Jeremy

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ESSAY

Two hundred and two Hot Wheels cars, each two by five inches long, adorned with flames and spoilers, lined the edges of my room. My mother would urge me to put them away and go play outside, but I never wanted to. I drove those cars all around the house. They intrigued my six-year-old self. I loved my collection that I had hand picked on my own. Every single one of those 99-cent cars was mine. I never fathomed, however, that it would not take nearly as long for that collection to disappear as it took to grow. After July 6, 2006, I never saw my collection again.

On that day, I squinted to get one last glance at the front door of my home. 50 Greenridge Way was a quaint, two-story home in a quiet suburb of Rockland County, New York. My mother was six months pregnant with me when my parents signed the papers in 1997. They were proud of themselves—they had something that was theirs. My mother and father were determined to achieve the American Dream. They saved up for their baby grand piano, and they worked hard so that my sister and I could paint our rooms pink and blue like the ones on the cover of PB Teen. They did not know, however, how fast what they attained could disappear. The unanticipated vicissitudes of owning a small business left my parents struggling to pay the mortgage, unable to feed the rapid growth of their dream. They desperately reached out for help and fell victim to a mortgage scam. Legally outsmarted and outspent, my family continued to struggle until we could no longer fight. After thousands of dollars of debt, countless phone calls, and many tears, we lost the battle. On July 6, 2006, we were told we had six hours to get out.

Six hours. Six hours to get out of something filled with nine years of work, a lot of money and an immeasurable amount of emotion—six hours to pack up our lives and move them somewhere else. Day laborers were instructed to come and throw our belongings onto the front lawn. Family and neighbors flocked over, all agreeing to store as much as they could. I scrambled to find the things important to me. I threw my blankie, my Gameboy and my Build-A-Bear into a small duffle bag. As I rushed into my aunt’s car, my eyes glued to the movers tossing my mom’s favorite Diego Rivera painting onto the street, I felt uneasy. Many questions should have been going through my eight-year-old head, but only one did: where are my 202 cars?

For the next five years, my family was homeless. Many doors were slammed in our faces, and we were given the “one night maximum” package in many of our family members’ homes. However, the takeaway from this experience is not what I learned about the behavior of others—it is what I learned about character. The values that cannot be touched—my experience, resilience, and faith—built more character in me than any two by five inch car or baby grand piano ever will. Losing every single one of our belongings by theft and storage unit auctions, including my 202 cars, showed my family that the intangible things that got us through hardship are everlasting. The six horus spent leaving our home felt so remarkably unequivalent to the nine years we spent enriching it, or the 8 years I spent growing my car collection. However, those unexpected losses taught me that a loss of my possessions was not a loss of my character. Even in the hotels, cars, and basements, this experience showed me that no matter how little my family had, we would always have the privilege to hope.

My family has been pushed into brief bouts of homelessness since the incident, and may be facing our next bout in the coming days. Although I still worry about our financial status, a feeling of overwhelming faith creeps up my spine and deadens that anxiety. Our faith and tenacity will never be plundered like our possessions. My unseemingly unshakable phobia of losing “everything” again has diminished over the years because if I lose my possessions again, I know I will not be losing “everything.” The next chapter of my life will signal the beginning of newer, and perhaps tougher, challenges, but through all of the uncertainty and worry, I will be letting out a sigh of relief. None of our possessions, including that carefully constructed collection of two hundred and two cars, adorned with flames and spoilers, were the vehicles that drove my family through the five years of turmoil. It was our intangibles that did.

___

REVIEW

Homelessness is an incredibly powerful topic to write about. Jeremy approaches the subject with touching candor, detailing how his family lost their home in pursuit of the American Dream, and how he lost his beloved Hot Wheels collection.

But what makes this essay truly remarkable is not the topic; it’s the build up. Jeremy begins with descriptive imagery of his Hot Wheels and uses those cars as a motif throughout the essay. This essay could have easily opened with a line about how he is homeless, but it truly builds up to the moment he realized his family was being kicked out of their home. We feel empathy for this family, and we feel deeply connected to the writer, because we are brought along for the ride

The strongest aspect of this essay is its seamless incorporation of the 202 Hot Wheels into the overall message of the essay. That message can come off a bit heavy-handed at times; the essay would have benefitted from more showing and less telling. But it is incredibly sincere, and the point is hammered home by the repeated use of the toy cars. By ending with the same image that opened the essay, the writer brings the story full circle, and the reader is left with a deep understanding of not only his hardship, but how he rose above that hardship.

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.

Ariel

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ESSAY

“Black Eyeliner Does Not Make You a Non-Conformist”

Several years ago, my mother told me I listen to “white people music.” And I suppose that’s true—rock ‘n’ roll tends to spring from the middle-class basements of young, white men. Though I did point out that its origins trace back to jazz musicians of the Harlem Renaissance. Also that one of the greatest guitarists of all time—dear Mr. Hendrix; may he rest in peace—was black.

