Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Personal statement.
I was eight years old when my mother and grandfather first took me to the town
of Bruce, Florida. I remember wondering, as I peered out the backseat window,
why they had made such a big deal about this place. The town looked like any
prototypical small 'Panhandle' town, and I had seen many of those. There were
the all-purpose stores and gas stations that serviced drivers who exited the
highway, and past that, acres and acres of pine straw-covered land. The entire
town consisted of one intersection.
Bruce is home to the Muscogee Nation of Florida, descendants of the Eastern
Creek Indians who escaped the Trail of Tears by fleeing into the backwoods
enclaves of south Alabama and north Florida, and assimilating into the white
culture of the pioneering communities that accepted their presence. My mother
and
her family are Muscogee Indians, but for so many years no one ever spoke of
this, even as she grew up. Due to societal pressures of the region, where
American
Indians did not live on reservations but rather continued their assimilation in
the local communities, earlier generations had learned to deny by omission any
relation to the Muscogee.
American Indian ancestry would have meant social
isolation in the small town where they lived. Andrew Jackson had made it
illegal
for Native Americans to reside in Florida, and though this law was no longer
applied, a deep-rooted bias remained. The family's origins became a taboo
subject, known but seldom mentioned, particularly outside the family. Only when
my mother was an adult did the social response to American Indians change enough
for her to feel comfortable with the subject, the secret that was obvious to
everyone.
At this time, I was young and, quite honestly, not particularly interested in
the issue. I had shaped my life without an identification with my ethnicity,
but
now that has changed. I credit my grandfather with opening my eyes to my
culture. He has dedicated the past twenty years to research aimed at recovering
the lost stories and denied histories of our Muscogee relatives. The purpose of
this trip to Bruce was to study old records and to introduce me to our familys
tribal culture firsthand. Over the years there would be more trips, more
exploration of the tribal archives, and more family trees. As an adolescent I
began to see that I was ignoring a rich family heritage. The stories began to
fascinate me, and I began to feel a desire to become actively involved with the
tribe.
I began helping with the seemingly endless searches through old county records,
pulling marriage licenses and other documents, and comparing the birthdates that
separated one John Ward from another. My work began to focus primarily on the
life of Diamond Joe Ward, an ancestor who had served as the tribe's local leader
in the early twentieth century, and his wife who, having been adopted by a
whitecustoms and practices
Indian trader, had committed herself to keeping tribal
alive. Learning my family's role in the history of the region has given me an
increased personal connection to the stories that once seemed dry and detached,
and has given me a pride I had not realized.
With this greater sense of my self, I now recognize that my personal heritage is
infinitely more complex than I first understood. To me, my heritage is more
than
a label or an identification. It is the realization that my own family, and
every other family, has within it an important history that should be recovered
and maintained. The past is woven into the future of families and of
individuals, and I have been fortunate enough to find my own.
Through this investigation, I have learned as much about myself as I have
learned about my past. What I have learned while researching has raised issues
of self-definition. As I learn more, I become aware of how influences have
shaped me. I learned why my family settled where it did, and I learned the
source for their close connection to the woods, rivers, and bayous of the
region.
The terms I had used to describe myself were simultaneously explained and
expanded. It became a true process of discovery for me.
At the same time that I have become more self-aware, I began to question the
very notion of identity. How much of our identity is created by our experience,
and how much is given to us, handed down from generations before? How can
forces
so profoundly influence us before we understand them fully? What is the true
value of learning about them? I do not yet have answers to these questions.
The
more I grapple with them, the more uncertainty arises.
Now, when we drive to Bruce, I do not sit in the backseat staring blankly at the
yellow lines passing on the highway. Instead, I watch eagerly for the familiar
indications that we are getting closer, and I am excited about what lies ahead.
