Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Personal Statement
In sixth grade, I took second place in the intermediate piano division at the Lake Geneva Musical Competition in Illinois. Amidst the happy chatter of the winners, my mom and I were silent. On the drive home, I recall saying to her, 'Wo shu le. I lost.' My mom nodded her head, knowing I was disappointed. 'Ma ma,' I promised her solemnly, 'from now on, I'll always win first place.' With success in mind, a conversation that occurred after I immigrated to the United States at age six replayed. During a serious talk with my father, he told me that to succeed as immigrants, we couldn't just be as good as Americans, we had to prove ourselves to be better. With my father's words in mind, I kept my promise to my mother; from that year on, I always won in my age division, beating many expert middle-schoolers and high schoolers alike. My drive to triumph over obstacles was evident, even while I was young. Upon immigrating to the United States, I attacked my biggest obstacle: language. In elementary school, I recall being laughed at for washing my hands in the drinking fountain, being scolded by my teacher for copying a classmate's journal entry because I couldn't understand the assignment, and being called 'chinky-eyes' by a little boy. One day in particular, soon after I came to America, my music teacher said to me, 'Nan, would you please close the door?' Stunned, I didn't know how to react. What was she saying? My mind quickly went over all the English words I knew in my head, but I didn't understand those words. 'Nan, can you close the classroom door?' she said again, slower this time, but with a clear hint of frustration in her voice. I stayed seated. 'Okay, Ben, would you close the door, please?' The boy next to me stood up and pushed the door closed, while I silently wished that I could suddenly grow wings and fly back to China. Walking home from school that day, I promised myself to work hard and learn those and other English words by heart. I would scrawl out English letters on pieces of scrap paper; listen to cartoon characters on TV and try to understand their jokes; and match the pictures to the phrases in Spot Can Run. Through my experience with language, I learned not to give up and not to feel sorry for myself, but instead to work harder. As a result, I was accepted to my school's accelerated English and math programs in fourth grade, where I studied with native English speakers. When the same boy tried to tease me during recess one afternoon, I responded, 'Excuse me! Is your brain malfunctioning?' Stunned by my progress in language, and because he didn't understand the word 'malfunctioning,' he turned and ran off. Since elementary school, I have continued to progress in academics while also exploring activities that connect with my heritage, such as the Asian Culture Club. But one of my greatest satisfactions came in third grade, during a day in music class when the hallway was particularly noisy. I raised my hand and, with a crisp and confident voice, asked the teacher, 'Ms. Van Dike, would you like me to close the door?'
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Amherst College Application Essay
Amherst College Application Essay Prompt 'You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, 'No, I don't want to watch TV!' Raise your voice - they won't hear you otherwise - -I-m reading! I don't want to be disturbed!' Maybe they haven't heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell; 'I'm beginning to read Italo Calvino's new novel!' Or if you prefer, don't say anything; just hope they'll leave you alone.' - from If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino And then? Essay I make an effort to relax. Talk about a contradiction& Maybe that's why it isn't working. Shouldn't I be doing something more important? Regardless, I take the risky route and continue to read If on a winter's night a traveler without warning my family. My door is already closed to shield me from the auditory onslaught of the TV in the next room. Yes, it's always on. Well, almost. Nevertheless, what kind of reader reads without the security blanket of a closed door? Feeling quite prepared, I immerse myself in the second paragraph, 'Find the most comfortable -- Knock. I knew it. I should have heeded Calvino's advice. I get up, place the book on my desk, and open my door. 'How are your college essays coming along?' asks my mother. 'Um, pretty well.' I nudge my mouse to deactivate my computer's screen saver, revealing a half-written draft. 'Except I'm kind of stuck on this one.' 'Maybe you should try another,' she suggests. 'Yeah. I guess.' 'Would you like something to eat?' 'No thanks. I'm fine.' Aware of the urgency of my task, she leaves me staring blankly at the monitor. I eagerly reach for the book. No. I've procrastinated enough. Not fond of leaving things unfinished, I reluctantly begin a new essay. I open Amherst's supplement and examine the prompts. Number two jumps out at me. It can't be& I ponder the question: 'and then?' 'And then, what?' I wonder. 'What kind of a prompt is this?' Perhaps I should pick another. Number one? Seems easy, but I'm sure everyone is going to do it. Number three? It's interesting; intelligence plays no small role in the formation of high school friendships and even 'subcultures.' But how can I pass up number two? I attempt to gather my thoughts (or lack thereof). So this is what writer's block feels like. Maybe Calvino himself can provide me with some insight. (Or maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to put off my daunting task.) I pick up the book and begin to read. Wow. That's quite the opening chapter. I'm tempted to continue reading, but the necessity of my task is overwhelming. I might as well discuss my reaction to the initial paragraph. I begin typing. Surprisingly, my ideas flow onto the page. That is, until my stream of thoughts runs dry. How am I going to reach that magic plateau of five hundred words? Frustration sets in. I throw the book on the floor. I'm too discouraged to focus. Hopefully some music will help. Rock? Too distracting. I settle for some mind-expanding Mozart. Only then do I realize the purpose of Calvino's instructions. Undoubtedly, he intended to be unique and clever, but, of course, he had a point: reading should be a journey, not a mere diversion, and to truly experience a novel requires a little mental preparation. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a book is more than enough to occupy the mind's eye. Unfortunately, for many, reading has lost its magic. In our fast-paced, high-technology world, our senses are incessantly inundated with useless distractions. So we compensate. Armed with the likes of abridged audio books, we experience the best of both worlds. Or do we? Has 'pleasure reading' become an oxymoron? Someday, when I have the time, I'm going to relax, concentrate, dispel every other thought, let the world around me fade, and finish If on a winter's night a traveler. But now, I have to finish my essay.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
General personal/candidate statement. Also, an essay describing a triumph. I used it for both questions.
Every young person has had some struggle, some grand accomplishment suitable for the college application essay--some intense effort wrought with pain and the eventual thrill of triumph. With this in mind, it seems apropos to recount a trying time in my life that is one of most defining first experiences. 'I'm not going to do it," I protested though I knew it would do no good. And so began my tale of woe: My first pull-up! Not a matter of life or death, I know, but a struggle nonetheless, and these things always seem worse during the anticipation. I already looked foolish enough, wearing the most athletic-looking thing in my closet that somehow never looked quite right on me. So why not complete the humiliation by failing miserably in front of the entire team? "I'm just a coxswain," I sighed as I grabbed hold of a metal bar that had proven to be the bane of my existence. Staring up at this, I thought about how utterly unnecessary the process was. I could be doing anything else! But I knew from the expression on my coach's face that I was doing nothing else until I got my chin over that bar. Tired and frustrated, I decided to give it a try. And so I tried, not just tried, but tried hard. Apparently, something inside me wanted to do this. I was not going to let an inanimate metal rod beat me. I was better than that. It wasn't just competitiveness that got me up there, though, and as much as drive to succeed motivates, it wasn't that either. I think it was looking down at my bow seat's hands, blistered and battered from weeks upon weeks of driving an oar through the water. She was cheering for me. The whole team was, and so I did it. And when I came down, I was barely aware of the minor physical accomplishment. Instead, I focused on the realization of what it meant to really be part of a team. The support, the camaraderie, and the understanding were all manifested in this one small act. This was what I truly saw as an accomplishment at that moment. In retrospect, I have realized that this event has served as a metaphor for how I deal with challenge in general. I believe that when faced with adversity, it is of paramount importance to stand firm and grab hold of the bar. That is why this event stands out in my mind, turning the simple narrative of a coxswain's first pull-up into a struggle worth mentioning.