My devotion to punk rock began in seventh grade, when Green Day’s “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” came up on my iTunes shuffle. I started to look into their other releases, eventually immersing myself into the complete punk discography. My mother, having grown up in a racially segregated New York, was more likely to listen to Stevie Wonder than Stevie Nicks. But, she must have figured, to each her own.

So while my compatriots indulged in the music of Taylor Swift, One Direction, and Lady Gaga, my tacky Hot Topic headphones blasted Green Day, Ramones, and The Clash. My young adolescent ears drank in the raw, chaotic beauty, an echo of the pain of the past. The thrashing, pulsating vitality of the instruments painted a picture, connecting me to the disillusioned kids who launched an epic movement of liberation some 40 years ago.

Punkers question authority. Aggressively contrarian, they advocate for the other side—the side that seemed smothered silent during the post-Vietnam era. They rejected established norms. They spoke out and weren’t afraid.

I had always felt different from my peers. In my girls’ prep school, the goal was to be blond and good at soccer. I was neither, which automatically deemed me “uncool.” I had a few close friends but never felt like I was part of a whole.

Then came the punk philosophy, for the outliers, for those who were different. That was something I could be part of.

Instead of trying to conform to my peers, I adopted an anti-conformist attitude. Much like the prematurely grey anti-hero of my favorite book, I sneered at all the “phonies” around me. I resented anything popular. Uggs? Wouldn’t buy them. Yoga pants? Never. Starbucks? Well, I could make a few concessions.

But I felt more cynical than liberated. I wasted so much energy on being different that I lost track of what actually made me happy. I insisted I didn’t care what people thought of me, which was true. Yet if I base my actions almost solely on their behavior, how could I deny their influence?

Luckily, as I transitioned from a private school to a brand new public high school, I got to clean the slate. I bought yoga pants and found they were comfortable. I listened to a wider variety of music, even the kind that wasn’t 100% hardcore punk. And I was happier.

I revised my punk philosophy: Do as you like—whether it fits into the “system” or not.

The Beatles’s “Revolution” lyrics sum it up well:

You tell me it’s the institution

Well, you know

You’d better free your mind instead

What I think Lennon was getting at is questioning everything does not entail opposing everything. Defiance for the sake of defiance is unproductive at best, destructive at worst.

I believe in life’s greater Truths, like Love and Justice. These Truths are what should govern my actions—not what’s popular and what isn’t. Striving to act on these ideals has helped me stay true to myself, regardless of what’s considered “conformist.”

Perhaps I’ve failed the punk movement. We’ll have to wait and see.

In the meantime, I’ll do what makes me happy and change what doesn’t. I’ll wear Doc Martens instead of Uggs; I’ll partake in a grande pumpkin spice latte; I’ll watch Gossip Girl; I’ll blare my favorite guitar solo over the speakers in my room.

And that’s as punk as it gets.

___

REVIEW

Ariel’s essay—a pitch-perfect portrait of coming-of-age malaise—shows that you don’t need some monumental event or life-changing epiphany to craft a compelling narrative. Not much happens over the 647 words of this essay, but the soul is in the details: the nods to her mother, the subtle Catcher in the Rye allusion, the levity to be found in her unyielding fondness for lattes.

This essay follows a relatable and adaptable template: let’s call it the “blind-but-now-I-see” script. Ariel opens the piece as a causeless rebel (rocking out to Green Day, granted), but blooms into a more nuanced being with a worldview of her own making. Importantly, the young heroine’s quest is shown as much as told, with motifs like yoga pants and Uggs serving as markers of her growing maturity. The essay also showcases Ariel’s mastery of cadence—making good use of the em-dash and colon—and her willingness to experiment with prose as she spells out her capital-T Truths. Though Ariel’s story has been told and retold between the covers of countless young adult novels, she tells it with wit and warmth, portraying herself to admissions officers as a particularly self-aware, free-thinking applicant.

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.

Janice

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ESSAY

What is love? A promise at the altar? The soft kiss of water on parched lips? A flash of his shadowed gray eyes, or the tender caress of pink pigment on her cheekbones?

“I love those Jimmy Choos!”

“I just love the pasta salad at La Madeleine.”

“Love you!”

“Love ya more!”

Love. For a word describing such a powerful emotion, it is always in the air. The word “love” has become so pervasive in everyday conversation that it hardly retains its roots in blazing passion and deep adoration. In fact, the word is thrown about so much that it becomes difficult to believe society isn’t just one huge, smitten party, with everyone holding hands and singing “Kumbaya.” In films, it’s the teenage boy’s grudging response to a doting mother. At school, it’s a habitual farewell between friends. But in my Chinese home, it’s never uttered.

