Grades

College Sample Essays: While the World Sleeps

When I wake up to the ear-splitting sound of my alarm clock, and blindly search for the snooze button, a sudden thought dawns: “What am I doing?”

The time is 5:30 AM; all is dark and hushed. My weary body feels completely drained of energy. While straining to open my eyes, still warm and snug in my comfortable bed, I am overcome with a feeling of lethargy. “Perhaps I should call in sick.” Despite all my musing, and my bed’s magnetic pull, I still manage to rise each morning at this ungodly hour to join the cross-country running team in rigorous training.

Cross-country running, a sport that requires the fusing of body and mind, strives to maximize your physical ability by testing your mental tenacity. Everyday represents a new struggle to beat yesterday’s maximum output, an issue of mind over matter. I have known the agony of this conflict since I joined the newly established cross-country team. As convincing as my morning doubts are, I do not heed them. Through pains and sprains and through adverse weather and unfavorable conditions, I run because I made up my mind three years ago to succeed.

With amenities such as cars and buses, I have no pragmatic reason to use my feet, especially if I lack a destination. I do not run to the gym to acquire a stylish figure, for my slender frame does not require it. And this grueling run differs from a relaxing jog to a coffee shop. I am pushing myself constantly to run faster and farther, for my team as well as for personal glory. Somehow with tireless effort and unflagging commitment, I run through the sleeping streets of my neighborhood with the awareness that I am steadily reaching my goal-maintaining the discipline that cross-country demands. In my mind I see a victory line that symbolizes the results of perseverance and hard work. This line makes me realize that ambition and tenacity do not go in vain. And it constantly reminds me that all those morning in which I struggled to leave my cozy cocoon have allowed me to fly.

While the world slept, I, Jane Smith, was awake and working hard to attain my goal. I feel more confident now, that on the road of life, when others may be walking, I will be running. I will run through ankle injuries and through fatigue. I will endure the inevitable hills and valleys. I will endure, and I will achieve.

College Sample Essays: Discovering Ivy U

Discovering and choosing a university that fulfills all of my needs was a rigorous yet exciting task. The Ivy U clearly emerged as the best choice for me and I, as a great match for the university. After visiting the campus, reading the information pamphlet, and researching the university Web site, I realize that Ivy offers what I hope to gain from my college experience. In return, I will contribute to the university as a person with leadership qualities who takes initiative and enjoys participating in school events.

For many years, I have wanted to become a midwife, and the Ivy School of Nursing stands out as the premium institution for such training. The university’s close proximity to many hospitals will familiarize me with patients and hospital life, allowing me the best training possible.

As an individual, I will thrive in the intimate and familiar environment of the nursing school, one of Ivy’s smallest schools. Coming from a small high school, I was greatly impressed by my visit to the campus, where I noticed the close relationships between the professors and students, and the strong family feeling within the nursing school.

The location of Ivy’s nursing school within the large campus of Ivy’s other schools offers myriad benefits. Firstly, I will have the opportunity to take classes in any of the other schools at Ivy, and this seamless academic integration will allow me to pursue my interests outside of nursing.

In addition to academic breadth, there are a greater variety of extra-curricular activities available on the larger campus. I am excited about continuing my interests in sports and theater. I have played on my high school’s varsity volleyball team for two years and I plan to play volleyball throughout college in Ivy’s women’s club volleyball. I also performed in The Sound of Music in high school and the Teatron will allow me to actively participate in theater.

As president of the student council, I have always promoted school spirit, and I intend to continue my enthusiastic involvement throughout my college career. My school places a large emphasis on test grades and homework, creating a serious mood throughout the school. As president, I have tried to enrich the school experience by planning events such as school lunches and interesting field trips. I have learned through my role as president to take charge, delegate responsibilities, be creative, innovative, exciting, and take responsibility. I hope to use these attributes to contribute to many of the clubs and activities offered at Ivy.