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.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Tell us about who you are. Personal Statement
EARLY ACTION Essay One. Korean-Spanish, that was how my American friends identified me. Unlike Korean, my birth identity, or Spanish, my cultural identity, I did not know what to make of my new identification. Korean-Spanish reflected my past and it seemed that this new identification was my only possible one in America. Somehow my American friends were fascinated by a 16-year-old Korean boy who came from Spain and spoke four languages fluently. Maybe Korean-Spanish was how I really identified myself. Or maybe I had already guessed that my new friends would hyphenate my identification, just like African-American, or Japanese-American. (Pardon me if I am wrong, but to me, it seems as though most of the American identifications include hyphens.) In America, everyone seemed categorized and hyphenated. I read a number of passages in the Critical Reading sections of the SAT I that began by citing articles or books written by different hyphen-identified people. One introductory paragraph said: 'This passage is from a book written by a Chinese-American woman about Chinese-American women writers.' Another stated: 'This passage is from a book by an African-American woman who is a law professor.' I was confused: 'So, is the author of the book African or American?' Hyphenation of identities was perplexing and ambiguous to me. Why cant everyone with an American passport be just American? America has always been an eclectic society where much diversity in ethnicity and race existed. In that sense, America is more than just a country; it is a smaller representation of the world. However, Spain and Korea have always been, and still are, countries mostly populated by people of single ethnicities. Spain and Korea both want to maintain the country among their people and limit opportunities for foreigners. They have to change. I was blessed to be able to live in three different countries, on two different continents. My intercontinental life has given me the ability to perceive the world from a different point of view. Before I realized, the American culture found its place in me and naturally became part of me. I no longer am just Korean-Spanish, but Korean-Spanish-American. As I assimilated the diverse cultures each continent represented, my international experiences helped me to understand that underneath, people were very much the same regardless of their ethnic backgrounds. Maybe that was why I felt that learning many languages English, Spanish, and French was essential. I believe that foreign people and cultures can only be truly understood through their own languages. Yet, I hold onto my native language, Korean, for I know how important my roots are. Ironically, even though the world is being globalized, ethnicity, race and religion still cause friction among people. I hope, with my international experience, I can help make the world change into one in which ethnicity and race are of little consequence. I am convinced that through understanding, tolerance, and acceptance, we can make a difference in this world. It is time to begin a journey towards the shaping of a truly globalized world, where I hope to act as an unbreakable bond among different countries.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
What invention had the greatest impact in your life?
If somebody were to ask me, 'What invention had the greatest impact in your life?' I would not hesitate to say 'jigsaw puzzles.' The jigsaw puzzles had the biggest impact on my life. Since the age of four I became the creator of many things; from Mickey Mouse to Guggenheim Museum of Bilbao, Spain. As I matured, the number of pieces needed for creation increased. When I was five, the number of pieces were already exceeding one hundred. While I was struggling with a thousand identical pre-created puzzle pieces, I learned many things, more than just the names of my creations. The puzzles taught me perseverance. Jigsaw puzzles require much concentration and persistence. Beginning with the edges of the puzzle, piece by piece, I created my own Mona Lisa and Bayr Alphen of Germany. I endeavored until the last piece was in its right place for one misplaced piece could ruin the entire creation. When it seemed that I had come to a dead end, I endured until I found the piece that would lead me to the correct path again. I thank jigsaw puzzles for teaching me endurance. The puzzles also gave me motivation and inspiration. As the number of pieces in a puzzle grew, I felt more and more inspired to conquer them. As I created many works of art, I gained confidence, not only in the field of jigsaw puzzles, but also in other activities. I came to believe that there was a solution to every problem and did not hesitate to find an answer when struck by a difficult question. The jigsaw puzzles, in many ways, shaped me into who I am today. I am now creating the most difficult and sophisticated jigsaw puzzle ever, the puzzle of my life. I am molding my own life and building my own shape. I am just about to place another piece in my puzzle of life, applying to the college where I will be spending the next four years of my life. I look forward to finding many interesting pieces I could place in my puzzle of life during the next four years. I would like to think that the yet-to-be completed puzzle will become a whole, made up of the colors and shapes of my heritage, my efforts, my accomplishments and my dreams.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
'We seek [community] more often than we find it; we find it in odd and surprising ways; it is real but it is also fragile, uncertain, and sometimes ambiguous.' - Amherst College President Tom Gerety, Commencement Address 1994. Please write an essay about this statement.
Part of a Whole 'What's up mate? I need to&' 20-year-old Colin comes in on his wheel chair, waving his right fist in the air, meaning 'bathroom emergency.' Then Peter enters and grabs my neck to give me a big kiss on the cheek, saying, 'I love you.' A moment later, I hear one of the counselors screaming in agony with her hair firmly caught in Carolyns strong grip. This is how my day at Camp Smiley begins. One day, when I arrived at camp, I saw Michael, the camp director, talking to a man. They both looked frustrated. Juan's father, who was not fluent in English, had come to ask why his son had not eaten any lunch the previous day. Michael, knowing that I could speak Spanish fluently, asked me to talk to Juan's father. I explained to Juan's father that Juan had not eaten anything because he did not feel comfortable around people he had never met before. Juan's father, in disbelief that he was talking to an Asian boy in Spanish, asked me how I could speak fluent Spanish 'with a real Spanish accent.' He told me that he was very happy that someone who could speak both English and Spanish, worked at Camp Smiley. He said that his fear of being unable to communicate with the camp had vanished and that he would be asking for my help in the future to talk about Juan. Everyday at Camp Smiley was an adventure to me. I was happy to be part of the disabled people's lives. They loved me as much as I loved them. The campers would often begin laughing and dancing when I came in the morning. When 34-year-old Joseph was upset about his girlfriend Nadia, and slowly sat on my lap, I tried my best to cheer him up. It was my job to make unhappy campers happy and happy campers even happier. After so many fulfilling moments the nine weeks at Camp Smiley came to an end on August 30. On the last day of the camp, campers' parents joined us at the final barbecue. Chris' mother approached me with a small package, handed it to me and said 'Thank you.' Thinking that she had mistaken me for the camp director, I pointed at Michael. But she placed it on my hand saying, 'It's for you; I hope you understand how grateful I am for all you have done for my son.' I was already uncomfortable being paid weekly as a group leader, but this made me feel even more awkward. People did not seem to understand that my working at Camp Smiley was not for money or respect from volunteers but to try to help those who did not have the same privileges as I. I understood campers' parents' thinking that I had spent the whole summer helping their beloved children but it was I who received campers help to mature, to grow as a better person during the summer. Maybe that was why on the last day I returned most of the money I earned during the summer back to Camp Smiley. No one in this world can live alone. We are much better off if we live as parts of a whole. Campers at Camp Smiley are not different. They express their feelings through primal forms of expression such as kissing and hitting. There are no boundaries between us, who claim to be 'normal people' and the disabled because we have much to learn from their purity, their innocence, and their courage.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
What is the most significant academic honors you have received?