Watching my grandmother lie unconscious on the hospital bed, waiting for her body to shut down, was excruciatingly painful. Her final quavering breaths formed a discordant rhythm with the steady beep of hospital equipment and the unsympathetic, tapping hands of the clock. That evening, I whispered—into unhearing ears—the first, and only, “I love you” I ever said to her, my rankling guilt haunting me relentlessly for weeks after her passing. My warm confession seemed anticlimactic, met with only the coldness of my surroundings—the blank room, impassive doctors, and empty silence. I struggled to understand why the “love” that so easily rolled off my tongue when bantering with friends dissipated from my vocabulary when I spoke to my family. Do Chinese people simply love less than Americans do?

As I look back on seventeen years growing up in my Chinese family, I don’t feel a gaping hole where “love” should be. I see my grandmother with her fluff of white hair, guiding my clumsy fingers as they grip the Chinese calligraphy brush, carefully dip just enough ink onto its thick bristles, and slowly smooth the pigment over tan parchment to form wobbly Chinese characters. I taste the sweet watermelon brought to my room at 3 a.m. during finals week by a worried mother, and I hear the booming voice of my father begging me to get more sleep. I envision baba, dad, waiting in the 100 ℉ heat every day to pick me up from school, just to drive home in traffic-infested roads. My mama, mother, staying home from work to care for my cold, then feeling no resentment when she contracted it herself. My mistakes yielded stern, harsh lectures brimming with concern, while my tears assuaged mama’s irritation. I picture that arcane emotion imprinted in tacit smiles and hidden tears—shining from chests and unabashed pride. Within the realm of my memories, I discovered a truth that lessened my crushing regret at the loss of my grandmother: just because Chinese love, ai, can never render a fondness for Britney Spears’ Toxic or be prostituted to mold description of delicious dishes, the emotion isn’t any more absent, or any less profound. Knowing that I could possibly have shared with my grandmother an implicit love that neither of us chose to address vocally, I could loosen my selfish grip on her past and allow her to ascend into her future.

Although the alien expression “wo ai ni, mama, baba,” would be met with a few awkward blinks and a “How much money do you need?” expression, I feel the fondness of my joking father like “[g]reat drums throbbing through the air [,]” and for my stern mother in “great pulsing tides[,]” as Countee Cullen articulates in Heritage. We Chinese aren’t limited by the cultural and linguistic “love” barrier; we learn, through living together as a family, through our shared experiences, the sensation of true devotion and compassion, and, if that’s not something Americans call love, then I don’t know what “love” is.

___

REVIEW

Janice’s nuanced take on the word “love” proves an effective window into her Chinese culture. Here, it turns from musings about love that leave the reader eagerly anticipating Janice’s connection to the topic to a personal account of family and identity. Throughout the essay, she maintains an emotional authenticity that doesn’t feel sappy, which can be a delicate line to tread. A core strength of the essay is the way it demonstrates personal growth. It shows Janice starting at a place of guilt for only professing her love to her grandmother once, and ends with her coming to terms with the ways that love is expressed differently in her family. Through the intimate details that Janice provides about her childhood—such as her mother caring for her when she was sick—the reader gets a genuine sense of who she is and where she comes from.

While the essay overall reads smoothly, it could benefit from the simplification of some phrases and sentences. Clarity is more important than ornate language. Finally, the quote in the last paragraph feels unnecessary. In such an eloquent and personal essay, turning to someone else’s words seems out of place. Despite these minor weaknesses, Janice does an excellent job of writing an essay that demonstrates her insight, personal growth, and unique voice.

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.

Phillip

Sponsored by The Brain Domain: A Houston-based academic preparation business with glowing feedback and global operations, The Brain Domain features college counseling, test preparation, and one-on-one tutoring tailored to students’ unique learning styles.

ESSAY

The summer after my freshman year, I found myself in an old classroom holding a blue dry erase-marker, realizing what should have been obvious: I had no idea how to be a teacher. As an active speech and debate competitor, I was chosen as a volunteer instructor for an elementary public speaking camp hosted by my high school. For the first time, I would have the opportunity to experience the classroom from the other side of the teacher’s desk. My responsibility was simple: in two weeks, take sixteen fifth graders and turn them into confident, persuasive speakers.

I walked into class the first morning, enthusiastically looking forward to the opportunity to share my knowledge, experiences, and stories. I was hoping for motivated kids, eager to learn, attentive to my every word.

Instead, I got Spencer, who thought class was a good time to train his basketball skills by tossing crumpled speeches into the trash can from afar. I got Monica, who refused to speak, and I got James, who didn’t understand the difference between “voice projection” and “screaming.” I got London, who enjoyed doodling on her desk with permanent marker, and I got Arnav, who thought I wouldn’t notice him playing Angry Birds all day. The only questions I got were “When’s lunch break?” and “Why are you giving us homework?” and the only time I got my students to raise their hands was when I asked “How many of you are only here because your parents forced you to?”

Just ten minutes into class, two things hit me: Spencer’s crumpled paper ball, and the realization that teaching was hard.