I did not start this project with the goal of learning so much about myself; I
thought it would be an exercise in learning about my history, but on the long
drives to the council house these days, I have time to reflect on the essential
understandings about myself that this journey has given me.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Personal Statement
Personal Statement Cleaning my room is a gentle excavation. During summers at home, I rumble the dust and sift through the layers of my accumulating life. Recently, I read through what classmates had written in my high school yearbook. It was a strange and unsettling experience as these words spoke directly to a self that I had nearly forgotten. I felt as if I were one of those Russian nesting dolls that hold several smaller dolls inside; the thought of multiple past identities coexisting inside me was new and wonderful. The words 'Do what you do best' caught my eye. If there were a way to know what one did best and could then train this possibility to the fullest extent, how could life not be both fruitful and enjoyable? Instead of asking the daunting question of what I did best, I thought about what I liked to do and what I did often. Perhaps in time, the source of these questions will lead me towards what I do best. I have always been drawn toward writing: creative, analytical, expository and critical. I realized that whatever I was pursuing, the beginning and end result for me were often made possible through writing. Thinking back to meaningful academic experiences in college, I realize all of them began with a presentation of my self and my interests through the medium of writing. I believe the only thing we can write about well is what we know, for this is the only truthful and never-ending source we are given. Often I was in the situation of writing a proposal to an audience of strangers, whether it be a scholarship committee, participants at the symposium, or fellow researchers at a presentation, and the only thing I could tell them was who I was and what I knew. Many times, these experiences culminated in reflective writing as well, not only a testament to what I had done but more an examination of where I had been, what space I had occupied and what space I now occupied. Writing became a way to capture the changing of my spaces, both around me and inside me, for I had to take into account the spaces within myself which had been excavated, explored, or widened because of particular experiences. My interest in law school received a personal and directive boost this summer while working as an assistant for a professor at my home town laws school. In the spring, I found his website and was intrigued by his work in international criminal trials and Asian human rights. I wrote a letter to the professor expressing my interest in working with him over the summer and thus began my first dip into the legal education. I began by learning about the fundamental conceptions of international law and the beginnings of the United Nations by way of an introductory textbook, and supplemented by meetings with my professor. Every time I stepped into the law library for research, I looked up into the winding staircases and ceaseless rows of books and I was captured by an overwhelming sense that in here existed something bigger than me; it had a long history and yet it pressed its urgency onto the future, and onto me as a burgeoning student in the legal education. Soon I began my project on the difficulty of international human rights standardization in Asia from a cultural perspective. I complemented research with current developments in human rights violations by reading and editing articles related to this topic, written mostly by scholars working from Asia. I brought into formal research my own cultural values and these two bodies of knowledge supported and challenged each other. These few months were an inspirational stepping stone for my future; it reconfirmed my dream to one day become a law professor and I also found a way in which my personal interests and academic strengths engaged each other. Since I have lived in Asia for only the first year of my life, I cannot explain exactly what draws me there and what strings pull at me to learn more, but friends and my own family are always perplexed at my fascination. In the past few years, my interest in Asia has extended into an academic context. In the spring of 2002, I was awarded a travel scholarship from my undergraduate university to travel and explore the relationship between culture and religion's sacred space. In the fall of 2002, I began a writing project on Asian-American attitudes toward their native language and I had the opportunity to present my work at a geo-linguistics conference. This past summer, however, was the turning point; in my study of Asian human rights, I realized the significant legal implication of cultural studies and as a Asian-American, the impact was deeply personal. I struggled with questions such as: What are the cultural origins for domestic legal policies on human rights in Asia? How can international policies regarding human rights be both effective and culturally sensitive? The overlap of culture and law offers a rich body of knowledge and I am eager to begin my scholarly pursuits in this area. The prospect of being a law student and