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(Since the process is nearly over for all of us, I'd think it'd be good to compile some of our admissions essays.)

As the entrance to the library slides open with a soft “whoosh,” I rush in eagerly, focused on a singular site. I bulldoze my way through one last obstacle—a silver turnstile bar—heading directly to a innocuous pair of bookshelves only feet away. Immediately, the search begins! My fingers dart quickly through the wide assortment of used books that stand there, ready for their written treasure to be discovered yet again, ready for me to provide them a cozy warm bookshelf, a loving home. Welcome to the library book-sale.

These are little gems yet to be discovered by the masses; I am the excavator in this little mine of knowledge. With textbook emeralds, hardcover rubies, and pulp diamonds abound, my hands tremble slightly as I pick up the worn pages of Descartes, the yellowed tome coming to life within my hands. This is my well-kept secret and my greatest delight, divulged only to a select few—those who appreciate the value of these books. 25 cents is all one needs for a paperback, a quarter extra for a hardbound. This cannot be beat.

In the summer, my passions have been enhanced by the material I have found here; with gently worn books ranging from chemistry and governmental policy to French literature, I could not resist plunking down the one or two quarters each time I stumbled across them. Laughing, smiling in delight, I silently rejoice that Barnes & Noble would not be snatching $6.99 from my hands this day. What’s this? A microeconomics textbook? Sir Gawain and the Green Knight? Ooh, Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons? I walked out that day having paid but a single dollar. Fantastic. I would reap the rewards from my purchases many times over; not only through the osmosis of knowledge, but also the utility of the volumes I purchased—I would integrate much of their wisdom into the core analysis of numerous debate speeches. Each summer day, as my counselor shift at the Spirit Square ended, I raced to the library to check out the sale-- I rarely left disappointed.

Alas, I thought my hunting days over when school resumed. This lull? Short-lived. I soon realized that my Friday afternoon violin lessons at Spirit Square still provided me with the chance to hunt! After dropping off my sister for her lesson, I would now be able to saunter down the street to examine the sale. Music and books: what a relaxing conclusion to the end of a stressful school week.

I do a final check of the shelves to ensure nothing delightful is missed; my arms are stuffed with a menagerie of classics, thrillers, and nonfiction. As I step to the checkout line, I voice the words I had said so many times before: “Oh, these are from the book-sale.” I saw the twinkle in the eye, the smile on the librarian’s face as she remarked that “it’ll be $1.75.” She knew what I knew—that even the word bargain could not adequately describe the value and joy of these books. The total I paid through the years? Far, far less than I should have, that’s for sure.

Welcome to the library book-sale.

By Brandnew (Brandnew) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 02:02 am: Edit

dang, that's good
here's mine, it was one of my 200 word UC essays

I want to go to the University of California. I can bring many good traits and qualities. I like AP exams and instant noodles. Ideally, I would want to eat instant noodles while taking the AP exams, but sadly that is not possible. I have pushed for a new club at our school that supports eating instant noodles during AP exams. I have since become the president of that club. Through this experience, I can take to the University of California my awesome leadership potential. As a sign of my commitment to this club, I brought a simmering cup of instant noodles, beef flavor, to my AP Physics examination at the end of my junior year. I was told to throw it away, but I refused. Eventually they let me eat it, but not in the testing room. So I didn't end up taking the AP exam. But it was worth it, since I stood up for a cause that I believed in. I believe that if Berkeley accepts me I will be able to take this protest experience with me and effectively organize protests on the Berkeley campus. I am a motivated and dedicated student who can succeed.

By Otterpop (Otterpop) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 02:11 am: Edit

Brandnew,

HAHAHA. That was good.

You're a great writer.

By Caramelapple (Caramelapple) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 02:15 am: Edit

Yay, you made me laugh.

By Congresssenator (Congresssenator) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 02:16 am: Edit

Brandnew--

No, no. Mine is nothing compared to yours--the dazzling torch of Brilliance clearly illuminates the work.

Carry it well.

By Pipettewolf (Pipettewolf) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 02:28 am: Edit

sorry but it wasn't written very well- just my opinion on brandnew's essay.

sorta funny.

my friend pulled a similar thing except he wrote about a rubik's cube and how he was gonna start clubs and stuff with it. maybe thats why i wasnt that moved by your essay.

By Lilskeetums17 (Lilskeetums17) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 02:29 am: Edit

lol thats awesome... is it true?

By Botheredone (Botheredone) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 02:45 am: Edit

Mine's a transfer essay and not as good, but effective in my opinion:

At eight years old, I was the youngest to
attend Camp Winthers, a summer camp for children
of the grade schools in our district. On one of
our camp's hikes, we were led to a rock. From an
eight-year-old's perspective, it was very large
and split in two by a huge gap. The gap was big
enough for us to place our heads on one side,
our feet at the other, and shimmy up to the top,
which is exactly what we did. I found no problem
following the grown-ups, persisting to make my
way to the peak of this enormous gray slab. It
was only once I had reached the top that my fear
mounted. The side I'd climbed up onto had a
sheer cliff of ten or fifteen feet on all sides.
My task was to jump over the gap I'd shimmied up
through. I couldn't be more horrified. Could my
feet carry me over that ledge? After
encouragement from the adults, I shouted several
times, "I CAN DO THIS!" And so I did.

School has been a similar experience for
me. I started school at the bottom of my rock
with a sheer gap to surmount. That is to say my
grades in high school had been just satisfactory
enough for me to pass. I persisted. Throughout
my experience, I shimmied up the gap, increasing
my grades and participation--I always kept
myself involved. My first big step up my rock
entering high school was getting into the
Sacramento Youth Symphony. At that point I had
only been playing violin for a year. When I'd
expressed interest in auditioning, my violin
teacher answered with, "You won't make
it." "You're not going to get in," my parents
had agreed. The odds were stacked against me.
The orchestra had over ninety participants, all
of whom did not have to re-audition if they'd
already done so the previous year. There were
only a few seats open. Still, I persisted. After
an audition and a phone call from the conductor,
neither my teacher nor my parents questioned my
drive to achieve my goals again. That year, my
grandfather gave me the violin his father had
given him, years ago.

Exiting high school and entering college
I felt my grades, while good enough for a state
school, were not good enough to go to a
University of California. Still, I kept
shimmying up my rock and researched the best
available method of achieving my goals. When I
began community college, I had not chosen a
major or decided on a specific U.C., but I
realized that the schools I was looking at
emphasized major preparation. In the process of
my studies, I switched majors several times. I
decided not to pursue Economics and instead to
take Philosophy. I kept with Political Science
but researched an English major. There was extra
coursework. I persisted. Ultimately I decided I
wanted to pursue a law degree. After that, my
persistence carried me to San Diego Mesa College
to be apart of UCLA's Transfer Alliance Program.

I pushed myself enough to make my way to
the top of my rock, realizing that change was
just a part of my college experience. And
through my persistence I realized, I want to be
a U.C. student because I have to be. My
persistence; my ability to stare my rock down
and shimmy to the top: that is what I have to
offer to these schools. That is where I am left
now. In submitting my application, I'm making
the jump. I can do this.

By Behindthemyth (Behindthemyth) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 02:47 am: Edit

i forgot what the topic was...but here's my essay for Cornell (i think)...sorry, it's pretty bad...it has the weakest ending ever. :P (c'mon ppl post more essays up! i love reading them)

Philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche boldly states in his Twilight of the Idols that “without music, life would be a mistake”.
Music appeals to the senses, creates happiness and emotion. It humanizes the world, and allows human beings to be driven by feeling. Without music, there would be silence--no battle marches for the warriors, no ballads for the fair maiden, no dirges for the mourner, and no jig for the drunkard. They would still go about fulfilling their roles perfunctorily, but there would be no external factor to drive their emotions. What would life be then? Life would be a mistake, an error of creation--after all, how could life continue to exist without motivation? Without drive?
Music drives me. Am I a musician? Hardly. I dabble, but I dare not compare myself to the virtuosos that paved the golden road to modernization and popularization of music. Am I a musician at heart? Absolutely. I, like Verdi and Chopin, believe that music is the essence of life. I declare such sentiments with the conviction that beauty is the food of the soul, music is the paragon of beauty, and the soul is the core of life.
To incorporate music into my daily life, I have taken it upon myself to listen to Gustav Holst while driving my car, Brian Setzer while doing homework, and Gershwin while dozing off in bed. During school, I create music with dozens others who, like myself, are musicians at heart. Holding my Bach series trumpet, I feel life morphing into art; it is as if the atmosphere is a canvas, my instrument a paintbrush, and the sheet music the paint. Holding that lacquered horn, I am most free to express the inexpressible--myself. It is a catalyst for poignant melodies as notes drift out and ring in one’s ear like the sonorous words of a poem, articulating emotions as no sentence or paragraph can. The technicalities of music-- rhythms, meters, tonalities, dynamics, though so mechanical in nature, combine to make a unique sound that is artistic and most important of all, mine. It is through the medium of my instrument that I can truly define who I am. For those 50 minutes every day between Economics and Chemistry, my trumpet shapes my life. Unlike the flawed human sculptor, Music only makes mistakes when it chooses not to sculpt at all.
Since I was a child, I viewed emotion as an interconnected series of music notes that dictated our actions, thoughts, hopes, aspirations, and life in general in the most beautiful manner. Every individual music note comes together at the end to create a masterpiece. Upon listening to Holst’s The Planets, I could not help but connect emotion with music, because no matter how hard I tried, I could not develop different feelings about the same movement of the piece. I figured that the emotions of the musicians and conductors determine the style of the work, which will ultimately evoke a specific sentiment from the listener.
Therefore, I must agree with Nietzsche’s quote that “without music, life would be a mistake” because it reflects my values and beliefs. I believe in the power of music as related to human emotion, and try to add feeling into or extract feeling out of every thing I do--a sign of a true musician (at heart).

By Isaman (Isaman) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 08:45 am: Edit

This was my essay for USC:

I remember that my stay in Nicaragua began in my grandmother’s very small one bedroom house. The living conditions were horrible, and I began to prepare myself, for what I thought would be my worst vacation ever. All of a sudden, my thirst got the best of me.