At the beginning of this school year, I took the initiative and single-handedly started a need-based tutoring service to pair weaker students with scholastically competent seniors and juniors. Approximately thirty students have been successfully paired and my school has permanently adopted this program. I am thrilled to know that Ivy has a tutoring service to help immigrants and political refugees in West Philadelphia where I can continue tutoring while in college.

I have chosen to apply early decision to the Ivy School of Nursing for I realize that Ivy is the perfect university for me. A college is ultimately as good as the students who attend, and as a well-rounded student who excels academically, socially, and in her extra curricular activities, I feel that I will add to and learn from Ivy and its flourishing environment. I function most effectively in a small academic setting and will derive all the benefits of the university’s intimate yet rich campus. I truly believe that I will fulfill my potential by attending the University of Ivy.

College Sample Essays: Rite of Passage

“Sarah, we need your help in the Ukraine this summer. Can I count on you?” This question changed my life profoundly. I was asked to be a counselor on JOLT, Jewish Oversees Leadership Program, an opportunity to interact with young campers in an impoverished country and positively influence their lives. Little did I realize that this experience would impact mine so greatly.

JOLT, an outreach program, runs an annual overnight summer camp in the Ukraine with counselors from the United States and Israel. These counselors are carefully selected because of the rigorous programming and the many physical hardships of living in the Ukraine. Over one hundred local children come to Charkov to learn about their Jewish background. As one of the counselors, I had the privilege and extraordinary task of exposing them to the beauty of our religion and heritage.

I remember the anxiety and excitement that I felt as I exited the plane with twenty other high school students, embarking on my summer teaching experience, wondering if I was fully prepared. The moment the busloads of children arrived, I attached myself to a group of kids and started singing and dancing with them. Despite my initial fears, we began to form a bond. My role changed from that of a teenager to that of a responsible counselor. Not only was I here to teach them about Judaism through classes and activities, but more importantly I was acting as a role model. For the majority of Ukrainian children, we were the first Americans they had ever met and, therefore, were watched vigilantly and constantly emulated. This humbling realization made me feel rather self-conscious at first. However, their desire to imitate also heightened the impact of that which we taught them. They wanted to learn. Although an immense language barrier lay between the campers and me, we managed to communicate through translators, hand signals, songs, and broken English and Russian.

With the help of a book that contained both the Hebrew and Russian, I taught Hebrew to a group of ten children who had never before been exposed to Judaism. Glieb, a ten-year old boy rapidly rose to the top of the class. In addition to the mandatory hours of daily learning, he was motivated to extend these sessions. So often at night after the fun and entertainment, he and I would practice reading Hebrew and we discussed, in simple terms, aspects of Jewish ritual that fascinated him. It was with Glieb that I formed the deepest bond, one that relied not only on talking, for he spoke only a minimal amount of English, but rather on demonstrating our fondness through actions.

A few days before the end of camp, in broken English, Glieb explained that he had been working endlessly on a present for me. Similarly I had been trying to decide on something that I could give him. After hours of pondering, I decided to give Glieb what was most dear to me, my siddur (prayer book), which I had received upon entering sixth grade. I felt it appropriate to present him with his very first prayer book. For hours I decorated and transliterated the main prayers and on the last day of camp, before the kids left, we exchanged presents. He gave me his favorite key-chain of the “Sylvester” cartoon with an attached lanyard that he had made. Never had a gift had such a startling effect on me; I burst into tears. I handed him my siddur, and he stood there for a moment staring at his gift, and I at mine. Tears welled in his eyes as he continued to look at the siddur. I knew that he truly understood the significance of our exchange. We hugged goodbye, and I will never forget the feeling of his arms entwined around me with the siddur pressed against my back.

Who would have thought that I would go to the Ukraine, make such a strong impression on the lives of a group of children and impact my own? The campers’ naïve yet deep questioning took me on a journey of self-discovery as I reexamined my own beliefs and practices in a foreign environment, spiritually void and materially deprived. This defining experience also taught me that I can make a difference. By continuing to work with people in my professional life as a nurse, I will be extending the passions I discovered during my summer experience. Just as I answered the call for help in the Ukraine, I intend to respond to future calls for help — with action, kindness, and caring.