While I was in Spain, I applied for the Spanish perfection course at "La Escola Oficial d'idiomas" during ninth grade summer vacation. The course offered at "La Escola Oficial d'idiomas," a national language school, requires even the native Spanish speakers to take a qualifying exam. I was qualified and was accepted. The course began at nine o'clock in the morning and ended at half past one in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. At the end of the course, students had to take and pass a rigorous exam in order to graduate and receive a diploma. Fortunately, I passed the exam and graduated from the Spanish perfection course at 'La Escola Oficial d'idiomas' with the prestigious diploma and certificate.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
What was your most meaningful activity?
When I was in Spain I volunteered to teach Korean and English to underprivileged Korean-Spanish children every Sunday at church. It was a small church with about 30 children who could not speak, write or read any Korean or English. Spanish-Korean children, as a result of an absence of Korean language education, had forgotten their native language, maybe even their roots. Their parents, who were too busy to learn Spanish, couldn't even ask the children about their school lives. Thus, I offered to stay two hours after the service to teach these children both Korean and English. I communicated with them in Spanish and encouraged them to learn Korean and English. When I began teaching them, I was surprised at their eagerness, their thirst for knowledge. They wished to learn their native language and were proud to display their knowledge in front of their parents. I helped them to find their own identity, to absorb their own language. I read Korean books about Korean myths to the children. The first time I read a story for them, I had to read each page two or three times until they fully understood. But after a year they could, though very slowly, read Korean and English books by themselves. It was gratifying to see that I could be a bridge between people of different cultural backgrounds through my language skills. It was pleasing to see that my language skills were not used to only express my thoughts, but those of others too. Even though they still talked in Spanish with their peers, they tried to talk to their parents in Korean. It was an experience that I will never forget.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Please describe a person of great influence in your life and explain how the person influenced you.
A person of great influence She was immobile. She stood up. She took a step. She runs. She, the definition of perseverance and triumph. It was in March 1999 when I first met her. I had newly moved to Castelldefels, a suburban seaside town fifteen kilometres away from Barcelona. It was a nice house where you could see the Mediterranean Sea and the beach once you opened the windows in the living room. About a week later, I went out to the beach at six oclock in the morning to jog on the beach before school. Smelling the freshness of the morning breeze, I began jogging towards the southern end of 'La Playafels'. I saw a distant figure ahead of me. As I got closer to the figure, I realised that the figure I had seen was a middle-aged woman trying to force herself stand up from the wheelchair. As I approached her, she stopped and stared at my legs. I stopped. I said 'Buenos dmas!' and asked if I could be of any help. No reply, just the stare. So I continued my routine and when I looked back, I saw her still endeavouring to stand up. I pitied her for trying to achieve what seemed impossible but at the same time, admired her courage to reach what seemed unreachable. Every morning she tried to stand up, to be free. Our continuous 6 o'clock rendezvous at the southern end of 'La Playafels' was repetitious and unchanging. She, trying to lift herself up from the wheelchair and I, stopping to greet her. Every night I prayed. I prayed for a miracle. Every morning I put my trainers on, wishing that there was a change in the way we met; that it was the day she bore fruits of her efforts and faith. It was on a Tuesday in October. I silently went out. The sun was just about to rise. I began running as usual and could see her at a distance. First, it seemed that she was with someone because there was a figure behind her wheelchair. But as I approached her, I realised that the figure I had seen was actually her, standing up against her wheelchair. Her emaciated legs were trembling. She took a step forward and sighed. She let her hands release the handles of the wheelchair and took another step. She could not balance well and fell. I quickly went over to her and lifted her. She looked at me. She smiled. She had done it. Her legs gradually gained the strength she needed to walk. By the end of February 2000, she was able to jog lightly. As Henry Ford said, 'Whether you think you can or think you can't, you are right.' Her perseverance and her strong will brought her the glory she had always dreamed of. She was triumphant in the battle against herself. She was right in thinking that one day she could, as everybody around her did, stand up and freely move around on the beach early in the morning. Once she stood up and ran, there was nothing that could stop her. From my house I could see her running on the beach, through bright sunshine, through rain, and through fog. Sometimes we ran side by side towards the southern end of 'La Playafels,' in silence. In March of that miraculous year, my family and I decided to move to Pedralbes, where my school was located. Castelldefels was a beautiful town to live in but it was difficult to commute to school and work everyday. Though I knew I was going to miss her, I was happy to leave the town after seeing her achieve her goal. The morning I was going to leave Castelldefels, I went out to the beach at six oclock. As I walked to the place where I had first met her, I could see her running. She was coming towards me and once she recognised me, she waved. I said 'Buenos Dmas' as usual and she pointed the southern end of 'La Playafels,' meaning, 'let's run.' I told her that I could not run because I was leaving the town and that I admired her. I told her that I would never forget her, and that I learned much from her. Whether she understood that or not, she began to run towards the southern end of 'La Playafels' alone. She did not look back nor waved at me. This is what I believe: with perseverance, courage, and faith, there is nothing a human cannot do. She was the curer of my weak mentality, mentor of my life. When I first met her, I had felt sorry for her 'vain' efforts to walk, but as I saw her undaunted will, I came to firmly believe that one day she would be able to run just like me. If God gave people something special that other organisms did not receive, it is the ability to make impossible things feasible. I never met her since then, and a year after, I came to the States. I cannot physically run with her but she will always be in me, running with me, motivating me, eradicating my fears, freeing me from all the wheelchairs in my life.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Please explain why you have chosen to apply to this school.
I was lucky to live on two different continents, in three countries. As a
result, I gained an international experience and learned to quickly assimilate
the cultures different people represented. The cultural diversity that exists at
Duke is what attracts me to Duke. I believe that I could perform well, both in
academics and extracurricular activities, by joining the huge pool of diversity
at Duke.
Also, during my 11th grade February break, I visited Duke University and stayed
on the campus for four days with a close friend of mine who was currently a
senior majoring in English. During my stay, I visited many places to get to know
Duke thoroughly; I read books on campus, I dined with Duke University students,
and I attended many classes. While doing so, I felt a strong affection towards
Duke: I imagined myself living on the campus, studying and interacting with
different people. I met many friends of my host and they helped me gather
extremely appealing facts about Duke. I hope I could become a successful member
of the Duke student body.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
If you were given ten dollars, where and how would you spend it?