“Grandma, can you please give me a glass of water,” I kindly asked.

“Mijo, I’m really busy right now, but if you want water, there is a well not to far from here,” my grandmother responded. “It’s about three blocks from here.”

I thought to myself, “How ridiculous.” Never before had I been forced to walk three blocks to quench my thirst. Due to the level of poverty in Nicaragua, however, I began my three block journey.

I hadn’t yet completed the first block of my journey, and already I was besieged by people who wanted money. Perhaps it was the “nice” pair of shoes that I was wearing that made me an easy target for these people. It very well could have been the “fancy” cologne I had on that released an aroma indicating to the natives that an American was amongst them. Whatever it was, to these people, I was nothing more than “una persona de plata,” which in English translates to “a wealthy person.”

While I have never considered myself necessarily wealthy, I’ve always known that I am better off living in the United States than in Nicaragua. How well I understood this truth was determined the moment my ears caught a beautiful voice. I didn’t know where this voice was coming from, but my ears couldn’t resist its magnetic force. The sound guided me through the streets, and finally, I found the source of that enchanting voice. I stood before the little girl that would change my perspective on personal property and philanthropy forever. She didn’t know it, but as she sang the lyrics to “La Mora Limpia,” a Nicaraguan folk song, I began to reflect on how up to that moment my world had been comprised of materialistic values. With every word she sang, my mind reflected on every luxury that I have ever bought and never used. I reflected on every meal I have rejected because it didn’t please my taste buds. I reflected on how my very shoes were considered a luxury to this barefoot child. Overwhelmed by this child’s voice, I gave her all I thought I had, twenty dollars.

I continued my journey until I reached the well. While I filled my grandmother’s bucket with water, I realized that I should have given that child more than simply those twenty dollars. At best, that money, as Emerson put it, was “a wicked dollar,” for I did nothing to change the child’s world. What I had perceived as philanthropy was in reality pity, and pity will only take a person’s intentions so far. Pity did not allow me to understand the girl’s needs, and pity was preventing me from displaying true, heart felt philanthropy. I believe that recognizing my inability to help this child was the first step towards changing the world I am currently in.

After filling my grandmother’s bucket with water, I returned to the singing child one more time as quickly as I could. I didn’t know her name, but I called her out.

“Mija, come here quickly,” I called.

As the little girl approached me, I gave her what she needed most at the time—my pair of shoes and a hug. I realize that my shoes fit her a little too big, but having nothing else, I truly felt that she would appreciate the shoes, considering she was walking around barefoot. It was my way of thanking her for changing my perspective on human philanthropy.

As my vacation reached its end I asked my grandmother to keep my luggage and to distribute my clothes to the people within the village. A pair of shoes, a jacket, and a shirt will not save the world from poverty. But my efforts, combined with the relief programs aiding Nicaragua, have left a mark in the hearts of at least a few children in Nicaragua. A pair of shoes and a hug was just my way of starting my own change which will hopefully allow me to become an agent of change.

By Synapse (Synapse) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 02:54 pm: Edit

“…the President of the Forest Hills High School Key Club” the emcee announced, as I made my way to the podium. I felt that all eyes were on me as I shuffled to the front of the auditorium. In an effort to calm myself, I arranged my papers in a meticulous manner so as to not get lost in my thoughts or my words. My hands felt clammy, and I was concerned about losing concentration. Because of my shyness, I am not very comfortable with public speaking, but as the president elect of our high school key club chapter, it was my responsibility to present the club at the New York District Convention this past March. I cleared my throat and began speaking….

My shyness has been a persistent problem for me. In the classroom, I would rarely raise my hand to participate. Instead I would slump in my seat hoping that I wouldn’t be called on. I had great difficulty standing in front of the class and speaking my mind. Even in smaller groups I was often intimidated by other people and I didn’t have enough self confidence to express my ideas. I was reluctant to confide in friends, let alone express myself before groups of other people. I especially avoided all situations that involved public speaking. It had become a personal rule that I could not speak in front of large groups of people. Some previous attempts to speak in public stand out in my memory. I recall on one occasion my nervousness when I gave a presentation concerning Latin American cultures. In another class I remember my anxiety when I tried to convince a jury of my peers to convict Winston Moseley of the grisly crime of murdering a defenseless woman, Catherine Genovese. Consequently, I received low grades on both assignments due to my lack of charisma and confidence.

As I have matured, however, I have recognized my timid behavior as a handicap.
Academic and Professional success sometimes depends on one’s adeptness at public speaking. I was chosen to give the speech because I was President Elect for the upcoming school year. I prepared for weeks, writing the speech and practicing it before a mirror. I tried to remember this practice as I began my speech.…

The key club chapter in Forest Hills High School has accomplished much in the sense of our community and our citizens. We have not only fed the homeless, but we have also raised over a few thousand dollars for national organizations. An old proverb once stated, ‘Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement.’ Nothing can be done without hope and confidence. Without the members of our club, nothing would have been possible. If not for their achievement and support we would not have surpassed our expectations for our commitment to our community.

I took a breath from speaking and I realized that all eyes were on me. The feeling of being the center of attention was both anxiety producing and exhilarating. A growing feeling of confidence enabled me to forget about being nervous and helped to ease my tension. “We have participated in such events as March of Dimes, Walk America and numerous homeless shelters in New York City.” I was feeling a growing sense of accomplishment, not simply because of my speech, but because of my success in overcoming an obstacle. As I neared the end of my speech, I began to appreciate what I was doing, the causes for which I was fighting. “The objective of our club will always stay the same and I am hoping as the new president for the upcoming key club year, that I can provide for the members what they have provided for our community. Thank You.” I lay my speech on the podium as I collected my thoughts. The polite quiet in the room was succeeded by an eruption of applause as I made my way to my seat.

This experience has helped me gain confidence and begin to overcome my fear of public speaking. I’ve realized that although this was just one speech, it was the first step in my growth and maturation process. In my classes, I have begun to take a more vocal role. I regularly raise my hand in class and participate more often. I know that I must continue to work hard to improve my public speaking abilities as I know I will need the skills in my future endeavors. I look forward to more public speaking opportunities in college.

By Firat87 (Firat87) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 03:16 pm: Edit

An essay from a 16-year-old Turkish Cypriot(I got into MIT,USC,RIT,UIUC,Purdue...but I got in some of them with different essays
A mystical island touched by the heaven, surrounded by sky-blue sea ,green mountains and fascinating sceneries and a dreamland for tourists for its dazzling sunshines and magnificent historical places...This island, Cyprus, however, has long been colored with pure red; with pure human blood because of the conflict between the two communities living together on the same island;Turkish and Greek Cypriots.Without being aware of the fact that trying to control the problems with guns and bullets would never be a long term solution, hatred, violence and terror were encouraged and uprooted and in consequence both sides killed each other without any pity.Nevertheless, approximately three decades ago,the clasped fingers of two friend began to seperate,waving their farewell in reluctance.Seperation of the island into two parts was the most devastating historic event for me and most Cypriots.
A divided island,divided past but what about the future? Now,thirty years later than the seperation of the island,worried faced of two friend who had been seperated three decades ago reveal how terrified they were but worries starting to vanish into thin air one by one are replaced by firm bonds, especially trust and the desire to have peace is at its highest level.Reunifying as a whole is specially meaningful to me since being in the service of my country is something exceptionally fabulous for me and as I promised myself when I was young to help my country in its path to advance.I clearly recall the day on which I, as a naive and innocent boy saw the divided map of this corner of earth I reside in and was strangely seized by frustration and a feeling insistingly ordering me to clear out the greenline with an eraser.Afterwards,I have been to Seeds of Peace Camp where I found the oppurtunity to exchange ideas with whom I was taught to be enemies with,enabling me to gain a wider perspective of life and Cyprus Problem.I have,most significant of all,learnt that “enemy” has a face,a face same as me.My enthusiasm for a United Cyprus has risen so much that I have begun to believe that there are no need for the word “enemy”. North part in which I reside in is accepted to be an unrecognized and illegal part of the world since the it is the South part which is accepted as the Cyprus government worldwide and since we are considered to leave this government to set up our own government in North side.Turkish Cypriots breathe,eat,drink,sleep and speak like human-beings however, are not recognized worldwide.
Nowadays,entry to European Union of Cyprus as a whole are the main topics being discussed.If Cyprus can be reunified, it is a real chance for my dreams of serving my country and being accepted to be a human-being.Otherwise, the Greek Cypriots will be entering the EU by themselves which will mean the end of Turkish Cypriots;being unrecognized forever.Can you dream of such a dreadful thing?Advent of Annan’s Plan has abruptly mutated social, political and economical situations in Cyprus and has initiated a new period in which determination, eagerness and ambition for peace seized all Cypriots; especially Turkish Cypriots who are fighting for their survival and existence in the island. This plan has also gave me hope and made me really enthusiastic. In such a significant time in which there is an overwhelming desire to achieve an appropriate and satisfying solution in order to reunify as a whole island, our president and negotiator Mr. Denktas and his supporters whose number suddenly dwindled because of the anti-peace policy he is ensuing, stated their pessimistic and desperate views over reunification of Cyprus, favoring the idea that our futures will also be divided as our pasts. Self-interest of him urged me, my family and over sixty thousand Turkish Cypriots to the streets to demonstrations being held where crowds called for a rapid solution to the Cyprus Problem and EU entry as well as resignation of Mr.Denktas who is certainly not thinking of the future of youngsters who will have to emigrate in case no solution is reached because they will be left with two options; either living in an illegal and unrecognized part of the world where there is poverty, unemployment and unhappiness will be experienced or emigrating to another country to lead a comfortable life. I can’t realize how our president can declare a plan which will provide us independence, democracy, right to govern ourselves, which will stop us from being an illegal and unrecognized part of the world and most significantly a plan which will enable us to live like human-beings with Greek Cypriots in peace as a plan which will result in our extinction? He certainly does not support the idea “It’s better to burn out than fade away” since he states that being a minority by living together by Greek Cypriots should not be preferred to enter the EU. His relentless refusal to sign the plan and repeated statements that no one can force him to sign the plan ,not only drove Turkish Cypriots to streets to shout against him but also encouraged tens of peace fires to be lit all over North Cyprus as a clear indication for rapid need for “Solution, peace and entry of EU”.
It’s high time the border separating the Cypriots are lifted, it’s high time to stop young people from emigrating. It’s high time two old friends hug each other and never let each other go again.