College Sample Essays: Summer Camp Entrepreneur

The first wedding that I planned was in no way a traditional wedding. Ten eager little girls decorated the printed invitations with sequins, buttons, and markers. The same energetic hands prepared the wedding feast, consisting of bagged lunches, blintz soufflé, and of course a layer cake. On the big day I looked around with excitement. Again, I noticed something odd about this wedding. All the participants and guests appeared about four feet high. The “groom” had long hair pinned up with brown lines on her face (was that supposed to be a beard?) The wedding location, a back yard with a swing set and a wading pool, seemed far from romantic. This wedding however was not supposed to be one of those types of weddings. As I pressed the “PLAY” button on the tape recorder I knew that ten 4-6-year-old girls cared deeply about this wedding. Despite the absence of a reason for celebration, I pulled all the girls into the circle and we started dancing and clapping to the music. The energy that went into the preparation on previous days could finally be appreciated. My campers and I not only celebrated the accomplishment of the mock wedding, we celebrated the fun and excitement we experienced for the first three weeks in Camp Glitter Girls. I had begun preparing for Camp Glitter Girls over four months before by budgeting, sending out fliers, confirming registration and finally making sure that every camper would have the time of her life. As I danced, I celebrated the times I almost lost my patience but didn’t, the times that I planned activities late into the night because I knew that only an organized schedule would ensure the success of my camp.

The lessons I had learned from previous summer camps contributed greatly to this camp’s success. At the age of thirteen, I first ran a camp for eight children. The next year a friend and I co-managed a camp for twenty children at a small school campus. Finally at the age of fifteen I created my most challenging summer camp with thirty-five children. In just three years the size of my camp tripled and so did the life lessons. I not only carried the responsibility for my own “bunk,” but with my co-manager I hired other counselors, arranged busing to and from field trips, managed a $15,000 budget, and ensured that thirty-five children had a fun summer. The overnight to San Diego, water fun, cheers, a carnival to end the summer and many other events definitely ensured that my campers had a great summer. However, at the end of those six weeks, new ideas floated in my mind about how I would manage a camp next time.

The camp’s increased size added new dimensions to management. On one occasion I firmly reminded a mother of her financial obligations to the camp when she started bargaining. When counselors failed to perform as expected I was required to separate friendships and business. With a much wider variety of campers, I dealt with behavioral problems among the campers. This even included involving the parents in the case of two unusually unruly boys. While a troubled girl with attention deficit disorder in my “bunk” needed special attention, I had to make sure that none of my other campers felt slighted in any way. As the summer progressed I learned how sometimes I just have to put my foot down and say “no.” Sometimes extra attention is not always best for a difficult child. Most importantly, I had an experience in the real world of business that taught me how to stand up for myself and address interpersonal and administrative problems.

This past summer as I looked around the yard at the beaming faces flushed from dancing, I realized that Camp Glitter Girls was the culmination of all the experiences and lessons in which I partook since my first camp four years earlier. I learned how to make a camp with ten campers far more fun and even more profitable than a camp for thirty-five children. Instead of marketing to a broad range of ages, I marketed Camp Glitter Girls to a specific age group of girls. The smaller group facilitated a close and familiar atmosphere, not to mention a decrease in problems. Instead of focusing on the quantity of campers, I focused on the quality of my campers’ experience, and we all reaped the benefits. The mock wedding at my previous camps never exuded the energy and spirit of the one at Camp Glitter Girls. As the dancing subsided and I heard oohs and aahs over the cake, I looked at every single girl in the room. I did not just see cute adorable faces; rather I saw how each girl challenged me in her own way and unconsciously taught me her own special lesson.