with time, becoming knowledgeable in the area, is exciting to me because it combines what I enjoy and what I consider to be my strongest points: initiative, writing, and reflection. I would like to go into a discipline in which applications of what I have read, been taught, accumulated and experienced through the years are given concrete structure. For me, law represents the process in which philosophy is given solid construction; thoughts are grounded in reason; and writing becomes a powerful record of principles that guide and protect a society. I see law and writing as ways in which space is defined and thereby protected; both define boundaries and fill in necessary and often unrealized gaps. In the occupation I will later pursue, I would like to have the mind of a lawyer and the techniques of a writer. With these tools I believe I can become closer to the person who can fully realize self-potential; I believe I will be able to live out the words of advice 'Do what you do best' and thereby contribute positively to the society in which I live.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Personal statement
At thirteen - with baggy jeans and a voice that refused to change - I had my first trumpet lesson. My playing was strong, but my interest was lacking. Towards the end of that first lesson, my teacher changed the way I thought about music. I had played through De Gouy's 'Bolero' for him, proud to have hit every note. 'Nice,' he said, 'But I've heard it before. Next week, I want you to play it your way.' With that, he added my name to the score: 'Edited by S.' And I began to make music. From then until I was nineteen, music became my primary focus. Nowhere else did I feel as though I were creating meaning rather than merely receiving it. I excelled on my instrument, eventually playing at both Carnegie Hall and Lincoln Center. Soon after I arrived at college, and I began to create meaning without an instrument in hand. My first opportunity was a class on ethical theory. Instead of merely reading texts, we explored their limits. I even wrote a paper on the failure of Homeric maxims under Kant's categorical imperative. 'Homeric maxims' are, naturally, rules for living according to Homer J. Simpson - my interest in Ancient Greek came later. While my work at that time might have been less than groundbreaking, I was enraptured by the chance to develop my own perspective. My interests in philosophy and music collided when I reflected, as a sophomore, on the question of peer-to-peer file-sharing. I had been using file-sharing applications for years, but with mounting litigation against such services and increased attention on the criminality of copyright infringement, I decided to put my philosophical tools to work on the ethics of file-sharing. But the initial search was aporetic: I needed to explore the underlying copyright theory. The research that followed culminated in an article entitled '[Title omitted]' which was published in the [Title omitted] Law Review. For the first time, my philosophical voice enjoyed a public performance. Though I did not thank my trumpet teacher, my article feels a bit like Lockean property theory, 'Edited by S.' I still love music, but what is even more exciting about making music in the scholarly realm is that my voice could change the way people live their lives. I do not expect that out of my article, of course. At this point, I would be thrilled if just a few people were to read the article. But being heard has inspired me to work harder: I hope to make more noise soon. My goal is to help shape the way society understands, regulates, and recognizes intellectual property in a digital world. I have developed a strong background already by working with Professor [Name] at Temple Law School, attending iLaw at the Berkman Center, and publishing an article on copyright. I can find no better place to continue my studies than at Harvard Law School for three reasons. First, I greatly admire Professor Fisher's work, particularly the alternative compensation system he advances in Promises to Keep. Second, my experience at iLaw was an amazing one, and I would love to contribute in any way possible to the Berkman Center's cutting edge research. Finally, Professor Zittrain's current research on the potentially grim future of the internet has been the primary inspiration for my current project, 'Running Headlong to Our Chains: The End of the Cyberstate of Nature.' At twenty-one, my jeans are not as baggy as they once were, and my voice has settled down. But my interest in creating meaning has not subsided. I make music every day, by rethinking property rights in intellectual products, by reinterpreting Kant, and, of course, by playing even that old 'Bolero' my own way. As a student of philosophy interested in music and law, shaping media policy is the perfect way to fuse my passions into a symphony of creativity. The laws of yesterday are not fit for the technologies of tomorrow. My goal is not to change the world, but to help resolve this discord. Perhaps one day, a small part of the way the world understands and regulates intellectual property in cyberspace will be 'Edited by S.'
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Our school seeks to attract a diverse student body. Write an essay explaining how you would contribute to that diversity.