A bit long I know

By Toxicity01 (Toxicity01) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 06:57 pm: Edit

Everyone who I let read my NYU essay said they love my cynical writing style... now just let me find where it's saved...

By Lostnconfused (Lostnconfused) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 07:18 pm: Edit

BrandNews essay is the best essay i've ever read in my life. It's so good i think ill just have to clap my hands. *claps hands*

By Teal (Teal) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 07:27 pm: Edit

haha, there are great essays in here, and some others that make you laugh out loud

Please post your admissions decisions along w/ your essays as well, that'd be helpful

By Sizandy (Sizandy) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 07:32 pm: Edit

Isaman, that was truly excellent. I don't see how any college can reject that one.

By Tri_N (Tri_N) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 07:36 pm: Edit

God, you guys are such overachievers. Here's my essay. Short and right to the point.


I'm the reincarnation of Jesus Christ.

By Virgo007 (Virgo007) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 07:40 pm: Edit

You guys must be realy naive to put your work on the boards. There are cheaters out there who might just copy and paste your essay on their application or steal your ideas. Come on now.

By Congresssenator (Congresssenator) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 07:42 pm: Edit

I have absolutely no use for mine now.

If such a situation should arise--Caveat emptor.

By Jeffman85 (Jeffman85) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 07:45 pm: Edit

Here is my UC one:


University of California: "I am a Tree"
I am a tree. My roots are grounded in a firm foundation. They spread deeper and deeper, satisfying their insatiable thirst for life. My trunk is not hollow--but robust, not narrow--but wide. My branches are far-reaching and limber. They bulge at their joints and do not conform to any shape but instead are tangled in masses. My leaves are abundant and full. They are not one, but many shades of green and orange of red and brown. When they become much too dry and when the sun is dampened by a canvas of gray, they shed. Beneath me are the leaves that once adorned my limbs. Rather than vanish, they act as a reminder of the life they once had. The leaves never leave, you see. They integrate themselves back into the earth and dissolve into the soil of my roots where they once again claim life. This is me.
My beliefs are my roots. They are not bound by forced convictions, but rather I control how far they reach and I determine what I believe. Growing up Catholic was never a choice for me, although it was never an integral part of my life. In these last few years, my eyes have been opened to the many conflicts and contradictions of my church. While I no longer identify myself as Catholic, I instead reply to people's inquiries by saying I need a lifetime to understand my God.
It is my family that makes my trunk strong. With each coming year, they expand, teaching me new things about the world and adding depth to my character. Divorced, my parents have given me the challenge of living between homes and making the best of sometimes the worst of situations. Their problems have given me much of my patience and have instilled in me the values that I had to find on my own. Growing up, my parents always stressed the importance of accepting people. So, in my junior year of high school, when I was ready to tell my parents I was gay, I faced them knowing I had nothing to be afraid of. Coming out to my parents last year and being received with support and love created a stronger bond with them than I could have ever imagined. Telling them was more difficult than I could have ever conceived. It has given me, though, the confidence, poise, and compassion to face the people who may not be as supportive and loving as my family has been to me.
My branches are my interests, my passions. They help define me and are ever changing, always evolving. Growing up in a suburban city, I have rarely been exposed to or ever experienced what poverty is. Not far from my own home you will come upon a place called the Moral Values Program, or MVP. MVP is a home that has been converted into a school where sixty or more kids come each day to escape their unstable homes. These children are exposed to the worst of situations, having little income and no place to go, and yet they can manage to smile. Those smiles encourage me to face my challenges and overcome my fears of my future. Time after time, this simple place has acted as a constant reminder to look beyond my own sphere of reality and acknowledge the worth of my time and the good that can come from it when I spend it on others. I will take this idea with me through life. After high school, I will still have that same drive and want to help others and it is that which gives me compassion for those who are less fortunate.
That leads me to my leaves. They are the fruits of my labor, the reasons I live. They are the confidence I have in my beliefs. They are the embraces from my family. They are the smiles and laughter of the children at MVP, each vibrant and alive within me, making me whole and complete, providing sanctuary from the hardships of life and giving texture to my thoughts. And while they do fade and shed with time, they do not leave me. Behind me forever are the embraces, the smiles, and the confidence that will seep back into my roots and give me renewed life. I am a tree.

Good luck. let me know what you think.

By Tri_N (Tri_N) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 07:50 pm: Edit

I have made a couple of revisions to this draft but this is my common application essay:

I yearn to make a difference, but all I could do was to put her foul linen in the soiled linen basket. The woman in front of me resembled a corpse; this tormented me. It has been five hours since Ms. Anderson had sat at her bed, waiting for her appointment. Inside my heart, I wished that I was her knight in shining armor somehow able to waltz through that door to relieve her of the endless wait.
Earlier in the morning, I met Ms. Anderson at Occupational Therapy when she struggled at each step on the treadmill. As she settled back into her wheelchair, I smiled, excused myself, and asked her, “How is your day, Ms. Anderson?”
I stood there several moments, awaiting her reply, but it never came. Shrugging my shoulders, I pushed her quietly through the hallways to her room. Since Ms. Anderson didn’t whimper a sound, I thought that she was an introverted person. Later, the nurse provided a starkly different explanation when the nurse told me that Ms. Anderson is in the last stage of Parkinsons disease, and thus had lost all remaining memories of her identity.
I exclaimed, “No way. Are you kidding me? How is this possible? Isn’t there a way to cure her?” The nurse shook her head noi and tended to her other patients.
This seemed tragic, yet ironic. The scientific world can attempt a cure for cancer, but yet science can’t successfully relieve the pain of families and friends felt when their loved ones are stricken with Parkinson’s disease. In my mind, Ms. Anderson’s state, is in some respects worse than death; she’s dwells in an intellectual and emotional void, physically breathing but otherwise vacant in her limbo between death and life.
A gentle, sharp, cool breeze blew past me across the room to the doorway. I hurried to the window and closed it to prevent Ms. Anderson from catching a chill. Dressing in a great white overcoat, donning a doctor’s garb, with a stethoscope hanging from my neck has long been a dream for me. I continue to anticipate the day when I will meet my first patient, a future Ms. Anderson perhaps, with a bright smile in my face that would light up his or her face, thereby warming the room, despite the impending chill from a blustery December Chicago gust storming on the door’s glass panel.

By Chibiutena (Chibiutena) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 07:51 pm: Edit

Nieh. i didn't care much for harvard anyways. i think i was either angry or drunk when i wrote this.

College applications are something that everyone places such a large emphasis upon. High school students spend their entire high school career striving to get into college and to basically set the framework for the rest of their lives- or so they say. Colleges know that they have the power to command the actions of students so they continually demand more and more. It is not enough that a student works hard for their grades or excels at standardized tests, students must attend to meaningful extracurricular activities and perhaps hold leadership positions in them in order to even be considered for acceptance.
But what about the little things that truly matter; traits like compassion, intellectual stimulus and ambition that are not given a space anywhere in the common college application yet will take precedent later in life. My best friend, Eliza, doesn¡¯t dedicate her life to service projects but she is one of the most caring people on earth. English grades do not reflect someone¡¯s intellectual maturity. Someone can read and understand Pushkin¡¯s verses but still do poorly in an English class. A genius can have a bad day and score terribly on his ACT¡¯s. Its not earthshattering information but everything rides so heavily upon it. Students are people with likes and dislikes. What about questions about what I like to read or how I felt about my volunteer experience? How I see the world, how I treat people, my philosophy in life are all major cornerstones of my existence.
So I answer these questions for you. If you don¡¯t remember my name from the beginning of the application, its Tian Xi Tan. I am seventeen years old and currently attending Whitney Young High School. I¡¯ve been there for almost six years since junior high and though it¡¯s a excellent school, its beginning to get a little mundane. It is highly competitive and my fellow classmates are generally surly people. I hate liars, ¡°moochers¡± (popularized by Ayn Rand) and hypocrites. I like people who are straightforward and who actually work hard for their success so I try to do the same. Last week, I read Ibsen¡¯s A Doll¡¯s House, Truman Capote¡¯s Breakfast at Tiffany¡¯s and Sophia Kinsella¡¯s Shopaholic series which I thoroughly enjoyed. I also read Trifles by Susan Glaspell and Nicholas Hornby¡¯s About a Boy which I disliked because of its blatantly failed attempt at humor. My favorite experience as an volunteer was helping young children with temporary tattoos at the local zoo. All in all, I believe that life is of my own choosing. Everyone should be given a chance to pursue their goals and be lent a helping hand every once in awhile though not be thoroughly dependent upon it. Life is an adventure for me and my goal is to pursue it from all angles.

By Chibiutena (Chibiutena) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 07:54 pm: Edit

i know it gets a little trite at the end. but oh well. it was skimmed dwon from my original rant which basically called college admission officers incompetent boobs...

By Nmoreno1 (Nmoreno1) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 08:02 pm: Edit

My USC essay. Very boring, so I'm only posting the first pargarph. (who is going to read all of these essays anyway?)


*begin USC essay*

"As our blood labours to beget
Spirits, as like souls as it can,
Because such fingers need to knit
That subtile knot, which makes us man..."
-The Extasie, by John Donne

Such are the words of John Donne, the metaphysical poet of the 17th century. To this day, nothing has intrigued me as much as "The Extasie" and nothing has been more beautifully composed. While it may have been written over one hundred years ago, its archaic spellings and ideals are nevertheless meaningful and applicable to my sense of self. Throughout my life, I have always felt a certain family pressure because I am a first-generation college student. As Donne says, we must all labor to attain that level of perfection we call the Ideal World; in junior high, high school was my next level and as a high school student, it is now college. My mind has always been focused on the concepts of the real and ideal worlds, and Donne's poem was the key to this realization. Why did I attend so many band practices? "You'll never make money playing that euphonium thing" my brother so eloquently puts it. So why do it? The truth is that I am an anomaly. Somewhere on the factory line, God divided by a negative sign when determining the absolute value of my possible futures. I do it because my very makeup drives me to become something more than human, something along the lines of Nietzsche's ubermensch.
*end USC essay snippet*

By Ghewitt04 (Ghewitt04) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 08:04 pm: Edit

Grrr I just found several typos and this is the essay I submitted...Oh well, I finished it like 5 minutes before the application deadline so extensive proofreading wasn't really an option! Unless you applied to NYU you probably won't recongnize some of the references in the first paragraph (they had to do with the essay prompts which I totally ignored)...Whatever!