Before I realized, I was on a white, feeble horse walking by a man on a mule. I was wearing a heavy armor with a lance in my hand. We were riding towards the horizon of endless fields where there were many windmills turning slowly. I asked the man next to me, 'excuse me sir, where are we now?' The man said, 'We are still in La Mancha, don Quixote, but I am getting a little hungry now. Would you like a potato too mi amo?' A potato? La Mancha? Why is he calling me don Quixote? The man gave me a potato and kept on calling me either don Quixote or 'mi amo,' meaning 'my master' in Spanish. I must be in a play, acting as don Quixote, I told myself and decided to act well. A while later we saw a massive windmill in front of us. I remembered that I was supposed to destroy this windmill, thinking that it is a giant trying to hinder my path. So I lifted the heavy lance up and courageously charged against it. 'Princess Dulciane, this is for you!' I screamed and pierced the windmill. The result was that I got utterly destroyed and was defeated by the 'giant.' When I woke up, I was lying on a bed made of straw. The armor, fortunately, was taken off from me. I stood up and looked outside the window, where clouds of smoke were rising. I saw my father dressed up as a priest, my mother as a maid, and my sister as don Quixote's niece. They were, as planned, burning most of my books or giving them out to others. While they were busy doing that, I had to sneak out, wear that heavy armor again, get on my horse and go to Sancho Panza to depart again for the unfinished adventure. The priest, the maid and Quixote's niece was going to deliberately ignore me while I snuck out. But no, they began ruining the whole play by obstructing my path, and hiding my armor and lance. What were they doing? They laid me down on the straw bed again and my sister, Quixotes niece guarded me. I was lost. I did not know what to do next. I was not prepared to act impromptu. So I stayed there and waited, pretending I was asleep. Well& I really did fall into a deep sleep. I opened my eyes. Quixote's niece was gone! I looked at the clock across the room. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. I must have slept a bit too long. It was time to leave again. I looked around the room to see if the armor was there. The room had changed since the last time I looked around. In the place of piles of hay, there was a computer. In the place of farm tools, there was a DVD player. In disbelief I got up from what was no longer a straw bed, but a comfortable bed. As I got up something fell on my feet. It was a book. I picked it up and looked at it: Don Quixote de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, $10.00.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Please describe a book you have read in the past and explain how it influenced you.
'La Isla Soqada is all about an adventure I would have wanted to live' - says Fernando Martmnez Gil, the author of La Isla Soqada (The Dreamed Island). In fact, that is what everybody who reads the book would think. I received La Isla Soqada as a gift from one of my friends in Spain when I was leaving Spain to come to the United States. This book addressed a meaningful question in me because at first I could not decide whether I agree to the author's criticism about certain people's lives. The book is about the adventures Juan, the protagonist, has during his journey to find a nonexistent island (or rather, an island in his dreams) that he believes it to be 'the Heaven of the Earth.' Gil praises the courage and eagerness of Juan, who embarks on a journey full of unknown and obscurity. Gil commends Juan's zealous pursuit of his dreams but at the same time, criticizes Juan for disregarding the reality and living in his dreams. While reading this in the airplane heading to the United States, I applied Juans journey to mine. When I was nine I embarked on a dreamlike journey to Europe without any knowledge about how Europe would be like. After eight years of life in Spain, I decided that Spain was not the destination of my dreams and left for the United States. It seems that Gil would reprimand my traveling to so many different places in pursuit of my dreams. I, however, hesitated to agree to Gil. I could not decide whether Gil's criticism was a valid one of the lives of people with dreams. Gil seemed to censure their lives for impracticality but I have always believed that going on an adventure to seek one's dreams was worth a try. There was so much to learn, so much to experience during the pursuit of the dreams. I know that my departing from South Korea to go to Europe was not a futile choice for I learned so much in Europe, even the things I could not have in Korea. I came to the United States for the same reason: to learn more. In the end, after arguing about Gil's criticism with myself, I was convinced that the people with dreams do not live a vain life in pursuit. They accomplish their dreams while pursuing them. La Isla Soqada is a book that anybody with dreams should read because it is never too late to embark on a journey of dreams.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
What experiences have led you to believe that this school is the right place for you?
What experiences have led you to believe that a place like ______ is right for you? The band's rhythmic melodies winged through the atmosphere, one after another and in small chaotic flocks. His heavy Trinidadian accent odorized the cigarette-smoky Atlantic City winds with pacific philosophy. His existence was overall unreal to me, like a wandering spirit, random (what could have made a six-foot-six drummer from a reggae band that was performing live at a cafi that I was not eating at, walk up and speak to me?), fluttering from place to place, and he was calling out to me to spread the word of his dovish outlook on life. "People are people," he cooed. "Skin color or hair color, none of it makes any difference because one thing unifies us all - no matter who we are, we are all capable of love. And that's all that matters." I agreed; who could disagree with someone so agreeable? Then, he gestured towards the diners, most of whom had moved onto the dance floor. "Don't you like to dance?" he asked, as he saw me moving to the music. And before I could reply, he says, "If you do like to dance, why aren't you?" The drummer continued. "You can't just ignore what it is you love to do. Find your passions and live them out!" A burst of cheery pre-school songs brings me back from my fleeting reverie. I was not singing along. In the Day Room of the ninth floor of the Geriatric Ward, I was there on volunteer duty for the first time - Recreational Therapy work, helping nurses conduct the patients in stretches and exercises, reading to them, singing, and other activities. But they were singing now, and I was unable to volunteer anything but another daydream. A school of mentally handicapped swimmers watched my every move. I had never coached anyone in any sport or tutored anyone in any subject, and there I was, for the first time and alone, expected to coach ten mentally handicapped kids in training for the Special Olympics. When their eyes turn towards me, will I be able to direct them? The greenest member of Gizmo, a community-service group of performance dancers, I was the only member, of nine, who hadn't ever performed yet. At each practice, I would be the only one unfamiliar with previously mastered patterns and techniques. Will I have what it takes to run with this group of polished performers? The tape player was shut off, and I am back in the Day Room. "Music time is over for today," a nurse piped, "and it's now time for Art." The poster paints and the watercolors and the pencils and the crayons came out. I shuffled from my stool in the corner and took a seat at the table with the other geriatric artists. I knew this language well; together we drew the birds and the fish, we painted the stars and the sands, we colored in the skies and the seas. For one full hour, we embraced creation; creation, the antithesis of anything bad there ever was. Recalling everything from my former years as a swim team member on the Bergen Sharks, I mustered this kindled memory into a workable set of specific drills, focusing on improving form and improving speed. Yelling these directions from the side of the pool, much like my former swim coaches who so intimidated me, I knew something, and I could apply it. Gizmo was in the spotlight at the D.A.R.E. graduation for fifth-graders in a large middle school. And I was in the spotlight for a few exhilarating moments, exhibiting my impromptu self-choreography as powerfully and masterfully as I knew how, concentrating as much skill I had into this one short solo. It struck me that, perhaps, I can be a role model to one or more of these children. "Wake up, Brian." Mom's soft voice brings my consciousness back to the Day Room. 'You're daydreaming again.' "You're right, mom, I was daydreaming again," I yawned. 'Let's go home now.' And I thought to myself: This time, it wasn't about the birds and the fish, the stars and the sands, or the skies and the seas. It was about things I've done not long ago. I was toiling over a prize-winning self-portrait. I was completing another website. I was reading another Greek tragedy. I was swimming alongside the Special Olympics team, instructing and helping them on every step of the way. I was performing onstage in the school auditorium, with over a thousand pairs of unblinking eyes on me. I was using my talents and my passions to touch the lives around me. I know what I need to do now. I have to further explore my extracurricular and academic interests, and use them to create somethingto express myself and to give back to the people around me. I need to find a place where I can develop my passions. It is time to find my passions and live them out. It is with this attitude that I apply to ______.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Topic of choice: describe something extracurricular.