Undiscovered Country A porcelain teacup, with lid and saucer. The background was yellow; the palette, famille-rose - the closest translation for the Mandarin fencai. Four white circles displayed Chinese characters: wan, 'ten thousand'; shou, a year in the life; wu, 'without'; and jiang, 'boundary.' Arranging these characteristics in my head, I catalogued the artifact as 'a porcelain, famille-rose teacup featuring the characters for 'boundless longevity' in highlights on a yellow background.' I was especially pleased with my translation of the characters as 'boundless longevity.' Subtle differences in Chinese and English often forced translations of succinct phrases to prioritize either literal definition or figurative spirit, but this time, I had captured both. A day's work finished, I stepped outside. Under the hot Beijing sun, I walked through the Gate of Eastern Prosperity and out of the Forbidden City. I was born in the Midwest. My parents were foreign graduate students; when I was nine, they decided that there was no place like home and moved the family back to Taiwan. But I had left my home in America. To me, Taiwan was backwards and unfamiliar. If my house caught fire, I was to dial 119, not 911. Traffic laws paid lip service to pedestrian safety, but cars really had the right of way. Mosquitoes buzzed everywhere, and even cockroaches could fly. I endeavored to learn Chinese, but shopkeepers asked why I spoke like an American. My neighbors' children asked me if I was a 'halfbreed.' No, I replied, explaining that both of my parents were Chinese. But the children had struck a nerve. Was I Chinese, or was I American? At my bilingual public school, I had to take Chinese history, but I found it utterly boring. I did not care that historians blamed the fall of imperial China on Empress Dowager Cixi's arrogance and incompetence; I wished instead that I could learn about the Battle of Yorktown and the Montgomery bus boycott. Mandarin was another required subject. The literature was interesting, but I dreaded memorizing those complicated characters. Having to use Chinese vocabulary and style made writing essays an ordeal. When I entered high school, I was happy to be able to speak and write Chinese as well as local students could, but I vowed that once I graduated, and Chinese was no longer mandatory, I would never take it again. Arriving at college was, in many ways, a dream come true. I was back in America. I was free to choose my classes. I did not take Chinese. Cars stopped to let me cross the street, and mosquitoes no longer kept me up at night. For two years, I was truly happy: I was home. In the fall of my junior year, as I prepared to spend winter break with my parents, I made a list of items to buy in Taiwan. I wrote in Chinese, but at 'instant noodles,' I stopped. I wrote the first few strokes of mian, the character for 'noodle,' but I had forgotten the rest. I tried many different strokes, fishing for the answer, but to no avail. I had to finish the list in English. My inability to write a simple shopping list in Chinese disturbed me. For two and a half years, I had shunned Chinese classes, but I never thought I would forget an everyday character like mian. At first, I didn't understand why losing one character frustrated me so much, but slowly, I realized that the Chinese language was a part of my identity that I had long overlooked. I had uncovered my Chinese roots, and they were withering before my eyes. The following semester, I enrolled in an advanced Chinese course. Readings were printed in the traditional character set I had used in Taiwan, so I relearned most of the characters I had forgotten. However, worksheets were printed in the simplified character set, used in mainland China but banned as communist in Taiwanese schools, so I also learned simplified characters for the first time. And I embraced the essay assignments, because each was an opportunity for me to prove that I could still write the Chinese language. Later the same semester, I learned of a few internships offered by The Palace Museum, better known to visitors as the Forbidden City, in Beijing. I was ethnically Chinese, but like most of my Taiwanese friends, I had never been to mainland China. I had seen the magnificent Forbidden City in photographs and films, and a summer in the Ming and Qing palace might help me connect to the stories about imperial China that had once bored me in middle school. Before me, then, was an opportunity to immerse myself in the Forbidden City, the heart of what had long been my undiscovered country. I applied for and received the position of exhibitions intern. For ten weeks, I worked in the Forbidden City of red walls and glazed shingles. I translated artifact descriptions and historical narratives, working at my desk in a small building that once housed young princes. I also explored areas of the palace complex that are still closed to the public, including a Turkish bath once commissioned for a concubine from China's western frontier. Outside the Forbidden City, I spent a day at the Summer Palace to the north, and there I saw the doorways sealed with bricks in the compound where, as I had learned in grade school, Empress Dowager Cixi had imprisoned the Guangxu Emperor. And one crisp morning at sunrise, I climbed an unrenovated stretch of the Great Wall that had protected my ancestors for centuries. The Palace Museum even sent me to Manchuria, to collect crates of Qing-Dynasty artifacts and deliver them to Beijing. Seeing, and in some cases touching, so many relics brought those ancient stories to life. At the end of the summer, I returned to my parents' home in Taiwan, carrying souvenirs. I gave my parents each a modern replica of the famille-rose teacup once owned by Cixi. The object had taken on personal meaning for me because I had been so happy with my translation of wan shou wu jiang as 'boundless longevity,' preserving literal and figurative meanings without sacrificing brevity or elegance. I realized when I catalogued that teacup that my dual heritage, which had often been a source of anguish for me, could also be a source of happiness. In bridging cultures for the Palace Museum, I finally began to bridge the Chinese and American energies that once clashed within me.