When I was younger, I thought that a good teacher was one that gave high-fives after class. Later, of course, I knew it was far more complicated than that. I thought about teachers I admired and their memorable qualities. They were knowledgeable, enthusiastic, and inspiring. Their classes were always fun, and they always taught me something.

There was plenty I wanted to teach, from metaphors to logical fallacies. But most importantly, I wanted my students to enjoy public speaking, to love giving speeches as much as I did. And that’s when I realized the most important quality of my favorite teachers: passion. They loved their subject and passed that love on to their students. While it wouldn’t be easy, I wanted to do the same.

Every day for two weeks, I searched for creative ways to inspire and teach my students. I helped London speak on her love for art; I had Arnav debate about cell phone policies in schools. And by the end of the camp, I realized that my sixteen students all saw me not as a high school student, but as a teacher. I took their questions, shared my enthusiasm, and by the time camp was over, they weren’t just learning, but enjoying learning.

I was on the other side of the teacher’s desk, but I hadn’t stopped learning. Each day, I was learning how to communicate more effectively, how to deal with new challenges and circumstances, and how to be a better teacher. I once thought that being an adult meant knowing all the answers. But in reality, adults, even teachers, constantly have more to learn. I made the transition away from being a child during those weeks, but I did not and would not transition away from being a learner.

When class ended each afternoon, I would cap my blue dry-erase marker, give high-fives to the students as they walked out the door, and watch as their parents picked them up. I was confident that when my students were asked the inevitable questions of “Did you learn something today?” and “Did you have fun?” their answers would be a resounding yes. And even as their teacher, I learned and had fun too.

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REVIEW

Phillip’s choice of subject matter is carefully considered: he doesn’t attempt to dazzle us with any flashy exploits or overwhelm us with the breadth and depth of his achievements. Instead, he chooses a simple success story, of his experience working with kids at a public speaking camp, that highlights his personal growth.

The story has a complete narrative arc, with a definite beginning, middle, and end. Phillip describes a distinct set of opinions that characterize each phase of his short teaching career, illustrated with colorful descriptions of typical moments for each. There are also certain symmetries between the beginning and end (the blue marker, for example) that leave the reader with a sense of finality and satisfaction. In addition, Phillip’s voice throughout the story is phenomenal. His humor feels natural, and he’s able to make the reader aware of his positive qualities without bragging or posturing; he shows them to us, through the story and through his subject, rather than loudly announcing them. His writing is confident and clear and doesn’t distract at all from the content of the essay.

It’s important to note that even though Phillip’s story depicts a success, a good college essay need not end in triumph. If you try to create a victory where there isn’t really one, you run the risk of sounding insincere. You have plenty of other places to list your accomplishments!

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.

Emily

Sponsored by Advanced Ivy Prep: Give yourself an edge. Ivy League Ph.D. and former admissions interviewer Laura Rogers helps students craft the perfect college essay and offers strategy consultations to students of all ages.

ESSAY

Clear, hopeful melodies break the silence of the night.

Playing a crudely fashioned bamboo pipe, in the midst of sullen inmates—this is how I envision my grandfather. Never giving up hope, he played every evening to replace images of bloodshed with memories of loved ones at home. While my grandfather describes the horrors of his experience in a forced labor camp during the Cultural Revolution, I could only grasp at fragments to comprehend the story of his struggle.

I floundered in this gulf of cultural disparity.

As a child, visiting China each summer was a time of happiness, but it was also a time of frustration and alienation. Running up to my grandpa, I racked my brain to recall phrases supposedly ingrained from Saturday morning Chinese classes. Other than my initial greeting of “Ni hao, ye ye!” (“Hello, grandpa”), however, I struggled to form coherent sentences. Unsatisfied, I would scamper away to find his battered bamboo flute, and this time, with my eyes, silently beg him to play.

Although I struggled to communicate clearly through Chinese, in these moments, no words were necessary. I cherished this connection—a relationship built upon flowing melodies rather than broken phrases. After each impromptu concert, he carefully guided my fingers along the smooth, worn body of the flute, clapping after I successfully played my first tentative note. At the time, however, I was unaware of that through sharing music, we created language of emotion, a language that spanned the gulf of cultural differences. Through these lessons, I discovered an inherent inclination toward music and a drive to understand this universal language of expression.

Years later, staring at sheets of music in front of me at the end of a long rehearsal, I saw a jumbled mess of black dots. After playing through “An American Elegy” several times, unable to infuse emotion into its reverent melodies that celebrated the lives lost at Columbine, we—the All-State Band—were stopped yet again by our conductor Dr. Nicholson. He directed us to focus solely on the climax of the piece, the Columbine Alma Mater. He urged us to think of home, to think of hope, to think of what it meant to be American, and to fill the measures with these memories. When we played the song again, this time imbued with recollections of times when hope was necessary, “An American Elegy” became more than notes on a page; it evolved into a tapestry woven from the thread of our life stories.