As I sat down to write the required essay for the New York University, I scratched my head in puzzlement; I could not think of a single thing to write on any of the essay topics. My mind raced for a solution to this problem sifting through seventeen years of memories, experiences and lessons learned- nothing! I tried to write a sitcom about my friends and I but we just aren’t that interesting. I spent last Sunday watching football and doing homework- not that exciting! Not one dominant experience presented itself. The only solution I could come up with was to make up a fictional event and subsequently a fictional lesson learned.
I was all set to write my bogus essay about some breakup with a girl and how I learned that you should be careful who you open up to and girls are evil and blah blah blah. Then my conscience started to get the best of me. I decided to take this moral dilemma to my mother for advice. She did not tell me what to do but subtly made me realize that if I submitted the essay and was admitted, I would not have gotten in ‘on my own’. This opened up a whole new train of thought as I came to the realization that my acceptance to NYU, everything I learned at NYU, and all the doors NYU opened up in my life would all be based on a lie. Needless to say I scrapped the beginnings of the old essay and in doing so learned a valuable lesson. Writing a great college essay is not worth being dishonest, and I am proud of my decision, whatever the consequences.
This moral roller coaster taught me that if I wanted to look back on my life and be proud of what I had accomplished, I have to conduct my life with integrity. I am now determined to approach life’s situations with honesty realizing that the chance to get ahead is not worth looking back on my life with a black mark on my conscience. Maybe I should start over- Let me tell you about an experience that carried a valuable life lesson: writing a college essay.

By Chemyst (Chemyst) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 08:07 pm: Edit

My 600 word essay for the UC system....apparently it's good.....was already accepted to UCSD by exception:


Not so long ago I was seduced by a French kiss and have now long since passed the point of no return. The French language is truly a captivating lover. It gave me no choice but surrender. Now I am hopelessly in love.
Our story began my freshman year when I showed up for my first day of French class. It was certainly not love at first sight. "Bonjour! Comment vous appelez-vous?" The professor's voice brought me to my senses and I was able to muster a tiny "Bonjour. Je m'appelle Anna." The professor shook her head, "Non, on dit, 'Bonjour, Madame.'" I blushed a deep shade of red as I realized my mistake and repeated even more quietly than before, "Bonjour, Madame." If the Cupid was aiming for me, his arrows were whizzing right past.
Yet the Cupid somehow managed to wedge his arrow deep in my heart a few weeks later when I picked up 'Le Petit Prince,' a French children's book, and began to
devour it. When I wasn't occupied with reading French, I could always be found with my headphones on, listening some French tape or another. Sounds of French being spoken fast, being spoken slowly seeped out under my bedroom door. This was a relationship which I spent much time developing.
You may be wondering why and how this romance even came to exist in the first place. The truth is, there is no good reason. Love forsakes all reason. It's possible my love has something to do with its phonetics such as that lip-puckering "u" or the gargling "r." Or could it be those elegant letter combinations such as "eau" (water) whose beauty resembles that which they describe? All I can do is blame my love on the Cupid whose arrow has become hopelessly embedded in my heart.
Now we return to the love story. In my first semester of French, the professor quietly slipped me a form. At the top were written the words, "Application for Most Outstanding Foreign Language Student of 2001." In my ear she whispered, "I do not expect you to win this; it is a college award." In spite of this remark, I filled out the form, being careful to note my interests in Irish, Latin, and Greek.
The weeks flew by and finals came in a hurry. By then, I assumed I had not won any award. Yet as I walked into class that day, the professor had a strange air about her. Our eyes met and I heard her mouthing, "I have an announcement to make." A check and a certificate materialized in my hands. The name, "Most Outstanding Foreign Language Student of 2001," rang in my ears. This was just one of love's many rewards, but at the moment it seemed to be the best of all. The Cupid's arrow plucked at my heartstrings as my eyes began to mist. I hugged my professor. The love burned with a fiery passion that day. Since then, I have taken French classes whenever possible and have twice participated in annual weekends where communication in French is mandatory. My love has led me to collaborate twice with my professor on a college-published French homestudy workbook. And the love burned with a fierce intensity indeed in May 2003 when I took fourth place in Categorie A of the Concours National Francais sponsored by the Alliance Française.
However, despite this steady relationship, I have never been to France. One of my goals is to study abroad in France for a year to get a taste of that culture who speaks my beloved language. Another is to attain at least a minor in this beautiful language.
And so the love story continues, as Cupid surveys his creation, keenly and with pleasure, from his Eiffel Tower.

By Jmancer (Jmancer) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 08:09 pm: Edit

say where u got in befor u post ur essay please

By Mzhang23 (Mzhang23) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 08:29 pm: Edit

Accepted at Princeton ED.
Here's one of my five essays:

1. Tell us about a person who has affected you life in a significant way.

When my parents first informed me that I was going to be a brother, I knew then that my life would be changed forever. Indeed, my brother, Daniel, has had a significant impact on my life. For the nine years that I have known him, he has been both my nemesis and my friend, and above all, he has given me great understanding and experience with children.
Daniel never ceases to amaze me with his interminable reserves of energy and enthusiasm. From the day he was born, my brother was characterized by a penchant for activity. This carried on to the present, and I have rarely seen him in a lazy state. Sure, his constant need to keep himself occupied has annoyed me more often than not – one rainy afternoon he decided to play handball in the house and broke two glasses and a lamp. Yet his activity has sustained me through all these years; whenever I feel down, Daniel has always been there to cheer me up, and whenever I am bored, he is ready to entertain me with his homespun Homeric epics of knights, kings, wars and glory.
In return for all Daniel does for me, I am more than obliged to return the favor. Most of the favor involves mandatory babysitting, a task requiring unusually high physical endurance. A typical day involves several games of basketball at the park, two mind-numbing hours of videogames, and some handball and storytelling. At the end of the day I am absolutely exhausted – how often have I wished that I could be socializing with my friends! Yet as I look back upon my babysitting tenure, I see that I was ultimately rewarded with a close friendship with my brother. Had I spent the day somewhere else, I would no doubt be a person more distant from Daniel; I would simply be, as he once complained when I was in eleventh grade, “that boy who comes home and just does homework and never has time for me!”
The biggest difference between Daniel and me is our age. Eight years is a long time, often an impossible canyon to bridge. He is an immature and energetic child, his personality a clear contrast to my mature and patient self. Our playfights have turned into real scuffles, my stories at night have scared him, and his vociferous behavior has annoyed me when I seek tranquility and respite. But taking care of Daniel has left me with lots of experience with children and also a remarkable appreciation for them. I easily handled the children at a summer camp where I volunteered in ninth grade, and while many married people are not sure about having children, I am confident and prepared to deal with one. Ultimately, I learned an invaluable thing when I took care of Daniel: if I can handle him, I can handle any kid.
Who would not want a brother? Despite our huge age gap, our intermittent fighting, and fundamentally different personalities, I absolutely love my brother and would never give him up. I remember that I used to worry about the problems that would arise from having a brother – the sibling rivalry, the fighting, the personal space issues – and when I actually experienced them firsthand, at times I wish I never had a brother. Surprisingly, what I gained through all my time with him was an appreciation for children and an understanding of how they function. It is with much sorrow that I realize I have less than one year to spend with such a wonderful person.

By Brandnew (Brandnew) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 08:29 pm: Edit

i got in all the UCs so far

only waiting for berkeley (2 more hours)

long live instant noodles! thanks for all the positive comments on my essay guys i appreciate it

By Chasgoose (Chasgoose) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 08:32 pm: Edit

I sent this to Harvard, Columbia, Amherst, Williams, and Vassar. I also sent it to Yale after I was deferred EA and sent it in an inferior shorter form to the University of Chicago. So far I am 2 for 2 with this essay (UC and Vassar) and in a couple days I will know the other outcomes. The topic is my obsession and love/hate relationship with the Modernist writer Gertrude Stein.

I am obsessed with Gertrude Stein. Ever since I took a Modernist literature class two summers ago, this idiosyncratic writer has haunted me in my daily life. I find myself seamlessly—well, maybe not quite so seamlessly—inserting Gertrude Stein into numerous class discussions. At the same time, however, I hate Gertrude Stein. To me, Gertrude Stein's writings seem a mockery of everything the English language stands for. The ego of this self-proclaimed genius looms so large that it almost jumps from the pages of Gertrude Stein's work and punches the reader in the face.

I first encountered Gertrude Stein through Gertrude Stein's most popular work, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas. As I read the book, I kept thinking, "Would it kill Gertrude Stein to use a comma, or to refer to herself with a pronoun every once in awhile?" The focus of this story was not Gertrude Stein's lover, Alice B. Toklas, but the monstrous, self-aggrandizing creature, Gertrude Stein herself. I became enraged at Gertrude Stein, who for Gertrude Stein's own narcissistic purposes, had appropriated the voice and identity of Gertrude Stein's "wifey" and used them to promote herself, completely relegating Alice B. Toklas to the background. My disdain for Gertrude Stein only increased when I read Gertrude Stein's "portraits" of famous painters. These garbled collections of random phrases repeated over and over with subtle changes first made me laugh and then irritated me. I began to believe that Gertrude Stein and Gertrude Stein's influence on English literature must be stopped before more people were hurt.