As I turn towards my future and make life-defining decisions, I look back upon my experiences with my campers for inspiration and direction. I view my upcoming years at university as an opportunity to further use the skills I acquired in running summer camps. The diversity, academic excellence, and broad array of classes and extracurricular activities at UCLA will provide an environment that will challenge me to use the leadership, initiative, creativity and interpersonal abilities that I used at Camp Glitter Girls.

Often I lie awake in my bed at night, not moving, too exhausted even to read. The ceiling fan turns slowly overhead, the sheets are smooth and comfortable, and the house lies in the quiet stillness of night, yet I do not sleep. For hours, I am lost in contemplation, my mind incessantly weaving threads of thought together in strange patterns. I silently drift in the darkness through a landscape of intangible ideas, groping for meaning behind the shadow of existence. What is it to be? I have spent years with this question, privately turning it over, searching for its nature, for the form of its answer. I have truly been haunted by Being.

Thus philosophy for me was at first a personal matter, a dream that forced its way into my head during the night. The thoughts arose as from a vacuum, unprovoked, and persisted in their senseless hold over my mind. Yet slowly I learned that others had faced these same questions, that they had spent their lives searching for the answers, and that, most importantly, they had left a written record of their search for meaning. Great minds throughout history had left a legacy which I could follow, turning my insoluble reflections into a legitimate, potentially lifelong exploration. As time permitted, I studied philosophy, reading whatever I could find, and my quest for the nature of Being took on a more tangible presence.

Last year I joined the Humanities Forum, a program in which philosophy professors from Emory University and other Atlanta area colleges offer informal courses on a variety of themes. The classes permitted me to make a more systematic and rewarding study than my private readings allowed. Each class meets for two hours once a week, and is composed of undergraduate students, graduate students, and professionals from virtually every field. I am the youngest participant. I began the program with a twelve-week course called “Our Civilization, “ with primary readings from Alexis de Tocqueville, Adam Smith, and Friedrich Nietzsche, in which we evaluated what modern culture has lost in comparison to ancient Greek and medieval value systems and social structures. Later, in “Plato vs. Descartes: Ancient and Modern Philosophy, “ we explored the distinctive natures of the two philosophical eras by examining the thought of an influential thinker from each period. I am currently enrolled in “Heidegger, Metaphysics, and Nihilism.” We are examining Heidegger’s thesis that nihilism is the culmination of Western metaphysics by reading and discussing a variety of his works. Heidegger is the most profound thinker I have encountered; I often find myself forced to reread passages to grasp the meaning hidden within. In Heidegger, I have found the closest approach to the truth of Being, the truth I still contemplate alone at night.

Occasionally I come upon a familiar concept in my philosophical reading, one which I recognize as my own. To see my private musings, which seemed only ephemeral and abstract, expressed in the writings of a great thinker excites me to pure exhilaration. That this elusive creature Being has haunted others gives me hope; I now look forward to the setting of the sun and the sleepless night ahead.

** Comments by Admissions Officers who Assisted in the Creation of this Course **

Most of our panel admired this essay for its passion and depth of thought. Here are some comments.

Wow. This is a virtuoso. This essay is intelligent, creative, thoughtful, descriptive, humble, and interesting.

The author is obviously a profound thinker, well beyond his years in his grasp of deep philosophical ideas. He writes with intelligence and sophistication about concepts that many of his peers seldom even consider.

Throughout my life, I have tried to be a well-balanced person. Growing up in the South, I had a hard time fighting the stereotypical image of a Chinese person. I was expected to be a math and science genius and nothing more. As it turned out, I defied my detractors by excelling in English and history along with math and science. And over the years, I have continued to maintain my academic standards.

Nevertheless, I have also made sure that I am more than an academic person. I am an active one as well. In middle school, the most popular game during lunch was a basketball game called Salt and Pepper (white vs. black). The first day of school, I stepped onto the basketball courts and was greeted by cries of consternation, “Who is he? Is he salt or pepper?” But after the game, I had made a name for myself. From then onward, I would be known as Spice, and the game we played became Salt, Pepper, and Spice.