The night of the concert, in the lyrical harmonies of the climax, I envisioned my grandfather, exhausted after a long day of labor, instilling hope in the hearts of others through his bamboo flute. He played his own “elegy” to celebrate the lives of those who had passed. At home that night, no words were necessary when I played the alma mater for my grandfather through the video call. As I saw him wiping tears, I smiled in relief as I realized through music I could finally express the previously inexpressible. Reminded of warm summer nights, the roles now reversed, I understood the lingual barrier as a blessing in disguise, allowing us to discover our own language.

Music became a bridge, spanning the gulf between my grandfather and me, and it taught me that communication could extend beyond spoken language. Through our relationship, I learned that to understand someone is not only to hear the words that they say, but also to empathize and feel as they do. With this realization, I search for methods of communication not only through spoken interaction, but also through shared experiences, whether they might involve the creation of music, the heat of competition, or simply laughter and joy, to cultivate stronger, more fulfilling relationships. Through this approach, I strive to become a more empathetic friend, student, and granddaughter as finding a common language has become, for me, a challenge—an invitation—to discover deeper connections.

___

REVIEW

In her essay, Emily chooses the mundane over the grandiose—musical interactions with a family member over moments in an international chamber orchestra, for instance—to prove her point that the “cultural disparities” and “gulf” of comprehension that previously prevented her from reaching a harmony of understanding with her grandfather eventually dissolved once she realized that there are other, more personal ways to connect with people than language.

There’s something intriguing about how Emily orients the reader with as bright of an image as “clear, hopeful melodies,” and then pairs it with something as somber as the image of a grandfather detained in a forced labor camp. That’s a very poignant pairing, and it hooks the reader. For an admissions officer who sifts through countless essays about the all-important “I,” a story that places the onus of the introduction on an entirely different individual is a welcome change from the usual.

This author showcases a very distinct claim over language. In some places, the poetic language serves to reinforce the topic of the essay: that language is not necessarily the sole way to connect with people. In some parts, though, the florid language encumbers the sentences and makes them somewhat awkward. In an essay that purports to recognize how incomplete language can be in conveying ideas, using clunky language seems like a betrayal of sorts to the reader. It’s important to straddle eloquence and efficiency.

The epiphany conveyed in her final paragraphs is a truly mature one, and perhaps is what adds the final “oomph” to this essay. To see a high school student writing understanding from their everyday exploits proves they are capable of deep introspection—a trait that colleges crave in their student bodies.

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.

Chad

Sponsored by One2One College Consulting: One2One College Consulting specializes in making students’ stories jump off the page, delving into each applicant’s unique personality and highlighting their key traits. Visit their Crimson Brand Studio article to learn more about One2One and their philosophy.

ESSAY

The man was a prodigy. He had performed for American presidents and even the Queen of England, every moment documented with autographed photos hanging in his guest bathroom. Even with a stature of 5 feet and change, his presence towered above me unforgivingly. His skeptical eye stared down at me as I struggled to balance my mom’s iPhone on its makeshift tripod. A month earlier, the Pasadena Symphony-Pops had commissioned me to create a video featuring its debuting conductor, Michael Feinstein.

Now, the five-time Grammy nominee hunkered down on his piano bench, impatiently waiting for my command. With no professional equipment and little preparation beforehand, I had thrown together whatever I could find. A day before, I had taken pliers to bend a coat-hanger into a holder for the purple-cased iPhone 4. I even used a block of Post-Its to prop up a second-hand GoPro for another camera angle. Fumbling about, I felt like a child looking desperately for direction, almost expecting an adult to hand me a checklist—complete with the right questions to ask, directions to give, and instructions to complete. But I was on my own now. My “wing-it” approach to the shoot quickly became obvious, and Feinstein’s skeptical reception grew into condescension as I stumbled painfully through the interview. The filming ended, and heavy doors swung shut behind the mansion as I was escorted out.

I had blown it. Academic rubrics and guidelines were straightforward—but here, being a straight-A student in the classroom held little value. For the first time, the Feinstein project had given me the opportunity to conduct my own show—but I had arrived without a baton. The MacGyver camera rigging wasn’t the flaw; in fact, I think I pulled off the creative contraption decently well considering my lack of better resources. The real failure was my complete lack of preparation and absence of confident leadership. Yes, it would’ve been easy to write off Feinstein as arrogant—he certainly didn’t serve me a generous helping of grace. He had envisioned a director with a camera crew—I was a 16-year-old amateur with my mom’s iPhone. But looking back, I realized that Feinstein had given me a valuable gift: expecting more from me than what I expected from myself. Did I want to just be the teenager with a camera phone? The interview with Feinstein was humiliating, but the experience forced me to decide if I wanted to be that director with his own camera crew.