As time passed, however, I could not get Gertrude Stein out of my head. I begrudgingly admitted that Gertrude Stein's whole Paris salon scene fascinated me. To this day, I cannot see a painting by Matisse or Picasso without imagining them chatting the night away with Gertrude Stein. As I kept rereading Gertrude Stein's work to find out more about the Modernist artists and writers, Gertrude Stein's strange writing style began to grow on me. Sure, Gertrude Stein could have benefited from a little more punctuation, but I realized that like Gertrude Stein's Modernist compatriots, Gertrude Stein was trying to break free of the constraints of the past to take English prose to new heights. Once I thought of Gertrude Stein that way, Gertrude Stein became less annoying and more of a spunky rebel. I saw Gertrude Stein everywhere in my American literature course. Picasso's portrait of Gertrude Stein, hanging in the museum of my mind, served as a constant background for my thinking and analysis. I found myself frantically searching through my copy of The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas for Gertrude Stein's opinion of Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald and rereading Gertrude Stein's sad—but hysterical—falling out with Ernest Hemingway. I realized that, while hating Gertrude Stein, I had also come to love Gertrude Stein—maybe not as much as Alice B. Toklas did—but I knew that Gertrude Stein would always be with me.

When I bring up Gertrude Stein in conversation—and it happens a lot more often than it ought to—people invariably ask, "Why are you so obsessed with Gertrude Stein, of all people?" The honest answer is that I have no justifiable reason why I, a seventeen-year-old boy, would have a love/hate relationship with Gertrude Stein. Never have I experienced such a strong bipolar reaction to any writer--or anything, for that matter. Perhaps it is because Gertrude Stein's writing makes me think. Or perhaps it is simply because Gertrude Stein is Gertrude Stein is Gertrude Stein.

NOTE: My lack of pronoun usage is intentional as a subtle way of mocking Gertrude Stein's writing style in The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas.

By Pennylane (Pennylane) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 08:57 pm: Edit

I'd actually really appreciate some feedback, even though it's all over with now.

(It got me into every school I applied to so far, including NYU, BU, Northeastern, etc. and waitlisted at Barnard... still waiting on Brown and Columbia)

---

At a disturbing hour of the night, my body, nine years old in physicality but about a decade older in mentality, was awakened by the intense timbre of my parents arguing across the hall. My dad was just getting home from the bar; I silently pretended to think that nothing is wrong. Drunk was normal. That stale, uninviting stench of Budweiser defined him. But this time, the terror in my mother's voice penetrated my being, and all the books I had read became real. The curtain rose.

I had always been quiet. Often, it was difficult to form the words without a pen and paper, and I'd rather write my thoughts than speak them. It was the last school day in fifth grade, as my teacher wrote, "Speak up! The world needs to hear what you have to say!" in my yearbook, when I decided to alter the script and make my entrance. It seemed incredibly cliché, resorting to theatre in hopes that my quietness would be alleviated, but I learned the lines nonetheless. Incidentally, I began to dance around my problems at home.

Being a fairly fastidious individual, I expected to change immediately, to suddenly transform from a chorus girl to the lead character. However, I completely lost the spotlight when my father was admitted into the intensive care unit at Kent County Memorial Hospital. Walking briskly around the track one day with my friends sophomore year of high school, they began to inquire about my silence. "You have to talk about it," Chris insisted, sensing that something was not right. Finally, I did speak. I told him that my dad had been in the hospital; I told him about the alcoholism; I told him about my act of functioning as an over-achieving high school student, worrying about grades, and never missing a rehearsal. I even cried. I began to think that I'd really grasped the concept of characterization when I realized that this monologue, these words, were actually mine.

However, I still kept my father disintegrating somewhere in the back of my mind, behind rehearsals and schoolwork. Sometimes my mom forced me to visit him, and I cringed upon entering the hospital's doors. The invasive, omnipresent odor of sickness and death smothered me. I was scared, so petrified that my daddy was going to die and that he was never going to know that I loved him even though I hated the mistakes he had made. The conflict was painfully real. To circumvent reality, I went back home and memorized my lines; I brought the characters to life, and when I was on stage, I was everyone but myself.

Then I began to ponder. Did I portray the characters, or did the characters parallel me? For instance, I had Juliet Capulet's innocence, Rebecca Nurse's integrity, and Miss Hockenschmoss's perfectionism. As I arrived at this revelation, my father's formerly elusive struggle of survival abruptly became substantial. If he could triumph over a fatal disease, then I could surely learn to accept his change and, idealistically, change myself. Today, I am no longer afraid to speak. A smile slowly creeps upon my face, I let out an audible laugh of gratification, and I am finally ready to take my bow as the curtain closes.

By Disappear_Here (Disappear_Here) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 09:00 pm: Edit

ED to Syracuse VPA

You are about to read my college essay. Brace yourself. This essay will be different from anything you have read before. Don't you dare discard it. This is my voice, the only force that can prevent you from shoving this paper into the dark dungeon of high school students who don't meet the University standards. Now you are aggravated. You are wondering where this is going. I already told you, this is my college essay. It is just one out of the thousands you are about to read. This one is special because it is mine.
Familiarize yourself with my application. Review my credentials. Read what my teachers have to say about me. You want to know more, you seem intrigued. I could tell you about a childhood memory or a gratifying experience in a foreign country. I could even use a material possession as a device to create the metaphor of my life. Let's be serious. You don't need my life story. It's a good thing that we are both on the same page here.
I am more than this piece of paper. I am an artist, a creator. I possess the three single most outstanding attributes that you are looking for: pride, principles, and passion. I am an individual, not just some file that contains my academic achievements. I do not deserve a punishment or rejection for the truth: I have a future, a goal, and an aspiration. I have the drive to take my talents and put them to good use. This is not a lie. There is a point to all my determination and knowledge. I cannot abandon what I have worked so hard for.
So now as you reach the end of my explanation, consider my honesty. That is what matters most. You are preparing to make your decision about which pile I belong in. Choose wisely.

By Tri_N (Tri_N) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 09:04 pm: Edit

Oh, yeah, my essay has net me an acceptance spot at Amherst, Swarthmore, Carnegie Mellon, Davidson, and Trinity College in CT.

By Glowingamy (Glowingamy) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 09:23 pm: Edit

I like Jeffman's
I LOVE Brandnewr's
"The first thing you must do as an artist is to get over yourself"

By Swtfrk (Swtfrk) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 09:25 pm: Edit

This one's the notorious ten dollar Johns Hopkins essay. I dunno if I got in yet or not, but I feel that this is a decent piece of writing from me.

If you had only $10 to plan a day’s adventure, where would you go, what would you do, and who would you take with you?

Nobody noticed the silent alarm being activated in the business district in downtown. There was no reason to suspect the slightest disturbance save for the strange masked man hobbling out of the nearby bank. “Oh my God, what have I done,” I gasped. “How did I manage to only rob ten dollars from the wealthiest bank in the state?” I was practically screaming my eyeballs out, but the tranquil spring air did not offer me any condolences. There was no time for me to dwell on my inept holdup. Police sirens were blaring in the distance, and I hastily escaped with what little loot I had managed to get.

My lofty aspirations of staging the largest bank heist in history fell rather short. Knowing well that there likely is enough evidence to eventually expose me from beneath the cheap panty-hose mask, I prepared to make the most out of my last day as a free man. I stared with disgust at my filthy lucre that was in my hands. It was such a meager sum that I even contemplated giving it to the desperate wino pitifully prowling the streets. Still, money was money, and I planned to squeeze out every last penny to use for my very last adventure.

Despite the seeming inevitability of my arrest, I was not going to allow myself to passively live through the day; the mantra “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees” instantly came to mind. The handful of bills rolled tumultuously through my sweaty palms as my mind became deeply entrenched in thought, undoubtedly conjuring up a brilliant plan. I had to do this alone, for I didn’t want to risk implicating friends who had nothing to do with my actions. With an Archimedean whoop, a “eureka” exploded through my jubilant lips. My plan was set, and my first stop was to the local butcher.

“One pig’s heart please,” I requested. Being from a Chinese family, the butcher was never surprised to see me order the most exotic of meats ranging from chicken feet to cow tongue, and he never questioned my intentions with my current order. My ten dollars were just enough to cover the charge. The next thing for me to do was to turn myself in, and luckily I got the speediest trial in the history of law. It would start in just an hour, giving me enough time to sanitize the heart and stick it into my suit pocket.

Everybody thought I was crazy representing myself at a trial of this magnitude. Whispers and snickers from the jury weren’t furtive enough to prevent the insults from reverberating in my ears. I quickly zoned out of the courtroom action as it went into session, having felt as if I plummeted into an ethereal dimension devoid of pain and rich in bliss. However, I snapped back into full consciousness as soon as the judge scathingly read off my offenses. Like the murderer from “The Tell-Tale Heart,” I loudly complained of ubiquitous thumping and heartbeats throughout the courtroom. Before anybody could even form a quizzical expression upon their face, I covered my ears and yelled louder about the incessant beating of the heart. “Curse you damned thing! Leave me alone! I did it! I confess!” I flung the pig’s heart across the room as I shrieked violently, hoping to take advantage of the insanity defense like so many others have. A few hours later, the jury declared my verdict as not guilty by reason of insanity, and understandably so.

A few months of examination in a special hospital went by quickly, and it was definitely a better option than years in jail. Life eventually returned to normal, as is the case with most things if given enough time. However, I never committed another felony since then. The cruel ironies of life had put me through enough. Ten stolen dollars could have led to my demise, but the same ten dollars conversely saved my life as well. A newspaper emblazoned with the headlines “Bank Robber Deemed Insane” from that infamous day hung on my bedroom wall as a reminder of what was, and what could have been. Every night before I sleep, I chuckle about the whole ordeal and swear to myself I will never put myself through something so weird and insane ever again.

By Isaman (Isaman) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 09:26 pm: Edit

I posted my essay for USC already (the Nicaragua one...it's in this thread somewhere).

Anyways, accepted at:

LMU
UCSD
UCI
UCD
UCR
Cal Poly

Rejected:
UCLA ....dream school

Pending:
Cal
USC

By Bart_Simpson22 (Bart_Simpson22) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 09:53 pm: Edit

My USC essay..(got in!!)

Although musical instruments are certainly not the most impressive technical achievements this world has seen, one could argue that they are among the most valuable in their ability to inspire beyond the scope of normal, logical thinking. The Alto Saxophone is a “technical achievement” that has greatly affected my life. It has intrigued me since I was young, and has inspired me in a way that has allowed me to use it not only as an instrument of sound, but also as an instrument for a deeper expression of feeling.