When I moved to California, things were no different. I continued to play an active part both academically and socially. My involvement with Cross-country, Speech and Debate, Ultimate Frisbee and numerous clubs guaranteed that I would not be only known as an Honors student.

Like myself, Duke is much more than an academic institution; it is a living institution. I feel that I will be given the opportunity to excel both academically and socially. Duke is a university known for its rich history and strong academic program. And, at the same time, it is also known for its innovation and progressiveness. These are qualities which draw me to the college.

In addition, Duke and I have a lot in common. The two most important extracurricular activities I have are a major part of Duke University. Duke’s Speech team is known for its strong Extemp squad. I remember the time when my speech coach asked me what schools I was applying to. When I had listed my top five choices, he frowned at me and said, “Out of all those schools, I will only respect you if you either join us at Berkeley or go to Duke and extemp.” I hope I will be given the opportunity to contribute my part in the Duke Speech team.

Equally important, the Duke University has a well-known Ultimate Frisbee team. I look forward expectantly to becoming a part of the team. Strange as it seems, Ultimate Frisbee is one of my top criteria for choosing my future college. It delights me that Duke places such great emphasis on the two extracurricular activities that mean most to me.

My first year at Duke should be a great one. Majoring in economics at Duke should allow me to both pursue my major studies and allow me time for personal interests in Chinese and the Humanities. Moreover, in my spare time, I plan to join the Speech team and the Ultimate Frisbee team. Hopefully, with my previous experience, I will have an early start in both Speech and Ultimate. Yet, I will never forget why I’m in college in the first place. As long as I give organic chemistry a wide berth, I should be able to continue my level of academic excellence. Overall, my first year at Duke promises to be exciting, if a bit hectic.

If you like storms that clear a path of change and arcs that bridge communication gaps, slide down my rainbow into the whirlwind of my life. In a sense, I’m taking the world by storm. I’m either blessed or cursed with an optimism born not of ignorance, but of idealism based on personal experience. Perhaps foolishly, perhaps not, I believe that enough people in this world care for humanity to lift us out of our downward spiral of poverty, depression, and despair. Caring is just the first step, though. Next, people have to work together to achieve the social reforms necessary for our survival. I have chosen to concentrate my whirlwind energy in the reform of feminism.

Why feminism? The path there was so clear and miraculous that I knew it had to be right:

A voice called her softly. She looked and saw a twisting road with obstacles at every turn. The path of silence she was on was so smooth and safe: no one would ridicule her, ostracize her, or hate her. Why should she switch to the difficult road of social battles and criticism? The voice called again and she knew she must take the twisting path, for herself, her sisters, her mothers, and her daughters to be. “But I’m scared!” she cried to the wind. “We all were at first, “ a million voices whispered back, and this gave her the strength to take the first step on the winding road. And after the first step, it was easy.

Encouraged by a personal meeting with Gloria Steinem, I decided to start a young feminist club at [name] High School to address issues of gender equality. We organized a feminist assembly to raise conscious-ness about women’s issues and to dispel the myths surrounding feminism. We also held a bake sale to benefit Planned Parenthood, and we participated in many Pro-Choice rallies and marches. I spent much of my free time volunteering for local social activism groups, such as the Marin Abused Women’s Services and the San Francisco Chapter of the National Organization for Women.

Other social activities provide experiences in the political and judicial world. My sense of justice and desire for competition drew me to Mock Trial, where I am trained as an attorney and argue a difficult case in front of a real judge. This not only teaches me about the judicial system, but also about my own legal rights. I also enjoy Model United Nations, where we act as delegates from other countries in large conferences modeled after the United Nations. This shows me how the policies that affect this country and others are made.

These are only some of the social activities in which I immerse myself. In addition to these, I love writing. I especially enjoy creative writing, such as plays and poems, and I work as Features Editor on the school paper. I like poems and plays because they’re a creative way to express my social views and the school paper lets me explain and illustrate important points to a large number of people. All these activities usually keep me busy. In fact, the only real obstacle to obtaining my high school diploma was my lack of time for academics, due to my involvement in all these exciting activities. I found myself staying up all night to finish homework because I had had a NOW meeting or a campaign phone-banking session during the afternoon and evening!