I took action. As part of the commission, I had already negotiated for the PSA to pay for professional editing software, Final Cut Pro X and Motion 5. I had a vision of what I wanted, but I also had no idea how to use these programs to get there—I was just an amateur with no film experience beyond the occasional school project with iMovie. I dove head-first into editing, determined to not let my inexperience stop me. The process was brutal—I spent countless hours reading online manuals to solve frequent problems. But every frustration fueled determination. Over the course of 80 working hours, the video progressed from a barebones slideshow of images to a multi-faceted film with customized titles and transition animations. The completed production, though far from a masterpiece, gave me a sense of accomplishment knowing that my initial failure propelled me to work beyond my expectations and fulfill my own vision.

I was ready. Stepping back one last time to watch the finished video with my Pasadena Symphony-Pops clients, I no longer felt like the lost boy in the Feinstein mansion. And amidst the excitement and congratulations around me, I wished Michael would have been there too—to thank him for helping me set aside the iPhone and coat hanger, take the baton, and conduct my own show.

___

REVIEW

Tackling perhaps one of the toughest prompts the Common App offers, Chad’s essay details a memorable account of a time he encountered failure—and more importantly, the lessons he took from the experience. The essay prompt is difficult to attempt because applicants need to carefully balance their need to impress admissions officers (or at the very least, not scare them off) with their essay’s need to tell a compelling story and avoid cliche. All the while, the essay must reveal something significant about its writer.

The personality Chad’s essay reveals speaks a lot to his approach in attempting this essay. His reaction to failure and embarrassment is defiant resistance rather than quiet submission. The attitude he carries throughout the challenge, from his initial approach to his subsequent refusal to quit, is reflected in details of his writing too. The highly organized structure, signposted by declarative, no-nonsense statements (“I had blown it,” “It took action,” “I was ready”) speak to this, as does the level of specificity to which he still remembers some details (“5 feet and change,” “purple-cased iPhone 4“).

With this being said, this essay could have benefitted from more direct insight into Chad’s personality. Most of what readers understand is gleaned from details that may not fully capture the significance of this event to Chad.

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.

Margot

Sponsored by CollegeMapper: CollegeMapper admissions strategists guide students to gain admission to their ideal top-ranked global universities—the boutique consulting firm is trusted by clients around the world to deliver personalized excellence. CollegeMapper is based in Seattle/London/Paris.

ESSAY

It was five o’clock in the morning, and an intruder was in my home. His vile gurgling sounds had crawled into my room and slinked under my covers, and his deafening beeps had yanked me from sleep. I now lay frozen, listening intently for any other noises—footsteps, perhaps? The screams of my family members?—but the house fell silent.

Slowly, I slid out of bed and tiptoed into the dark hallway. The intruder was definitely near—his distinct, woody odor had infiltrated the air. And with each timid step toward the kitchen, upon reaching the door, I could hardly breathe. Ever so slowly, I pushed it open and scanned the room. There, gloating next to the fridge, sat “Mr. Coffee.”

Twenty-four hours earlier, this machine was not here. Twenty-four hours earlier, I had risen from my sleep and ambled into the kitchen to brew a cup of joe not from a coffee maker, but from my family’s old French press. It was a routine that jump-started every morning: grinding the oh-so-slightly toasted beans into an aromatic dust, blanketing the bottom of the glass vessel, listening to the kettle whistle on the stove, and then submerging the roast to create a bold espresso. After I filled a steaming mug, I’d be energized for the day—infused with caffeine and enthused with the artistic process.

But the press was now missing; its home invaded by this new contraption. Just as my eyes narrowed with suspicion, my yawning father meandered into the room.

“Hey… what is this?” I gestured to Mr. Coffee.

“Ah, yes!” he chimed, “That’s our new coffee maker!”

“Oh.”

My feeling of betrayal must have been palpable, because he raised his eyebrows sharply. “Is something wrong? Margot, come on—this is much more convenient than the old press.”

The machine agreed with him; blinking its bright lights and humming haughtily. Then, as if to prove that it was indeed the most efficient appliance ever created, it once again began to pump out an endless flood of muddy liquid.

I deliberated. My father was right, of course—the French press was unarguably time consuming and cumbersome, especially at 5:00 AM—but it was tangible. It was real. Crafting coffee in the morning afforded me a sense of pride and artistry that always inspired the rest of my day. Every cup was a learning experience—fixing the flavors, tweaking the temperatures—but it was only now, after the press had been replaced, that I realized how much I truly appreciated it.

Our French Press is now long gone, but its memory is a constant reminder to apply meaningful effort and a creative touch to all of my endeavors. Whether doing research, coaching a swim practice, or simply playing Scrabble with my family, I invest myself completely. Yes, I may work a little slower, I might go over the top sometimes. But I don’t want to live in a world where the familiar and cherished act of making coffee is replaced by the perfunctory push of a button.

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REVIEW

The introduction of Margot’s essay sets the stage for what promises to be a frightening account of a home invasion. In the opening paragraph, Margot has effectively conveyed a sense of fear without directly using words such as scared or frightened. She immerses the audience in a story by using sensory descriptions allowing them to fully engage with the narrative and imagine details for themselves.