When I was in elementary school the high school Jazz Band came to play for us on occasion. I was fixated on the saxophone. I loved the sound. I loved the way the instrument freely moved throughout the scale in solos, wistfully, almost dreamily. I decided early on that the saxophone was the instrument I would play when I got the chance. I even coaxed my dad into buying Charlie Parker and John Coltrane albums at a yard sale we were browsing through, because I wanted to hear how the pros played. On a Saturday morning, you could often find me in my room listening to a jazz album all the way through on my dad’s record player.

Fifth grade is the year the band program starts in my town and when I reached this milestone I was more than ready for it. I wanted to learn the sax earlier but I never won that argument with my parents. Waiting wasn’t so bad, however, because I didn’t know what I was missing. And so I began my journey as a saxophonist as a confident little fifth grader in the music room of Belmont Elementary School. I loved learning the instrument although I was admittedly a bit frustrated that I could not play it as well, as “the pros” right away. Still, the high school Jazz Band gave me hopes of success, because they came from where I was. They had the same fifth grade band instructor, and learned from the same books that began with the traditional, yet uninspired “Hot Cross Buns”. They were living proof that down the line I could be good. As early as mid-fifth grade, I became very confident in my instrumental skills. I would always jump on the opportunity for a solo, as I still do today.

As a high school sophomore, I discovered a new dimension to the world of “sax” when I joined the revered BHS Jazz band. This is what I was waiting for. I was now playing the type of music that first got me interested in the instrument, and I was now a part of the group that I had looked up to so much in elementary school. From here my love of the saxophone really took off. Around this time, my long-time band director, Ray Craigie, introduced a new word to my vocabulary: Improvisation. I never even knew that such a thing existed, and ironically enough, improvisation is what will surely make playing the saxophone a life-long hobby of mine. With improvisation I was given the power to make the music reflect myself. I could put my emotions, my self into what I played.

I have a passion for jazz music; I have a passion for the saxophone. I love the comfort of the overtones and the shadow tones, the back-beats and the stilted rhythms. I know that on any given day I will create something that has never been heard, just because of the limitless highways of improvisation. The saxophone opens my mind and soul to myself and any others who are willing to listen.

Yeah..now that I read it again I think its pretty weak. I only like a couple parts. But hey, still got in, so no harm.

By Bart_Simpson22 (Bart_Simpson22) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 10:02 pm: Edit

Gwetti: I real like your NYU essay. Its very good, IMO...certainly not bad for a quick-job.

By Ostrizr316 (Ostrizr316) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 10:06 pm: Edit

This was my essay for Duke, UMD, and some other schools... How many people do you know that can write about a spider bite!

Write an essay about a time you were faced with adversity, and how you handled it.

At the beginning of my senior year, and for the first time in my life, I planned my schedule. In the past, I had always made vague estimates of what I wanted to accomplish, but I was never very definitive. This year was different, and for good reason. I wanted to test my abilities to their full capacity, to find what I was really capable of. My class schedule was the most challenging ever, including three APs and two selected student classes. Football season had just started, and after 3 long years of dedication to the program I was hoping to be named a captain. I was working on merit badges, a service project for my Eagle Scout award, and training my voice to make All State Chorus. Along with everything else involving colleges, SATs, and Boy Scouts, it was no wonder that I had planned out every hour of my day. Then along came a spider…
The Maryland Brown Recluse spider is less than the size of a quarter. It’s body measures less than half of an inch long and each of its legs is about as thin as a strand of hair. Despite its small stature, its bite carries enough toxins to decay human flesh, causing a wound that requires at least 8 weeks to heal. Maryland Brown Recluses are incredibly rare, and live in inactive areas like storage sheds or condemned houses, or, in my case, my friend’s seldom-used barbeque grill. Its bite is painless, and unlike other insect bites, it doesn’t instantly swell around the bite. Instead, the toxins quickly spread throughout the surrounding skin and cause the wound to look like an infected knife wound. It is only after the toxins spread that area begins to swell. Usually, this takes 12-15 hours, so I didn’t notice the gash surrounded by a huge, red, swelling lump on my arm until the next day. When I did, I was in the middle of playing in the Baltimore County Football Jamboree. I just thought it was just a mosquito bite that had popped open, so I taped it up and continued to play.
Five days later I couldn’t move my elbow, and my arm had swollen up to the size of a tree limb. Using my deductive reasoning skills and seven years experience in Boy Scouts of America I quickly realized that this was not a mosquito bite. I consulted my family physician. He told me that it was a Recluse bite, and put my mom in charge of watching for a secondary infection. When you hear about fatal spider bites in this country, you learn that it’s not the spider’s toxin that kills. What kills is known as a secondary infection. You see, spiders carry a lot of bacteria. All the germs from the squirrels, dogs, and deer that that spider had ever bitten went straight into my right arm. Needless to say, I started to show all the signs of a secondary infection. The problem was that my mom didn’t see them.
My mom has been a nurse for ten years, and is very good at what she does. Her first job was at Los Angeles County Hospital, working on the infectious disease unit. She watched endless AIDS patients suffer and die. When we moved to Maryland, she went into long term care, watching the elderly and terminally ill cling to life. Now she works at the Greater Baltimore Medical Center (GBMC), on the Oncology ward treating cancer patients. Throughout her career she has seen nothing but death, decay, and suffering. So, being the war-hardened soldier on the battlefield of modern medicine that she is, my mom assumed that my bite was nowhere near being a medical emergency.
“Oh my God! Doctor have you ever seen anything like this before?” That’s what my mom said two days later as my doctor was cutting a hole into my arm. Wait, let me flashback 24 hours. The school nurse sends me home because a black, bloody discharge is oozing out of my arm. I have a low-grade fever, and the redness around the bite is creeping up towards my shoulder. I have every symptom of an infection, but my mom has the nerve to call me a “wuss, who freaks out about every little thing.” She told me that I was fine, and that those symptoms were part of the healing process. Remember when I said that she was good at her job? I wasn’t lying. My mom understands that the healing process stops when my body temperature shoots above 102 degrees and I have a blood reservoir the size of a walnut on the site of my bite. Which brings us back to my Doctor. “Look at all that dead tissue! I have never seen that much puss before!” Twenty minutes later I had a hole in my arm the size of a wine cork.
For the next three days I had to go to a hospital to have a wet-to-dry bandage change done on my arm, where they would pack and unpack the hole with gauze. I was put on potent antibiotics and was restricted from football until further notice. By this time I had missed two days of classes, and was watching my seemingly flawless plan derail. Murphy’s law states that whatever can go wrong will go wrong, and will go wrong at the most inopportune time. That Murphy guy was smart, or really pessimistic. Either way his law fits my situation. My doctor reassured me that this was the best case scenario, seeing that my body had almost gone septic, which would have required several nights in a hospital bed. It wasn’t the most comforting consolation, but I didn’t mind. My mom came to help with my bandage changes, dragging along her nursing friends to show them the crater in my arm. “It almost looks like they removed a tumor!”
It took an additional four weeks for the hole to close up. During that time I visited my doctor more then any other time in my life. I had problems with infections, skin regrowth, protecting the wound, and deadly bacteria known as MSRE. My grades had slipped, my Eagle project was a month behind schedule, I didn’t know any of my music for my auditions, and my name was added to the injured reserve list for football. In those weeks I pushed myself harder than ever to get back on track, despite constant medical distractions. I managed to get my grades back up, regain my starting position on the football team, solidify my Eagle project, and make it into the Baltimore County Honors Choir and the Maryland All State Chorus. I don’t look back at this situation with any regrets or grief. I look back at the whole thing and laugh, because that is the way I deal with my problems.
In retrospect, I wouldn’t have wanted this to happen any other way. I wanted to test my abilities, and see what I was truly capable of. Ironically, this spider bite gave me what I wanted. Even though bite thwarted my original plan, I worked incredibly hard to accomplish everything that I wanted. More importantly though, I learned what I was truly capable of. Despite having an incredibly rare and injurious spider bite, I managed to get the best grades I have ever gotten, in the hardest classes I have ever taken, while being active in the most extracurricular activities I have ever done. It makes me wonder what else I am capable of.

By Ghewitt04 (Ghewitt04) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 10:56 pm: Edit

Thanks Bart, your USC essay is really good too, alot better than mine was (I wrote about computers, which I hate); hopefully my NYU essay gets me in...I'll find out on Thurs.

By Jolt21 (Jolt21) on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 11:16 pm: Edit

I keep a pad and pen right next to my bed. No, it’s not because I’m a compulsive writer, in fact, I’m not too fond of writing at all. It’s actually quite simple. For as long as I can remember, I have tended to devise solutions to problems in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, morning comes and the idea has vanished. So, now my paper and pen are on the right side of my bed on top of my nightstand. Lately I have been stressing over how to properly represent myself on paper to Brown admissions officers, in an essay that I would want to read myself. Lo and behold, last night, October 11, 2003 at 2:21 am, I awoke searching for my pen and paper. The next morning, having completely forgotten what I wrote, I looked at my paper and saw:

10/11 2:21
like all video games
exact opposite
Spider-Man=ME

Yeah, I had the same reaction, what could this gibberish possibly mean? As it turns out, it was a stroke of genius, or at least I thought so.

I’ll start with, “Like all video games.” I really enjoy video games: role playing games, adventure games, action games, first person shooters. You name it, I love it. Video games have always been a way for me to escape the pressures of everything else I was doing. Whether it was hockey practices for my town league, or the three club meetings that were scheduled on the same day at the same time, or rushing to work on Saturday mornings, there has always been something. So punching someone in a boxing game or beating someone in a street racing game always diminished some of the tension in my hectic life. Hold on, don’t throw out my essay just yet thinking I’m some menace to society, and let me explain the next part of my “night note”. “Exact opposite”. I am the exact opposite of these video games. I would never be able commit a crime; my conscience takes care of that. Despite what psychologists may say about people who favor violent games tending to mimic the content of the game, that just isn’t so with me.