My various activities have taught me many things. Most importantly, I’ve learned that one must work to change the world, yet one must also have a sense of humor. Nothing can be taken too seriously, even oneself. Above all, we must always work to help others because that is the only way to truly help ourselves.

A Greek philosopher once said, “In argument, truth is born.” Even though sometimes feelings and emotions come into play that confuse the issue at hand, usually an argument results in a new insight on the subject. Even if a person holds strong views that are unshaken by anything his adversary may say, he may nevertheless gain from the debate. It forces him to organize and analyze his views, leaving him with a clearer understanding of the subject than before. Further, his opponent’s arguments help him better appreciate his views and their differences. Finally, the argument forces both to look inwards, at their character and value system.

For these reasons, I enjoy debating issues that are important to me and about which I hold strong views. One such issue receiving great national attention is the Middle East peace process. While the peace process has always been important to the American community as a whole, and more specifically to the Jewish American community, the assassination of Israel Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin has focused the spotlight upon it, as well as intensified the debate around it. Since I attend a private Jewish school, I often discuss this topic with my peers, often finding myself in the minority. Most of them support the peace process, while I adhere to the views of the Likud (opposition) party, which opposes the peace process.

Complicating the issue are several emotional stigmas that are often attached to it, transforming the discussion from an objective one to one driven by passion. The foremost of these stigmas is the accusation, which is often hurled at the opponents of the peace process, of promoting war and violence. Often made by people who know little about the issue, this view fails to realize that opposition to the peace process does not imply opposition of peace. Rather, it implies disapproval of certain tactics and specifics of the peace process as it was carried out by Rabin.

Another commonly advanced accusation against American Jews who disagree with the peace process centers around the question of whether they have the right to influence Israeli policy. “You don’t have to send your children to the Army, “ it is said, “your children don’t die in wars. What right have you to oppose peace?!” The fallacy of this argument is that it doesn’t differentiate between belief and action. While it is true, for precisely the reasons above, that American Jews have no right to try to influence Israeli policy, that does not preclude them from having ideas of what that policy should be.

Finally, the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin has introduced yet another dimension into this debate. In its aftermath, opposing the peace process sometimes is identified with condoning the assassination itself. Such an identification of the man and his beliefs involves grave dangers, such as rashly implementing his ideas in a flurry of compassion and commiseration.

What all of these stigmas have in common is that they forsake logical and objective debate, opting rather for emotions, generalizations and accusations. And the dangers of that happening are the main lesson I learned from my debates. While those debates have shed new light on the issue and have forced me to reconsider what I think is moral and just, most importantly they have demonstrated the necessity of objectiveness and removal of emotions from the discussion, especially when, as in the case of the peace process, thousands of lives are at stake. When passions and hatred take over, we must stop and think of what it all is really about.

Increasingly, I find that I’d much rather talk about queerness than write about it. I’ve yet feel comfortable enough with my words to trust how they frame, limit, and structure my experience. I don’t yet notice the experiences for which I have words and those for which I don’t. I also wonder how adeptly I can to tease out my sexuality anyway, how well I can place it at center, since my particular queerness has had everything to do with my Asianness and uppermiddleclassness and youth. Again, I’ve yet to learn how to discuss these weaves in tandem yet, but I will.

Living behind the Orange Curtain, I feel that my sexuality has grounded me outside society. I remember encountering lust during early childhood. I think his name was John, and he was in sixth grade. It seems like my desires have always been there; I simply did not acknowledge them, at first, as particularly interesting or, more tellingly, substantial enough to construct a name, a category, or identity around. My identity remained based in far more conventional structures: although I knew I liked boys, I still expected to become a successful heterosexual doctor, find a dutiful Asian bride, and have an obscene number of children. Sexual orientation, unlike money, racial authenticity, and status, had yet to become a foundation upon which my life rested. Masculinity and sexuality had yet to emerge as an issue.

