of them more knowledgeable about the topic than he had been going in. He is never afraid to speak his mind and stand up for what matters to him. Together, we have marched in human rights protests in New York City, circulated petitions at his school, and fought the school board for club funding. Sometimes, he even fights with his brother for the remote control, but that's him, always passionate about what he does. Yet he never forgets about his other interests, however small. Sometimes we hang out in Barnes and Noble as he flips through magazines, looking for articles on international politics. There are sunny days we go to the park and toss Frisbees with his friends and rainy days we run out and dance in the rain. As a duo, we once joined in a snowball fight, only quitting when his feet began to turn shades of blue. I even remember, though not fondly, the day he used me as a projectile while horsing around with his friends. Still, I never miss a beat, even on sprints with his greyhound. I know he remembers the same things. Perhaps Forrest Gump's mother was right when she said that there are such things as magic shoes. But I am magical for a different reason: I can not only take my friend anywhere, but I can also take him to his memories of where he has been and what he has done. He will never leave me because we share these memories that pictures cannot capture. I know that when we arrive home after a long day, he will carefully place me in my corner spot near the door. There I will sit and wait, until I can again feel the rumble of his footsteps.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
This was the essay for the Common Application - one of the suggested topics was to write about a challenge you faced, which is roughly what this is about, though of course I took a creative angle to it.
'Kelly, why do we do this?' Val's question jolts into my rain-numbed reverie. 'D-d-do this?' I chatter. Water lifts the fragrance of shampoo from my braids and smudges mascara beneath my friends eyes. 'This... this sport.' Val spits the word as though it tastes bad. 'This torture. This hell. This exercise in misery.' 'Oh,' I reply, comprehension forcing itself across my icy face. 'Cross-country.' It's 4:21 on an October afternoon, and the rain is coming down like artillery fire. A whistle's lament cuts through the syncopated patter of the rain and chatter of my teeth as I take my place on the starting line. Crack! The report of the gun gives way to a thunderous rumble as fifty lightweights with whipping ponytails jostle for the lead. I hang back; years of racing have taught me to choose my battles carefully. Now is not the time. This is not the place. These girls are not the enemy. Thudding down the field, across the bridge, the clackety-clack-clack of one hundred and two feet rasps on weathered wood and wet gravel. Wood chips slither beneath my spikes as we scramble up monsters affectionately dubbed 'Freshman Hill' and 'Snake.' Val's question buzzes around my thoughts, unanswered, as the miles trickle by. Permeating the scene like the scent of wet leaves, apprehension weaves my stomach into knots. There is one hill yet to come. Cardiac. It is a name to strike fear into the most intrepid runners heart, a catchword in elite cross-country circles, the highest point in Sunken Meadow State Park. Deceiving us with twists and false summits, ridden with jutting roots and rain-gouged rivulets, nearly perpendicular at its apex - this hill is the defining feature of our course. Salty rain trickles between my lips as I approach its base. This is the time, the place, the enemy. I am ready. Pumping my arms in rigid arcs, I seem to bounce in place as other girls stagger past, hands on their knees. Trees and pebbles, rain and runners, all melt away until I am conscious only of this: that there is the hill, and there is me; and one of us will have to give up first. One of us... it won't be me... getting there I'm almost there n o w ! even breathing artificial regulation gives way to gasps of painful triumph as the victory burns in my calves my heart thumps in my ears like a war drum and my legs unwilling children must be forced to continue its not over yet knees still trembling the conquered hill pulls me toward its base with a force stronger than gravity feet skim the ground and then I am at the bottom and the colors cease to blur and again I find my rhythm wet braids beating a tattoo across my shoulders as they move like pistons or like dancers to a rhythm like the heartbeat of the pulsing earth. I have won. In the serenity of the final mile, epiphanies shoot like stars across my vision, startling me with sudden answers. A philosophy forms, unanticipated, as old questions are cast aside. Life is about the little things, the rain, and the leaves, and the easy rhythm of breathing. It's about running up hills, even though walking is faster. It's about spending hours on a poem for sheer love of language, not for a grade; it's about learning because I want to understand, not to outdo the person next to me. It's about running. I do not run to beat the clock, or my teammates, or the time my coach expects of me. I run because in the spaces between the footsteps and the heartbeats, I can feel the fiery green echoes of my soul. As I sail across the finish line, rain now warm against my skin, there is not a doubt left in my mind. I know why I do this.