I didn't know what to call it. I had spent hours of my days, days of my months, and months of my year, all committed to the completion of one project that needed to be finished by the end of the year. My piece would be judged by a panel reviewing numerous productions from students all over Bergen County. In the making of my creation, long hours were spent sitting in the old blue rolling chair, my right leg folded over my left, always, my watch on my left wrist, always, my old baggy black jeans, always, my white Tommy Hilfiger tee-shirt, always, and the Sony earphones in my ears that weren't plugged into anything, always. Everything had to be kept in exactly the same condition as it was in the beginning. All the conditions were controlled with precision. I had made it, but I didn't know what to call it. Furiously working with pencil in hand, scratching away at the pad, building up a foundation, and repeatedly tearing most of it down again, I had spent long hours revising my own work. This cat-and-mouse game between creation and destruction had been played out a multitude of times within the confines of my skull. Every single detail had to be as accurate as possible; for this work, there was a clear right and wrong, with no gray area in between the black and the white. The dozen scattered pencil stubs spoke of my near neurotic attention to detail. I was drawing a self-portrait, and I didn't know what I was going to call it. On the little slip of paper, scotch-taped to the cardboard backing of the frame that my self-portrait was to occupy, the space allocated for the title of the work read, "Self-portrait" which pretty much meant that it was untitled. Though it would be virtually impossible to create an exact replica of myself on paper, the effort had been for the most part completed by my own standards. What mainly bothered me about it was that there was a very considerable weight of negative space on the right-hand side. I would have to fix that, I thought to myself. By now, my digits ached, the remains of several pencils and erasers lay around me, and I was tired. Though only one man, with only two hands, only one body, and only one soul, I bore so many responsibilities. I had just been so overworked, with schoolwork, extracurricular studies, training to be in competitive shape for track and field time trials, preparing for standardized tests, and this. The prospect of effacing a thick layer of graphite and returning to my cat-and-mouse game of construction and revision for any longer just to move an arm or add a background prop unnerved me. What I needed was some rest, a way to stop time, something that would help me bear the load anything that would help me bear the load, even a third arm. A third arm? I stared at the paper, and for a moment, it smiled back at me. Picking up an eraser and pencil, I set to work. The dull soreness in my fingers faded, the fatigue seemed to disappear; nothing seemed to matter I had an idea. And some hours later, it was finally done: a portrait of me with three arms. This mirror image of myself, with my third arm helping me get my work done, on an 18-inch by 24-inch piece of paper mounted behind glass, would win The Festival Award. Only twenty artists of numerous submissions from artists all over Bergen County in the Teen Arts Festival win this award. My piece, along with the other winning entries, would be displayed at Barnes & Noble Booksellers and at Gallery West during the summer; but these honors were minor compared to the composition itself. This paper was a magic mirror of sorts, which showed me more than just my physical appearance - with the addition of the third arm, it reminded me of my own multifaceted nature, manifested by my perpetual occupation, whether it be in academics, athletics, or the arts. The meticulous accuracy of every line and shade became secondary; with the addition of the third arm, the image had taken a step away from my physical reality, but by doing so, the self-portrait became a truer representation of me. I had finally completed it. All it needed was just one final stroke& On the little slip of paper, scotch-taped to the cardboard backing of the frame that my self-portrait occupied, I added an "s" - and the title was changed to "Self-portraits."
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Describe what it is like at your high school.
A lost soul in a science magnet school Nine words, count them. The Academy for the Advancement of Science and Technology. Perhaps a bit intimidating, and without a doubt a tongue twister, but the one thing it represented for me was a celebration of brilliance and achievement. My carefully executed one-man exodus from Emerson High was a move I'll never regret. I said goodbye to a Darwinian battleground (or cafeteria, whichever term you prefer) where only the fittest survived and only the very insulated didn't receive pressure to abuse controlled substances or at best, live a life of mediocrity, getting easy A's and spending the rest of the day chillin' like a villain. Enter AAST. A completely different set of perspectives. Suddenly it was great to be smart and talented; it was the norm to want to do well, and nobody was ashamed to admit that they had passions beyond what was on TV last night. High achievement became the norm; it was the baseline for the 'Academy culture' that brought us together to the school in the first place. It is with this background, as a resident of bipolar cultures, that I access the statement; there was something quite beautiful here, and quite special; we were living sheltered in a brilliant ghetto. Perhaps an Academy kid could survive in the confines of Emerson High, quietly and unassumingly; however, if the Academy-types grew in number, then perhaps the Emerson culture would pound that group down, and assimilate them to fit their own mold. But now, I am using hyperbole to illustrate my points; brilliance, I must tell you (if you did not already know) that is a form of diversity with the same struggles as being Korean in an Italian-dominated town or Islamic in a Christian country - I know because I went to The Academy, the first brilliant ghetto of New Jersey. By now, you're probably thinking of asking the clarifying question, 'Okay, so the Academy is heaven, and Emerson is hell?' If you are, I've gone way too far. I've had my share of struggles at the Academy and Stephen Hall of The NYTM may have touched upon it in his article 'The Smart Set.' Here he writes, 'Brilliance, in other words, is just another form of diversity at a school with an Islamic Society and Gay-Straight Alliance. As Marc Ostrega, a teacher, put it one day, science is just another alternative lifestyle.' Interpreting from this quote alone, Hall seems to be equating brilliance exclusively with science. Again, enter AAST. Here, Science is more than an alternative lifestyle; it is the lifestyle. Science teachers are revered throughout the school, and with a mandatory schedule that fills more than fifty per cent of the day with science courses, the ones who love science win all the gold stars. This, for a student with a more artistic leaning, made things difficult. Enter X (that's me). Already a prolific artist, who seeks the pure essence of scientific thoughts without really trying. When pressured to explain why, within this intensely scientific community, I maintain an equally intense artistic leaning without peers, I blame (or credit) Harry. No, not Harry Potter. It was the 1955 bestseller entitled Harold and the Purple Crayon. It may not have been much more than a mere entertainment to the masses, but it is no exaggeration to say that I have been moved to action by the powerful prose and enchanting artwork found within these pages, with the captivating opener: 'One evening, after thinking it over for some time, Harold decided to go for a walk in the moonlight.' Enter Harold's epic saga. The tale presents itself on a level basic enough; it is the tale of Harold and his night-time adventure through the one-tree forest, the ocean, up a mountain, on a hot-air balloon, and through the city, exploring a new world, entirely created by Harold via his magical purple crayon, until it is time to climb back into bed, safe and sound. Yet the implications belying the simplistic plot and language, and the child-like illustrations are much more significant than they may seem. Harold's nocturnal journey symbolizes a concrete manifestation of Harold's dream; to see the sights, take wild trips, and in general, to seize the day. The most important aspect was that Harold paved his way entirely by himself, by drawing himself into and out of situations with his purple crayon. Sure, Harold was lucky to happen to have that magical purple crayon, but a picture of Harold holding a crayon wouldn't have gotten anywhere; it took Harold's vivid power of imagination to bring out the hidden abilities of the crayon. Overall, it takes a great mind to make a great man. Thus, I have been lucky to learn so early on in my childhood that imaginative strength, and the attempt to realize a dream and integrate that dream into life, are indeed powerful tools in life. It is often said that art mirrors life; in Harold's case, art had been utilized to direct life itself. Harold's dream adventure has given me, throughout my childhood, a strong artistic propensity. I have often utilized the arts in order to express sentiments and emotions, and further develop my sense of imagination. And drawing my way through life has even led me to yet another pathway of expression: to the literary arts. In spite of Harold's enormous and laudable imaginative prowess, it is not Harold who leads the life that should truly be emulated. It is the mastermind behind Harold himself who leads that life: Crockett Johnson. Harold's adventures through art were entirely personal, and for no one's benefit but his own. Crockett Johnson, however, had committed his own endeavors not for his own gain, but for the gain of others. The magic behind the tale that gave my life direction lied not with Harold and his ability to spark life into his drawings, but with Crockett Johnson, who sparked life into Harold and to his readers. As the identity of my role model evolved from Harold to Crockett Johnson, so had my life objective turned its focus from personal enlightenment towards the enlightenment of others. Enter AAST science teachers. How would they handle this impossible future humorist/dramatist/museum director (that's me), who is said to seek the Tao of scientific thoughts without having any direct eye contact, after determining that Fourier Transformation or Jacobian matrix of the vector valued functions have very little to do his (or my) future career? Of course, they immediately sensed my hidden strategy, and reciprocated by withholding A's from important 6 credit courses, which I desperately need to be admitted to Amherst. But, without me recognizing, somehow little by little, they succeeded in empowering me in many scientific means! How is that possible? I really don't know. But it does not matter. I just started understanding things* and things started to work**. *X started assisting his mentor Dr. Jingyue Ju, a recipient of the Packard Fellowship, at Columbia University Genome Center, as an intern in an effort of accelerated DNA sequencing, which fosters combined understanding of analytical chemistry, experimental biology, microfabrication engineering and bio-computing. Ju group strives to significantly contribute to the solutions leading to detection, diagnosis, and treatment of common inherited disorders. **X founded, developed, and is the web-curator of The Webster Museum of Combined Arts, http://www.webstermuseum.org.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
What was your biggest challenge in life and what did you learn from it?