Although I told you I am the “exact opposite” of the games I play, there is an exception to the rule. “Spider-Man=ME”. Spider-Man, my favorite video game of all time is that exception to the rule because “your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man” represents me. The web-slinger is a smart teenager that gives life 110%, and lives by the rule that “with great power, comes great responsibility.” He uses his knowledge to help everyone in need, even if he doesn’t like the individual for other reasons. Spidey is always tinkering with new ideas to defeat his challenges that lie ahead, and he is one that loves to have fun, loves to be in others company, and loves life. Altogether, this imaginary character represents in a real way the person that I am. If Michael Simoni were a sports team, he would be the mascot. Keeping this pad and pen by my bed, has to one effect - defining how I think about myself, even when my brain is in its subconscious mode.


other one:

I see myself embarking on a journey stimulating my fascination of science and math. The journey will shout for constant commitment, demand the utmost concentration to prevent from being overwhelmed, and test the strength and endurance of the mind, challenging the brain to overcome feats never dreamed of. I meet this challenge with enthusiasm and welcome it with open arms, as it will be my college education. I will have the tremendous opportunity to develop my understanding of the human body, one of the most, if not the most, complex and mysterious systems on this earth. As enriching and worthwhile as my inspiration is promising to be, I eagerly wait for when inspiration becomes dedication, introducing the next part of my future. Dedication will push for more refined, focused and demanding education. I anticipate this part of my future to be most invigorating and stimulating, revealing the intricate fundamentals of anatomy and physiology. I believe with dedication, this knowledge could be my north star, guiding me through my transition from schooling to a professional future in medicine. As I see it today, my dedication is my guide through college and grad school, building professional skills for a lifetime of career success and achievement.

By Avoidingwork (Avoidingwork) on Wednesday, March 31, 2004 - 12:38 am: Edit

After scanning this thread, I now have a deep respect for the people who actually have to read these essays to assess admissions. Must admit though, that I have a strange desire to run to the kitchen for some instant noodles.

By Fordhamchica03 (Fordhamchica03) on Wednesday, March 31, 2004 - 01:17 am: Edit

Here's my NYU transfer essay...

When I was accepted to Marymount College of Fordham University, I was eager to experience learning at an all women’s college. I’ve attended co-ed schools practically all my life and was curious to live in a residence hall with a group of girls from different background. The most appealing aspect about Marymount is the rampant diversity. I have met girls of all races, religions and socioeconomic backgrounds. A majority of the classes at Marymount are small and intimate. Plus, students have easy access to the professors. Although, Marymount is rigorous academically, I feel it does not possess the competitive classroom and social that environment I need in order to stand out when I enter the professional world.

Early in the semester, I withdrew a course because I was disappointed in the class structure. My Computer Applications professor recently completed graduate school and had no previous teaching experience. I expected for this introductory course to have a limited number of students in order to provide an optimum learning atmosphere and facilitate a personal relationship with the professor. Conversely, the class was overcrowded. I often found myself arriving to class up to a half-hour ahead of schedule so that I would have a seat in the class. I felt I could not excel in such an overcrowded class. With my family’s undying support, I prevailed and managed to receive good marks in my other courses. My family pushed me and I knew I could not be a failure because my mother, who couldn’t afford to attend college, works her hardest to help finance my education.

I hail from a hardworking, wholesome Nigerian family. My mother, who divorced my father when I was ten, taught my siblings and me to be kind individuals. I’ve always treated my friends and the people around me with respect because my mother raised me to do so. Since attending Marymount, I have truly learned that a woman must always be strong and never let anyone take advantage of her. Although, my mother taught me these vital lessons before I attended college, I didn’t apply them to my social life at Marymount; I was very naïve first semester. After being treated badly by my first roommate and harassed by a girl in the sophomore class, I realized that education is an important gateway for my success in life.

Education is my main focus, but NYU is located in the heart of New York City; I can’t ignore that! The social scene is simply fabulous in the Big Apple. If I am accepted to NYU, I will be near the Metropolitan Museum, Broadway, and many delicious Chinese food restaurants. New York City is a grand melting pot. I can learn daily life lessons from a future professor or a homeless guy on the corner! I can use these lessons in my future occupation because I will be able to work with different types of people and be able to assert myself confidently. I firmly believe NYU has the dynamic social and academic atmosphere needed for me to excel in the workplace because it is top university located in fast-pace, rich multicultural city!

My first semester was a tough one, yet my passion and overwhelming desire to learn and grow into a truly good human being still actively burns inside of me. My goal in life is to become a skilled screenwriter because I want to tell attention grabbing, fast paced, yet heart warming stories to the world like my “director idols,” Billy Wilder, Preston Struges, Frank Capra, Howard Hawks, and Joe L. Mankiewicz. I love them because they are such vivid story-tellers. With the right training, I hope to become nearly as wonderful as them. Overall, I would be truly honored and grateful if I was accepted for the fall semester of 2004 at New York University.

By Laurenh87 (Laurenh87) on Thursday, April 01, 2004 - 09:49 pm: Edit

bump

By Daggerlee (Daggerlee) on Thursday, April 01, 2004 - 09:55 pm: Edit

I figure I'd post one of my more 'edgy' essays. I only used this one for Harvard, and I got waitlisted. *shrug*

It’s been said that if a million immortal monkeys were given typewriters, infinite paper, and infinite time, eventually they would compile the complete works of Shakespeare, as well as the entire literary canon. I think they’d also write every issue of Seventeen magazine, in addition to every pizza flyer I’ve ever found on my front door.

Now, bear with me on my silly analogy. A room full of a million monkeys is a metaphor for the workings of time and the universe. See, I told you it was silly (try as I might, I haven’t been able to find anything deeper in the aforementioned phrase). I never said I was Kant. But to me, it makes sense in a weird, demented way. Think of life as an infinite number of possibilities and courses of actions, infinite branches and infinite forks in our universe, yet we are limited to experiencing them all by the proverbial monkey and how fast he piddles away at his typewriter.

Say your life’s story is the sheet of paper the monkey's typing on. He's not typing anything that makes sense. He’s not trying to write War and Peace. At best, he’s trying to signify to you that he’s hungry. Perhaps that explains your recent infatuation with hanging out at the produce section of your local grocer. Pauses in your life, where it seems like nothing is happening; your monkey has fallen asleep with one finger on the space bar. Whenever you’re tempted to use the aphorism “Feces happens” think to yourself: Maybe it just did. Voltaire probably wouldn’t devote a whole book to satirizing this worldview, nor would Stephen Hawking present it at the next Physics Symposium. But it makes more sense than most theories I’ve heard, and I bet Kurt Vonnegut would at least give it a second thought.

If the above is to be taken as truth, then I’ve found a, or the, meaning of life. It’s to educate the monkey dictating my life. I want him to be the Albert Einstein of monkeys, or at the very least, a stunt double in The Planet of the Apes. My monkey ought to know the difference between a carriage return and an ampersand, to choose what type of paper to use and when to leave the CAPS LOCK on. I want my monkey to turn my life into something worth reading about.

Ok, I’ll admit it. Maybe there isn’t a roomful of a million monkeys piddling away in the cosmos. Fine. But if self reflecting has revealed to me anything, it’s that I’m at the point in my life where I can see those infinite possibilities stretching out in front of me. I’m at the crossroads, Frost’s Divergence of Paths. I’d like to travel every road. Whether it be those typing monkeys, or the Fates spinning at the loom, or the serpent eating its own tail, or just my plain old grey matter, that decides which road I take, then I’m hoping whatever it is chooses wisely. Maybe there won’t even be a decision; Jay-Z defiantly said “I drove by the fork in the road and went straight.”

It’s been said that if your ship doesn’t come in, swim out to it. Since the last time I checked, ships haven’t been requesting rights to dock at my house, I guess I’m swimming out to mine. As the cold currents drag me along, I’m wondering, what exactly will I find on this ship? A feeling of content? One million dollars? Boxes full of bananas guarded by rabid monkeys let loose from their stations at the typewriters of life? It’s this wonder that has led me to swim out to meet your proverbial boat, which beckons along the Charles River like that grounded ferryboat did to Huck Finn on the Mississippi that one stormy night. It is my hope though, that your boat won’t be loaded with cutthroat thieves, or rabid monkeys; only safe harbor and the right route in life. Though, I wouldn’t mind a crate full of typewriters, or the models of Seventeen.

By Devilatheart (Devilatheart) on Thursday, April 01, 2004 - 10:10 pm: Edit

Stanford's Admissions Committee wanted to know why I sent my application in after the deadline, so I wrote:

Deleted by Moderator Trinity.

...i'll send it out one of these days...

By Bear363 (Bear363) on Thursday, April 01, 2004 - 10:32 pm: Edit

Devilatheart! That is brilliant!!! Send it!!! OMG! LMAO! Yes, send it!!!! That is a work of art!

By Peepilis (Peepilis) on Thursday, April 01, 2004 - 11:49 pm: Edit

Damn, Daggerlee that is a bizarre essay yet one of the best and most interesting I've read on this website. Crazy good!

By War77 (War77) on Friday, April 02, 2004 - 12:46 am: Edit

Read my BEST ESSAY EVER and weep!