Gradually, I began to realize that my peers were treating me differently. I wish there was a fresh way to describe alienation, how painful it is to feel like an absolute freak, how name-calling and insults cannot be dismissed as “teasing, “ how children relish in making people suffer, but such coming-of-age melodramas become trite, even laughable. I remember them mocking me for innocent hand gestures; I remember beginning to watch myself neurotically for any action that they might construe as effeminate; I remember violence; I remember feeling stiff and stale, like granite, icy, numb, each encounter, each slur and slap laying the blocks, smoothing the mortar of my new, emerging self. From behind the rising walls, I watched them becoming couples and realized that I could never have that easy way, that I could never commune with others without sadness.

My parents only complicated the matter. As traditional Asians, they demanded that I, the eldest son, serve as the tantamount heterosexual, a role model for my brothers, the carrier of the potent seed that would foster the next Chiu generation. Soon I learned that the identity they had built for me not only stood on wealth and cultural and familial loyalties, but around virility and manliness as well. I had been obedient for my entire life, willing to fulfill every expectation. Now I faced disownment. I was terrified; I had lost my sense of direction, false or otherwise. As I grew aware of my Otherness, I began to see my life as a series of illusions. My prospects dissolved, and from these mirages emerged barriers, bastions I had never recognized.

Because what I had always considered natural was now wrong, I was framed as the unacceptable, the deviant. Silently, insidiously, the world had reified a Self for me, cemented my most intimate and meaningful desires into an identity of Pervert. It had warped me into a suffocating, totalizing essence, pinned me with the girders of weakness, monstros-ity, and leprosy that supported their dichotomous construction of Homosexual. I couldn’t let myself stay a freak, so I decided I didn’t know who I really was and attempted to redefine myself. First I went ascetic, soaking myself in Buddhism to extinguish my desires, to tear down the source of my aberrant nature. My peers, however, would not let me go so easily. Seeing as they had already decided that my sex-uality was my self, I then decided to seek solace with fellow perverts. So, I came out.

Coming out, I was told, would solve all of my problems. Sure, there would still be the leering, the homophobic slurs, and all that, but I would at least be “proud” of my sexual preference; I would “stand up and be counted.” In reality, my momentous coming out was anti-climactic and disappointing. I expected that by telling people that I was gay I would metamorphose into a braver, stronger being. I didn’t. To a certain extent, I never rested deeply in the closet anyway; because of my “flamboyance, “ my private and public lives never seemed genuinely partitioned or obscured from one another. For me, at least, the closet emerged as another strange edifice, another harsh, warped, and dichotomous lens through which to understand myself.

Consequently I returned to my original foundations, plunging into schoolwork to redeem myself through academic excellence. Still miserable, I turned to extracurricular activities and community service, trying to erect an identity in a facade of social responsibility and activism. I found myself searching for the approval of others. Their praise of my right image, my unperverted, correctly structured image-my stellar transcript, my hours of community service, my ability to blow into a flute and scratch out a few greeting card poems-reassured me of my worth. Despite the rigidity of my A-student identity, I still felt stale and numb, dizzy and nauseous, my body floating in black and crimson. My life was nothing but a series of unstable illusions, shadows that consumed and rejected me, a society that told me that, beneath any self I pieced together, my sexuality made me essentially perverse and nothing more.

I reject these ideas. As Foucault writes, queerness represents a constructed, implanted perversity. People see my sexuality as the defining aspect of my persona. They see it as the sum product of my past and the determining factor of my future. Everywhere people limit me in ways far more insidious than stereotyping or anti-gay legislation. Discrimination against gays and lesbians is not simply a homophobic don’t ask don’t tell policy: in the contemporary consciousness, homophobia builds queerness into a monolith. With queer individuals reduced to nothing but absolutely, impregnably Queer, dehumanization becomes almost inevitable. There are the obvious examples: the gay bashers, the skinhead neo-Nazis, Jesse Helms, those who decry us as Satanic. Yet with the “gay-friendly” we become perverse too, metamorphosing from devils to ABBA-loving fashion freaks. Even queers sometimes yell too thoughtlessly for gay pride, as if having a sexual preference is something of which to be proud. Sexuality is not an accomplishment; it is not something that reveals who you are; it is not all that you are: it exists as a strand, one interwoven into all the other facets of Self.