A Day in the Life 'Go to the door! All right, are you ready to jump?' 'Sir, yes, SIR!' 'Speak up! Are you sure?' Psychologists say that of all heights, people most fear falling from 11.3 meters above the ground - about the height of a four-story building. The Korean army exploits this fact in its 11.3-meter tall Mak training towers, reasoning that if a soldier can conquer his or her fear of jumping from that height, he or she can jump from any. That my own memories of the Mak tower persist so intensely stands in stark contrast to my recollections of the other trials of life in the 701 Regiment of the Special Assault Commando Unit. Despite its foreboding moniker, the 701 Regiment was less a training ground for elite special forces than it was an army-operated camp for over-stimulated adolescent boys. This is not to say 'military life' was devoid of challenges - indeed, survival in the 701 Regiment involved precisely the kind of tribulations I as a twelve-year-old boy was ill prepared to contend with. The food was tasteless and underdone, and access to television and junk food was strictly prohibited. The instructors kept us under constant surveillance, filling our days with drills and exercises. Today, I feel gratitude for the discipline the instructors labored to instill in us, and a bemused nostalgia for the twelve-year-old boy whose most profound grief arose from losing two Saturdays' worth of soccer with his friends. But the emotions stirred by these recollections remain dulled, muted by the hazy expanse of time. Not so with the Mak tower. Early the morning of our second day, we assembled at the base of the tall mountain overlooking the camp, our first exercise of the day. The ascent was steep and our only relief was the cooling breeze blowing down from the summit. Twenty minutes into the hike, we came to a rocky plateau dug into the side of the mountain where the instructors ordered us to halt. There, we saw a half-dozen soldiers poised on top of a tall wooden tower. A cry rang out from the tower, and without a moment's deliberation, the men leapt from their perches, restrained from certain death by only four impossibly-thin ropes attached to a cable. I was terrified. Our instructors turned to their silent regiment. 'No one has to do it. If you don't want to do it, you can leave.' Several of my fellows immediately fell out of the group and headed back to camp. My fear, bolstered by reason, urged me to go with them, but a peculiar resolve compelled me to stay. Even now, I struggle to account for this alien resolve that carried me up the four flights of wooden stairs and steadied my hands as I fastened the safety gear around me. I do not think it was bravery, for I was very much afraid, and had I perceived a choice in the matter, I may not have been able to do it. Rather, I think it was a sense of purpose that guided me. Five years have passed since the afternoon I stood atop the Mak tower, but to this day I can feel the echoes of the adrenaline that coursed through my veins as I stepped to the edge of the precipice, and the mere recall of the ground 11.3 meters and some unfathomable distance below still shoots an icy jangliness through my shoulders and into the back of my skull. The wind blew fiercely as I readied myself, drowning out the barking of the drill instructor, pressing me back into the security of the tower's bulwarks. A ripple of indecision rolled through me and then in an instant, was gone, carried away in the slipstream. With my eyes wide and fixed on the horizon, I pushed off. The beginnings of change for me occurred that afternoon on the mountain. Though my friends watching from below would later insist that I passed only through open air, moments after I leapt, I felt myself crossing a threshold. Hurtling toward the earth, strapped into a confining safety vest, I tasted a kind of freedom previously unknown to me, the freedom of a world unbounded by ones fears. The process of disentangling myself from them has been gradual. Five years later, I am still all too often distanced from life by a wall of my anxieties. But the freedom I came to know just a little that afternoon provided me a glimpse of the riches that lie behind it.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Common Application Personal Statement
(Kimchi: a representative Korean food that is made of pickled vegetables, typically with red pepper seasoning. Koreans can never live without Kimchi, let alone eat anything without it). Maybe I was Korean, but not Korean enough. After spending five of the most influential years of my childhood in Hawaii, I was back in Korea. With the characteristic 'know-it-all' attitude of a typical twelve-year-old, I thought that the Korean brotherhood would embrace me with open arms, and that I would feel blissfully content within the majesty of my ancestors. (Right.) Never had I imagined that I would feel alienated instead. In the Korean middle schools, there were tons to study, tons to memorize. 'A bye bye to all the carefree days of swimming at the beach and climbing coconut trees,' I thought. What struck me even harder was the different way of thinking. 'What makes you different is what's important,' Mrs. Sumida, my 4th grade teacher in Hawaii, used to say. 'Don't you give me a hard time by trying to stick out from the rest of the class' was what Mrs. Kim, my 7th grade teacher in Korea, used to say. It's not that I deliberately troubled Mrs. Kim by skipping classes or anything like that. What troubled her were the critical remarks I made in class, the imaginary stories I turned in for the essay assignments, and the abstract pictures I drew in the Art periods when I was told that I was free to draw anything. Mrs. Sumida said I was unique in expressing my thoughts. Mrs. Kim believed that I was being rebellious. These big differences were all too much for a kid who was having enough trouble with her 'inventive' Korean. My English wasn't fully 'English' either; with all the 'Wazzap brah?' and 'Aloha sis, so whacha doin' on Kalikimaka' talk in Hawaii, I had polished my 'kool' Hawaiianish English skills to the highest level. In Korea, I became more linguistically sophisticated by speaking 'Kornhawaiiglish' (Korean+Hawaiian+English) which no one, not even my family, really understood. I recall lecturing my dad about why we had to go back to the islands. 'I could grow into the best swimmer in Hawaii! Korea's devouring all my potential,' I would say. 'The beach is calling me. It's my mission to go back. My DESTINY!' I tried to be creative. But dad shook his head and left me with no more to say, replying with a frown that said I really, really disappointed him. I vividly remember the Saturday I changed my attitude towards Korea. Grandma had invited my family to her special meal of ginseng chicken soup, with her homemade Kimchi. I used to consider these foods 'yucky', but that day I was determined to try them. I bravely dived into the soup with my spoon, and with an awkward grip of my chopsticks, took big bites of the crunchy Kimchi. At home, with the pungent taste still lingering on my tongue, I opened up the pages of the dusty school textbooks that had been left untouched for some time. I began to study them, with my Korean-English dictionary right beside me. I noticed my dad, peeking into my room, smiling. Before I knew it, Korea began to feel like home. Not to mention that my grandma's special meals became my mana (Hawaiian word meaning 'source of energy'). Slowly and quickly, I learned to be more deeply reflective, humble, and patient, just like my grandma and many others in Korea. I still have the Hawaiian spirit in me, and I long to visit the Waikiki beach, the place I have so many memories about. But the Han River is also perfectly fine to my taste; I enjoy the cool breeze as I hear the distant cries of the Changku (Korea's traditional drum). I miss my wild adventures in the Hawaiian tropical forests, but I am content with Mt. Sorak and all the excitement hidden behind the beautifully twisted branches of the Sonamu (Korean pine tree). I can truly savor the coolness in the hot and spicy Korean foods. They reflect exactly how the Korean people are- introspective yet lively and exuberant. Now they are also a reflection of myself. I can proudly say that I am now the 'special' red Kimchi that is so very Korean yet fuses wonderfully with Hawaiian pineapples. (Well, at least to me it's a great match.) Now I seek to enrich my Kimchi flavor by adding more 'spice' in to my life. Experiencing more, and tasting more people of different flavor, I want to stick out from the other Kimchis. I want to become the global Kimchi that everybody will need on their dinner plate.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Elaborate on one of your activities (extracurricular, personal, or work experience).