Through the story of a coffee machine we learn of Margot’s appreciation for fine details and methodical thinking process. The replacement of her French press with an automatic coffee machine is as scary to her as a home invasion because it represents the loss of an artistic practice which is an intrinsic part of her morning routine. More broadly, it can be taken to mean the loss of culture or craftsmanship as she generalizes this example to the rest of the world. Margot’s appreciation of something so ordinary demonstrates a level of personal depth which cannot come across on a résumé.

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.

Bobby

Sponsored by The Brain Domain: A Houston-based academic preparation business with glowing feedback and global operations, The Brain Domain features college counseling, test preparation, and one-on-one tutoring tailored to students’ unique learning styles.

ESSAY

Bold white rafters ran overhead, bearing upon their great iron shoulders the weight of the skylight above. Late evening rays streamed through these sprawling glass panes, casting a gentle glow upon all that they graced—paper and canvases and paintbrushes alike. As day became night, the soft luminescence of the art studio gave way to a fluorescent glare, defining the clean rectilinear lines of Dillon Art Center against the encroaching darkness. It was a studio like no other. Modern. Sophisticated. Professional.

And it was clean and white and nice.

But it just wasn't it.

Because to me, there was only one "it," and "it" was a little less than two thousand miles west, an unassuming little office building located amidst a cluster of similarly unassuming little office buildings, distinguishable from one another on the outside only by the rusted numbers nailed to each door. Inside, crude photocopies of students' artwork plastered the once white walls. Those few openings in between the tapestry of art were dotted with grubby little handprints, repurposed by some overzealous young artist as another surface for creative expression. In the middle of the room lay two long tables, each covered with newspaper, upon which were scattered dried-up markers and lost erasers and bins of unwanted colored pencils. These were for the younger children. The older artists—myself included—sat around these tables with easels, in whatever space the limited confines of the studio allowed. The instructor sometimes talked, and we sometimes listened. Most of the time, though, it was just us—children, drawing and talking and laughing and sweating in the cluttered and overheated mess of an art studio.

No, it was not so clean and not so white and not so nice. But I have drawn—rather, lived—in this studio for most of my past ten years. I suppose this is strange, as the rest of my life can best be characterized by everything the studio is not: cleanliness and order and structure. But then again, the studio was like nothing else in my life, beyond anything in which I've ever felt comfortable or at ease.

Sure, I was frustrated at first. My carefully composed sketchbooks—the proportions just right, the contrast perfected, the whiteness of the background meticulously preserved—were often marred by the frenzied strokes of my instructor's charcoal as he tried to teach me not to draw accurately, but passionately. I hated it. But thus was the fundamental gap in my artistic understanding—the difference between the surface realities that I wanted to depict, and the profound though elusive truths of the human condition that art could explore. It was the difference between drawing a man's face and using abstraction to explore his soul.

And I can't tell you exactly when or why my attitude changed, but eventually my own lines began to unabashedly disregard the rules of depth or tonality to which I had once dutifully adhered, my fervor leaving in its wake black fingerprints and smudges where once had existed unsoiled whiteness. It was in this studio that I eventually made the leap into a new realm of art—a realm in which I was neither experienced nor comfortable. Apart from surface manifestations altogether, this realm was simultaneously one of austere simplicity and aesthetic intricacy, of departure from realism and immersion in reality, of intense emotion and uninhibited expression. It was the realm of lines that could tell stories, of colors and figures that meant nothing and everything.

Indeed, it was the realm of disorder and messy studios and true art—a place where I could express the world like I saw it, in colors and strokes unrestrained by expectations or rules; a place where I could find refuge in the contours of my own chaotic lines; a place that was neither beautiful nor ideal, but real.

No, it was not so clean and not so white and not so nice.

But then again, neither is art.

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REVIEW

Perhaps the most prominent facet of Bobby’s essay is the use of imagery. It is first utilized to bring the reader into the piece and make the introduction pop, with “Late evening rays [...] casting a gentle glow” and “the soft luminescence of the art studio” becoming “a fluorescent glare.” Immediately, the reader knows what the essay will generally be about: art. Still, in the beginning of the essay, a lot of information is left out, leaving the reader begging for details to contextualize the mental images Bobby leaves them. Throughout the rest of the piece, Bobby’s use of imagery brings his essay to life, with “black fingerprints and smudges” and “unsoiled whiteness” being used to describe his art. He also uses imagery to illustrate the contrast between his organized, type A persona and the abstract art he eventually creates. One such example is “the whiteness of the background” on his sketchbook being “meticulously preserved” but yet “marred by the frenzied strokes of my instructor's charcoal.”

Nevertheless, imagery alone does not provide the concrete, powerful narrative found in Bobby’s essay. One of the most powerful appeals of the essay is that it represents a coming-of-age story that echoes the Bildungsroman literary sub-genre, in which characters evolve psychologically from youth to adulthood during the story. Indeed, not only does this essay document Bobby’s development from child to young adult, but Bobby’s art also matures from something orderly and superficial to something abstract and deeply meaningful.