Essay Category:
Essay Question:
Personal statement, free choice of topic
The Morality of Prostitution Policy When I said that I wanted to talk to a prostitute, the pimp laughed: 'That's what they all say.' No, I insisted, I really just wanted to talk. For my senior essay on prostitution policy, I had received funding to study regulated prostitution in Singapore and the Netherlands; this brothel was my first stop in Singapore. The pimp recommended that I interview a candid, experienced woman named Far, but he charged me the regular hiring rate. Far's English was limited, but fortunately, we both spoke Mandarin. Her parents were farmers in Thailand, and she called home every week. She aspired to be a clothing designer, but in the meantime, she preferred the human interaction of prostitution to the mundane routine of farming. Her cheerful attitude challenged stereotypes of unhappy women forced into prostitution by starvation, drug addiction, or violence. Far cherished her health but disliked needles. The brothel women receive sexually transmitted disease testing twice monthly, per government regulations. When I asked Far how often she would seek testing if not for regulations, she said just once a month - supporting claims that regulating prostitution can lead to earlier detection of STDs. Because prostitutes and clients contracting these diseases can transmit them to unsuspecting third parties, prostitution threatens the general public with a dangerous externality; society as a whole stands to benefit from minimizing the transmission of STDs in prostitution. Far was a beautiful woman, but I was immune to her charms. Being male, I put the women I interviewed at ease: they talked to me as 'just another client.' But being gay and knowing myself, I was safe from any nervousness or distraction that might have come from spending time with women whose sex appeal is their livelihood. Far's story, shared in her tastefully decorated room in a clean brothel and a quiet red-light district - worlds apart from the whorehouse alleys of American cinema - marked the beginning of my journey through Singapore and the Netherlands. In both countries, officials told me that their respective governments believed that prostitution would always exist in human society. They cited unsuccessful bans in countries like the United States and argued that the most prudent course of action was to regulate prostitution and control its negative effects, not ban prostitution and drive it underground. In Singapore, officials explained that prostitution is not a criminal offense and that the government offers STD testing to prostitutes but denied that testing is mandatory. However, journalists, pimps, prostitutes, and one retired vice officer reported that the government actually licenses prostitutes and requires biweekly STD testing. I also learned from written sources that a recent, government-funded '100% condoms for oral sex' campaign has dramatically reduced the number of oral infections detected in prostitutes. By quietly regulating prostitution, the Singaporean government seems to strike a balance between utilitarian pragmatism and recognition of the country's conservative moral climate. Oral sex between a man and a woman is still illegal unless followed by 'natural' intercourse; in 2004, a convicted oral sex recipient was jailed for 12 months. Meanwhile, the sale of chewing gum was only recently and partially decriminalized. Singapore is surrounded by water, but Holland has more permeable land borders. As a result, the Dutch government's emphasis in regulating prostitution is on combating human trafficking. The Netherlands legalized brothels five years ago, and both officials and prostitutes report that communication between prostitutes and police has improved. No longer fearing arrest, prostitutes are more likely to report suspected cases of trafficking. Adult prostitutes are also more likely to turn in underage prostitutes in order to eliminate unauthorized competition. The Netherlands' relatively liberal moral climate allows the government to openly discuss its policies but prevents mandatory licensing of prostitutes: opponents object on privacy grounds. In both Singapore and the Netherlands, I found compelling evidence that careful regulation combats prostitution's negative effects, such as STD transmission and human trafficking, more effectively than American-style prohibition does, raising a challenging moral question. In the U.S., the sale of sex is widely perceived as immoral, but is it not immoral to allow unsuspecting citizens to be given STDs and innocent humans to be trafficked, by driving prostitution underground?