An Unexpected Classroom

“They went forward in the twilight, stumbling over the human wreckage left by five previous charges. Prone men, wounded and unwounded, called out to them not to try it; some even caught at their legs as they passed, attempting to hold them back; but they ignored them and went on…”, writes Shelby Foote in his The Civil War, A Narrative regarding the climax of The Battle of Fredericksburg. I visited the Fredericksburg battlefield myself last summer - the picture attached is me and my younger brother there. When I first read Foote’s account of the battle several years ago, the reality of the situation and its relevance to my own life never occurred to me. The reality of this type of situation became real to me some years later, as a sophomore playing football…
“From the la-and of the freeeeee, and the home… of the… brave”, screamed the speakers on a hot, dry, and windy day near the end of a hot, dry, and windy Southern-California summer. I anxiously awaited the start of my first tackle football game. Once again, I pondered how I had gotten to this point. Coming out of middle-school, I certainly never wanted to play football. My family wasn’t very athletic and I wasn’t really interested in sports: I fancied myself an academic. In fact, I considered myself a historian - I’d been elected the “Future Historian of the Class” all the way back in 3rd, 4th, and 5th grade. I’d always been an avid fan of military history. As a ten-year old, I was probably the youngest subscriber to “Military History Magazine”. Yet, at a small school which takes as much pride in its athletics as Flintridge Prep, my 6 foot 1 inch, 220-pound freshman frame couldn’t help but attract attention from the football coaches. After months of resistance, I finally agreed to join the football team as a sophomore.
I somehow survived summer football camp and finally “Hell Week” with great difficulty and made it to the first game. Due to my quick comprehension of the strategies, as well as my size, I was chosen to start as both an offensive and defensive lineman. As the first play began, all hell broke loose. As soon as the ball was snapped, people were flying in every direction, seemingly doing their level best to kill each other. BAM! SMACK! Players were running into each other at full speed, creating tremendous collisions and terrible noises. The guy lined up across from me was attacking me ferociously with an unprovoked rage that was terrifying. He hit me so hard I almost fell down! The violence, chaos, and brutality were unbelievable. I couldn’t comprehend how the regular people who I’d known as my classmates and peers before the game could be so fierce. Their wanton violence and zeal was incomprehensible.
In the white noise of the team’s bus on the way home, I found myself thinking about what had happened on the field. It struck me that football is an excellent parallel to warfare. The chaos, the emotion, and the irrationality which take hold of the combatants were demystified. No longer was the violence portrayed in military histories an abstract concept. I understood exactly how young men could get worked up to the point of making a near-suicidal charge and willfully killing their fellow humans in the process. I had never fully believed that the Englishmen – many of them intelligent college students like J.R.R Tolkien and Wilfred Owen – who fought so fiercely in World War I had actually been people just like me. I’d formerly assumed that they were the product of a different society and, therefore, somehow fundamentally different from my generation. Fredericksburg and other battles became real for me, not distant events that happened long before even my grandparents were born. Through playing football, I came to understand that even people I knew very well could become extremely dangerous and passionate for their cause in the heat of a battle.
Football, surprisingly, was one of the best sources of historical understanding I have ever encountered. Since that first game, I have become a more applied military historian. I have become able to put myself in the place of soldiers fighting in battles, imagining how they must have felt by comparing it to my own experiences with the raging emotions of a battle as experienced through a tackle football game. I now understand how the events occurring on a battlefield can never be fully understood in a disconnected, unemotional classroom or library far from the time and the place of the battle.

OK THIS IS ME AGAIN

Get it? Its like the old "team spirit" essay, but with a massive twist, as it is about connecting real life with learning.

Sweet Essay, eh?

War77@aol.com

By Toxicity01 (Toxicity01) on Friday, April 02, 2004 - 12:50 am: Edit

Yes! Finally found my NYU essay. The topic was to write about a creative work (novel, film) that has influenced my outlook on life. I wrote about my favorite movie "Fight Club".

It is rare that a creative work has ever had a major influence on my life and perception of the world, but when I saw the 1999 David Fincher film Fight Club it was a mind-blowing experience. The movie begins by introducing the narrator and main character Jack, an extremely materialistic corporate drone who feels out of place and unable to conform to the social role he was born into. After I saw the movie, I realized how its nihilistic themes paralleled my life and the people around me. I had never thought about the fact that there was more to life than getting a typical job, marrying, and reproducing. I saw my friends in a new light as shallow characters on sitcoms that only care about clothes, dating, and keeping up with the latest fads. Being originally from rural Illinois which is a lot more backwoods that people know, I would have to say one of my cousins is the perfect example of someone who conforms to social roles, was thinks her main goal in life was to get married and be a housewife, and in her early twenties she did just that, abandoning her education and career, and started squeezing out babies soon after. My parents are another example, most of the time it seems that their main reason to live is just to work, buy furniture, and be socialites, keep up with the latest brainless sitcoms and reality shows. My parents sometimes think I’m unrealistic because I want to be a filmmaker or a writer, while they want me to have a blue collar job that I have a better chance of making money doing. My favorite quote from the movie is "We were raised on television to believe that we'd all be millionaires, movie gods, rock stars, but we won't. We're slowly learning that fact. And we're very disappointed.”, and though that is an extremely pessimistic view of life it is true more often than not. My outlook on living has since been that life is too short, and I should try to make the best of it and follow my aspirations, because it is better to try and fail than to never have tried at all.

By Bebegrl (Bebegrl) on Friday, April 02, 2004 - 12:54 am: Edit

READ MINE..!!!!!!!! i love my essay HAHAH i think its what helped me get into ucla


----------------------------------------
Unbutton left sleeve, check. Unbutton right sleeve, check. Insert tag into the button hole and put it in the light starch bin. This monotonous and repetitive process is how I have spent most of my free time for the past six years, helping my parents at their local dry cleaners. The small store has become a second home to me; its rows of steam-dried laundry are as familiar to me as my bedroom. Even line pen marks can be seen in one corner, where my brother and I kept track of our heights through the years.

I have come a long way since I first set foot on American soil. That day is forever locked in my memory, my hand-made dress shoes buckled around my feet and my expensive caramel coat, with its itchy fabric scratching my neck. Now, years later, I am clothed in an oversized Nike t-shirt, sweating from the heat of the steam press machines.

I remember not understanding why we had to leave our mansion, my cute white poodle, and my treasured piano in Korea, only to reside in a shabby two bedroom apartment in America while being forced to work in a dusty cleaner. The extreme transition forced me to face reality for the first time. At first, it was impossible to suppress my desires for pricy materialistic objects. I cried and pounded my feet in rage when my parents refused to buy me a five dollar meal at an American fast food restaurant. The adjustments and sacrifices I had to make were a challenge especially the culture shock and language barrier that separated me from my American classmates.

It was not until I was in high school that I was told the reasons for my family's sudden departure from my homeland. In Korea, my parents' company was forced to file for bankruptcy when an associate had embezzled all of our savings. The government could not take any legal action when the associate had escaped to a foreign country. My parents knew that financial success would be easier to regain in Korea, but knowing the vast educational opportunities available in America, they left everything for the sake of my future. Driven by a feeling of debt to my parents for this sacrifice, I reluctantly but finally followed in their footsteps and began to work diligently, seizing every opportunity that came my way, from academia to service for others.

I was motivated to excel. I learned to balance my time working at the cleaners to help financially, while gaining other part-time jobs. Perseverance was what kept me going when I came home weary from a long day's work. It was also what upheld me from fatigue when I would wake up at 5:30 in the morning to do extra studying for my school exams. My superficiality diminished and I no longer saw the value in worldly objects, but in the value of a hard day's work. Even now, I feel as though I have become the voice of reason in my family. The other day, while shopping for a television set, I had found myself speaking these words: "Now Dad, don't you think that's a little too much for a big plastic picture box?"

My difficult past has changed my perspective on life and molded me into the person I am today. Looking back at those height marks on the corner wall of the cleaners, I feel as though each mark represents my steady growth towards success."

By Nmoreno1 (Nmoreno1) on Friday, April 02, 2004 - 01:04 am: Edit

Devil i think that's inappropriate.

By K0005 (K0005) on Friday, April 02, 2004 - 01:34 am: Edit

“What is your name?” I did not understand the words that came harshly out of his mouth. “Transformers,” I replied. It was the only word that I knew, the only word that I had ever understood to be English. Coming from Korea at the not-so-old-yet-not-so-young age of fourteen, I was thrown into a world filled with consonants and vowels I had never encountered. The kids at school were cruel to me; they would call me names and make random remarks. Of course, I do not remember what they were, as I did not understand any words at all. I would snarl back at them in defiance and declare in my head that I would outsmart them and excel in their language. Little did I know, they were merely saying, “I like your shoes.” I went through my freshman year writing as many essays as I could, reading the Bernstein Bears and so on. Eventually, I advanced and reached my goal – I am now happily enrolled in AP English, at the head of the class. Although I may not be the best writer, I am now able to reply back, “My name is **** and I also like my shoes, thank you very much.”

My essay. I got a 790 SAT II writing and 720 sat I verbal. =D

By Devilatheart (Devilatheart) on Friday, April 02, 2004 - 12:37 pm: Edit

the tree up your ass is inappropriate.

By Peepilis (Peepilis) on Thursday, April 08, 2004 - 10:53 am: Edit

bump to keep a good thread alive

By Charmedxgal408 (Charmedxgal408) on Sunday, April 11, 2004 - 11:33 pm: Edit

omg wow i'm glad i read this thread.

now i finally know what BUMP means!! YAYy. hahahaha.

btw how come they got rid of the pix in profiles? i wanted to post a pic still. now it's in the link.

By Seleucus26 (Seleucus26) on Thursday, April 15, 2004 - 07:11 pm: Edit

I never knew that we were supposed to write something innovative or interesting, i took the old, bore em till they accept u approach. I wish id read stuff like this site before id applied

o well, heres an essay (answer to the princeton one about a person who affected ur life -- i got rejected):

if anyones still reading...

I showed her a picture of her husband. She stared blankly at the picture and asked politely, “Now who is that again?” I explained gently to her that this was her husband, my grandfather. She said calmly, “I was never married.” After some explaining, she realized that the picture was of her husband. Unfortunately, she was now convinced that her husband was alive. After a few more minutes of discussion she knew that the man in the picture was no longer living. With this new piece of knowledge she was able to formulate a new question, “Who is that man in the picture?”
What could a person who has forgotten everything she has known teach me? At a young age she taught me the value of patience and the art of practicing it. I learned through experience that there are sad and frustrating aspects of life that must simply be endured. The art of enduring these situations, amazingly, came from something my grandmother remembered until her death. She maintained a quiet and wry sense of humor, a cheerful attitude that allowed her to be happy when she could not remember the names of her children. My own emulation of this attitude has helped me to forestall my frustration long enough to avoid a conflict, withhold my anger, or even solve a math problem or write a paper.
In addition to learning patience, I learned something of humility. As I saw an intelligent woman hide her purse and, within minutes, wonder where it had gone, I marveled at the fragility of my own intelligence. A few plaques or some loss of acetylcholine could destroy what I value most in my life. Eventually it would destroy my very identity. This knowledge humbles any thoughts that I am impervious to the harms of life and leads me to take a more proactive attitude toward life. It also gives me an interest in neuroscience. From a woman who had forgotten everything, I learned to forget myself and be patient and humble.