What separates Bobby’s essay from a well-written story, however, is the subtextual narrative it provides the reader. Though, on the surface, Bobby’s essay explores the contrast between the abstractness of his art and the order of rest of his life, it also mirrors the history of art itself. Just as Bobby the old artist had “the proportions just right, the contrast perfected” in his sketchbook, so too did the painters of the Renaissance work tirelessly to master perspective—to make art seem as realistic as possible. Just as Bobby the new artist’s “lines began to unabashedly disregard the rules of depth or tonality,” so too did art slowly—from the playful light of Monet’s Impressionism, to the square faces of Picasso’s Cubism and the complete abstraction of Pollock’s expressionism—care less and less about how realistic it was and more about the message it conveyed. In Bobby’s words, “It was the difference between drawing a man's face and using abstraction to explore his soul.”

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.

Jessica

Sponsored by College Choice Counseling: Collegecc.com has been helping students apply to college for over 15 years. Located in Birmingham, Michigan, with team members in New York and California, Collegecc.com offers educational advising, application preparation and ACT/SAT tutoring.

ESSAY

As a child raised on two continents, my life has been defined by the “What if…?” question. What if I had actually been born in the United States? What if my parents had not won that Green card? What if we had stayed in the USA and had not come back to Bulgaria? These are the questions whose answers I will never know (unless, of course, they invent a time machine by 2050).

“Born in Bulgaria, lived in California, currently lives in Bulgaria” is what I always write in the About Me section of an Internet profile. Hidden behind that short statement is my journey of discovering where I belong.

My parents moved to the United States when I was two years old. For the next four years it was my home country. I was an American. I fell in love with Dr. Seuss books and the PBS Kids TV channel, Twizzlers and pepperoni, Halloweens and Thanksgivings the yellow school bus and the “Good job!” stickers.

It took just one day for all of that to disappear. When my mother said “We are moving back to Bulgaria,” I naively asked, “Is that a town or a state?”

Twenty hours later I was standing in the middle of an empty room, which itself was in the middle of an unknown country.

It was then that the “what if” — my newly imagined adversary—made its first appearance. It began to follow me on my way to school. It sat right behind me in class. No matter what I was doing, I could sense its ubiquitous presence.

The “what if” slowly took its time over the years. Just when it seemed to have faded away, it reappeared resuming its tormenting influence on me—a constant reminder of all that could have been. What if I had won that national competition in the United States? What if I joined a Florida tennis club? What if I became a part of an American non-governmental organization? Would I value my achievements more if I had continued riding that yellow school bus every morning?

But something—at first unforeseen and vastly unappreciated—gradually worked its way into my heart and mind loosening the tight grip of the “what if”—Bulgaria. I rediscovered my home country—hours spent in the library reading about Bulgaria’s history spreading over fourteen centuries, days reading books and comparing the Glagolitic and Cyrillic scripts, years traveling to some of the most remote corners of my country. It was a cathartic experience and with it finally came the discovery and acceptance of who I am.

I no longer feel the need to decide where I belong. I am like a football fan that roots for both teams during the game. (If John Isner ever plays a tennis match against Grigor Dimitrov, I will definitely be like that fan.) Bulgaria and the USA are not mutually exclusive. Instead, they complement each other in me, whether it be through incorporating English words in my daily speech, eating my American pancakes with Bulgarian white brine cheese, or still having difficulty communicating through gestures (we Bulgarians are notoriously famous for shaking our heads side to side when we mean “yes” and nodding to mean “no).

As a child raised on two continents, my life will be defined by the “What…?” question. What have Bulgaria and the USA given me? What can I give them back? What does the future hold for me? This time, I will not need a time machine to find the answers I am seeking.

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REVIEW

Jessica’s essay elaborates on key themes of identity as an American and Bulgarian, scholar and tennis player, and answers questions the reader will have about her extracurricular passions and motivations.

The essay is a variation on the classic college essay theme where a potential hardship becomes positive. Here, she tells the story of overcoming a life lived in constant contemplation of hypotheticals to one where duality not a source of confusion, but one that “complements” each other. Jessica’s essay suggests that she has transcended distinction and demonstrates maturity with an ability to appreciate the quirks of both her American and Bulgarian identities.

Jessica’s “rediscovery” of her home country serves as an opportunity for her to mention her interests and hobbies, providing context and narrative support for the extracurricular activities she probably lists on her application. Speaking about Bulgarian history, travels, and code switching, Jessica conveys a cultural awareness and keen observation of nuance in her essay.

Jessica’s essay could have been used a bit more of thorough examination of how her “rediscovery” translated to her ultimate response to the “what if” question. It takes a distinct experience—splitting a childhood between two vastly different worlds—but doesn’t go far enough in exploring the process behind her transformation to make her story of self-discovery truly substantive or original.

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.