I'm huddled in a corner of the stage, reading and rereading a monologue from Arthur Miller's "The Crucible". It's a good one, and I know it relatively well. I should, as I've read the script multiple times in preparation for this: the big audition. It's my first in high school, and the butterflies in my stomach are threatening to eat me alive from the inside out. I try desperately to make peace with them; Abigail Williams is not nervous; she's downright evil. I mouth the words again and again, picturing the girls' faces as I threaten them with death or worse. I'm reading it so quickly and so intensely that by the time it's my turn to face the director, I know it by heart. I stand up, and approach the director. I introduce myself, hand in my risumi, and stand frozen in place. Do I start right away, or will he tell me when to go? He looks up at me from the sheet, and I start to speak. As the first words leave my mouth, something amazing happens. Suddenly I'm not looking at a director, and not thinking about a part. I'm standing in a room in Salem, Massachusetts in the 1600's trying desperately to defend my honor. It hits me like a tidal wave; I'm seeing through the eyes of a girl who is evil, but more than that - she's as scared as I am. All preconceived notions of the character fly out of my head, and I'm swept away. I whimper, scream, tug at my hair and clothes. I am begging, pleading for my life. As I come to the end of the monologue, I am crying, shaking and unsure of where I am. I finish, and snap back to reality. The director is staring. Have I done something wrong? No. I've acted. This is the escape that I yearn for, the escape that is capable of curing me of all my day to day problems. Standing in front of people, pretending to be someone else, is the most calming, cathartic experience I know. On stage, I can let out all the pent-up emotions that are suppressed throughout the day, and leave the stage a different person. When I scream or sob on stage, I can mean it; I can cry for my character, but for myself as well. When I am giddily excited, that too can be for me. The process gets interesting when my character's emotions begin to conflict with my own. Only a truly talented actor can consistently bridge that gap, and that's what made my audition in ninth grade the most rewarding experience of my life thus far. It was the first time I had felt myself meld with a character. After recovering from the initial shock of the transformation, I realized how incredible it had been, and how incredible my audition had been, compared to my norm. I have yet to entirely harness this talent, and I can't guarantee that it will happen every time that I step out onto the stage, but when it does, it's pure magic.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Topic of your choice.
Tara and I listened with rapt attention as Rich explained to us that if we were to dig deep enough into the sandbox, we would discover a tunnel that connected our school to the Loch Ness monster's cave. We didn't know if we'd be able to complete our excavation by the time recess was over, but we decided to try nonetheless. Tara and I dug, while Rich giggled quietly to himself. Eventually, Tara and I had to abort our quest, after discovering the sandbox's wooden bottom instead! We laughed, and congratulated Rich on tricking us. First grade was great! Something happened over the summer. To this day, I honestly don't know what the catalyst was, but on September 1st, Rich was the clearly established King of the emerging social caste system; Tara, his Queen. I was a serf, a dodge ball target. Clearly we could no longer be friends. With their new found power, their first project was one that I now recognize as a favorite of elementary school despots around the globe. They needed to make an example of someone, to show that they ruled with an iron fist, to keep the other peasants from revolt. I was somehow chosen as their target, and they demonstrated their wrath so effectively that the rest of the playground bottom-feeders were more than willing to pay their tithe (in completed homework assignments or lunch money) to avoid facing the same fate. Had they been so inclined, Robert and Justine would have had little trouble conquering a small country and forcing its natives into submission. I was ridiculed and alienated, and books became my only friends based solely on the fact that they never chanted 'Teacher's Pet' behind my back. I was nearly as bad off as Kim! While the 'trickle-down effect' may be a load of crap economically speaking, in terms of playground tyranny, its actually quite accurate. The only person to consistently fall below me in the pecking order was Kim. Distracted by this new victim, Their Majesties were more than willing to enlist me as a temporary ally, and I would, I'm ashamed to admit, be first in line to assist in their torture. However awful elementary school was for me, I can't begin to imagine the living hell that girl must have gone through. Poor Kim transferred after 4th grade; she couldn't take it anymore. In reward for my loyal services, I was slowly but surely climbing the rungs of the steep and slippery social ladder. By fifth grade graduation, I was working to reclaim my status as close friend to the powers that be, and looking forward to continued progress in middle school. Fate, thank God, had something else in mind. That summer, I was dragged, kicking and screaming, across the Atlantic, to a new home in Belgium (Tara's response to the news: 'Belgium? That's just north of Hartford, right?'). In Belgium, I attended an international school which was accustomed to a yearly turnover among its expatriate students. The cliques there were never closed to new members, and people were always in the market for a new friend. I made friends with ease, and there was no need to put someone else down in the process. For me, St. John's International School was Utopia, teaching me the invaluable lesson that although nice people may have fewer friends, they invariably have better ones. My mom loves to say that it took a team of wild horses to drag me to Belgium, and two to get me home, and I suppose shes right. Alas, the choice was not mine to make. For about a day and a half after my return, I renewed my friendship with Tara (Rich, it seems, had a prior engagement with Juvenile Hall, and was thus unavailable to welcome me home), then I remembered the lessons of Belgium, and severed all ties. It took over a year as a virtual loner, but, come sophomore year, I'd made one St. John's quality friend, and now, in my senior year, I have many - one of whom, I'm happy to say, is Kim, who doesn't hold a grudge.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Reflect on the following quote: "Memory: Is there a more fragile human faculty? Without it, what are we? It is the only record we have of who we were and what we want to become. Take it away and only a spiritless machine is left, free of conviction, free of purpose." From "On Borrowed Words: A Memoir of Language" by Ilan Stavans, Lewis-Sebring, Professor in Latin American and Latino, Culture, Amherst College
I used to question the idea that the world was billions of years old.
Everything looked relatively new, and I liked the idea that the big question
wasn't how the dinosaurs had died out, but rather who had planted their bones to
confuse us.
I'd manage to convince myself that the world had just begun; our memories were
nothing more than motion pictures,
implanted in our heads by some greater power.
Mine often seem it.
My memories are as real to me as the present world all around; they don't fade
with time, as they should. They remain fresh and clear, seemingly formed (or
programmed) only moments before.
Suspicious. We would never know.
How can one notice, let alone solve, a problem one's been programmed to ignore?
My fear is that the human mind is too like a computer
to continue amassing new memories without running out of space and deleting the
older ones, which is why I've started writing.
I don't have a journal;
I just have a massive file on my (actual) computer,
in which I've stored semi-coherent stories from my childhood.
A Toshiba laptop, unlike a mind, can have its files backed up on disc.
When I remember something that makes me smile, I throw it in there for
safekeeping. At first, there were a lot of unconnected, randomly assembled
thoughts and ideas,
stories which couldn't possibly interest anyone but myself.
Then, pieces started to form odd connections,
and I started wondering if I couldn't work some of them into something more,
something lasting, something other people might one day read.
Suddenly I'm no longer satisfied with anonymity.
I don't want my memories to die with me.
If they don't live on, all that's left is a spiritless machine,
Rotting.
Too many rot already.
Mass consumerism programs identical pictures
In everyone's minds.
And people embrace their anonymity.
They strive to conform.
They take comfort in the fact that there are
6,000,000,000 people, just like them, going about their daily lives, free of
conviction, free of purpose,
never questioning, never hoping, or trying to break free.
I need to do something great,
Something big.
Cure Cancer,
or Hunger,
or AIDS.
Or something.
It wouldn't need to be big, public.
So long as the effects of my life live on.
Something good,
Something great.
Write the great American novel,
Land on Mars.
Win an Oscar (or two).
My life will fade without memory.
I will become a meaningless name
on a high up branch of a family tree.
'Our great aunt Nicole,' they will say.
'What could she have been like?'
I want them to know.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Major essay: topic of my choice
"Ouch, my feet hurt. Ouch, my feet hurt. Ouch, my feet hurt." It had been repeating over and over in my head for the last two miles and would continue to do so with every step I took until we arrived at our campsite. When my brain is filled with thoughts like these, I have trouble remembering why I enjoy putting myself through this type of pain, but it is not always like this. Most thoughts I have while hiking are not thoughts of pain and suffering, but are happy, entertaining, interesting, or at least useful. I went on my first hike soon after I learned how to walk, and I have enjoyed hiking ever since. The types of hikes I have been on have ranged from a quarter of a mile toddling on a paved road to a twenty-two day Outward Bound backpacking trip in the High Sierras. One of the things that I love most about hiking is that it gives me the chance to escape from the constant stimulation of my hectic daily life and to be alone with my thoughts. Sometimes when I hike, the lack of artificial clutter around me somehow stimulates my brain to reorganize itself. It sorts through everything that has happened recently and files it in some way that makes more sense to it. Although I do not understand how or why, I find that, much like how my computer runs much more smoothly because I defragmented its hard drive a few weeks ago, I am much better able to cope with the quick pace of daily life when all of my thoughts are properly organized. Other times, I let my mind wander and think about things that I would never bother to think about otherwise. I remember once when I spent over an hour debating with myself over the merits of paper and plastic bags. I also often find myself thinking about issues that I feel strongly about and determining what I believe. Because I have thought about them at great lengths, I can feel certain of my beliefs, or at least I can be confident that I want my groceries put in plastic bags. On longer hikes when I have more time to think, I will sometimes imagine things. I can become an explorer hacking his way through the thick underbrush of the Amazon Rain Forest or an eagle soaring high above the mountains. As a part of my Outward Bound course, I spent seventy-two hours alone ten miles from the nearest trail. To keep myself entertained, I decided to make up stories about two anthills near the river where I got my water. They became warring kingdoms, space colonies, and giant cities. I would follow individual ants around for hours, imagining what they were doing and what they were saying to each other. Rather than being bored, I entertained myself so well with my knights, spacemen, and businessmen that I was surprised when, on the morning of the fourth day, my time alone was over. I hike because I appreciate the beauty of nature and because I enjoy the conversations that I have while hiking, but most of all, because I love how the unadulterated physical magnificence around me stimulates in me thoughts that I would otherwise never have. After all, while the blisters on my aching feet will heal and fade away with time, I will always be able to carry these thoughts with me.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Respond to the following quotation: "I would say that one very good argument for science... has nothing at all to do with technological advancement. Science is worth doing because it teaches us something of the true scheme of nature, and of our place in the scheme. It teaches us our address in the universe." From Portraits of Discovery: Profiles in Scientific Genius by George Greenstein, Sidney Dillon Professor of Astronomy, Amherst College
From my days as a five-year-old dreaming of becoming an astronaut to my time as a high school student studying quantum theory, I have always loved science. I have always been able to see beyond the data and the formulas to something beautiful and elegant, to a deeper explanation of the world around me. I wholeheartedly agree with George Greenstein's quotation; I believe that my passion for science has helped me to understand my place in the universe. I can still distinctly remember the time when science first showed me that there was so much more to the universe than my immediate surroundings. When I was in second grade, my class went on a field trip to the planetarium. While we were there, we saw an exhibit with a scale model of the solar system. I remember being astonished and fascinated when I saw the tiny Earth compared to the vastness of the solar system. This experience made me see the universe around me in a new light and inspired in me a desire to learn more about astronomy. I took my first science class, an introduction to biology, in seventh grade. I remember the excitement I felt as I learned about how my body worked, what it was made of, and what had made it become the way it was. Every day, science class answered many of my questions, but it also filled me with other, bigger questions that I had not yet learned how to answer. It taught me about relevant and interesting subjects in a way that no class ever had and it covered topics that I found enthralling. I have enjoyed every science class that I have taken since then, but there is one class I have taken that stands above the others in my memory, one class that expanded my intellectual horizons, piqued my curiosity, and excited me more than any other: AP chemistry in eleventh grade. This class was structured so that, rather than learning from lectures given by the teacher, we would learn from experiments that we conducted. The vast majority of the course took place in the laboratory. The idea that I could learn concepts through real-world experimentation fascinated me and made the course extremely meaningful and fun. By the end of the course, our laboratory skills had improved enough that we were able to perform some very complex and exciting experiments. For example, we duplicated an experiment that had won the nobel prize in 1972 when we created and tested a superconductor. AP chemistry opened my eyes to a world of science beyond what I had learned before--a world that I could measure, touch, and see for myself. It also, more than any other science class, showed me the beauty in science, the things that are only made more spectacular once you know the principles behind how they work. My experiences with science so far in my life have given me excitement, joy, and perspective, and that alone has made it worth studying.