What I want is gay dignity and freedom. I want to integrate my sexuality with all the other weaves of my self: burn any architectural plans that mount my gayness above my race, ethnicity, and age. In fact, I’d like to trash any designs on fixing my identity at all. I want for people not to trap me, totalize me in predetermined roles and lifestyles, to tell me that I have to resolve my deviance when they have constructed it for me. With horror, I know that I’ve lived my sexuality with relative ease, that I’ve passed through high school relatively unbruised, that I’ve always been able to wrap my Harvard successes around me like a shawl and beat my enemies back with my résumé. Still I am tired of fearing that I might lose my parents’ support and never being able to return home after college. I am tired of wondering if a potential employer finds me too effeminate or if I need to carry mace on-campus. I am tired of having my sexuality dominate me, suffocate me, be my persona.

Of course, I certainly can’t take it for granted either. For many years, I’ve distanced myself from certain queers, naming drag queens, transsexuals, and flaming gay activists as freaks or Other to bolster my sense of normalcy. Only recently did I become a crusading warrior princess myself. Gradually, I am coming to embrace the identity of Homosexual, the identity built so rigidly around my desire and so oppressive to my sense of self, and encourage others to do the same. Screw normalcy. Only through reappropriating this artificial category of Queerness we can name ourselves as a community. Only through political mobilization can we reclaim what it means to live Gay, bring our multiplicity as individuals to light, and achieve equity in our lives. Coming out means avowal, a desperately needed acknowledgment of yourself and your peers and a commitment to fight for them: not necessarily a collision of the theoretically public and private. Queers need to proclaim their supposedly perverse subculture, a subculture borne in the oppression, resistance, and struggle within and between the queer and straight communities. We must seek equity through visibility. Moreover, while our identities may remain socially constructed, their fabrication does not make them any less meaningful or real. Perhaps because I can afford to, I have learned to take pleasure in deviance, in flaunting my self; in reveling in sexual experiences; in passing as a girl or heterosexual boy. Certainly my experiences prove as legitimate as the construction of Straightness. We need to establish queerness as just as normal and “unnatural” as Heterosexual convention. We must understand that barbie doll cheerleader is just as contrived as the diesel dyke, that the muscle-bound jock is as much of a construct as the leather queen. Only after achieving a visible place in society and showing Straights how society has fabricated their identities as well will queers move from the deviant to the normal, from the periphery to the center.

So in looking toward my activism at Harvard, I perceive two emerging strands. First, I will continue to work on the numerous issues that I’ve pursued during high school because in doing so I do justice to all aspects of my self and serve all of my communities. Beyond my attempt to unify and integrate the weaves of my life, I would, however, like to become more present in the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender community, particularly since my home life and county of residence have largely curtailed my efforts. Despite the importance of the cause, I would definitely like to move beyond A.I.D.S. activism and attack broader social justice issues on sexuality that receive less attention. My human rights work promises to redouble in the area of sexuality as the international human rights community grows increasingly aware of the torture and oppression of sexual minorities worldwide. Moreover, I would also like to study and pursue the creation of alliances within queer communities, in terms of varying racial-ethnic and gender groups, and with heterosexual communities as well. Specifically, however, I feel drawn to the study and teaching of identity politics, particularly in how the social discourse constructs Homo and Hetero-sexuals. I feel a need to collapse the shaky dichotomy between Straights and Freaks, to demolish the structures we’ve erected to define ourselves. Understanding my queerness has become a process, a process of deciding that my difference will no longer isolate, relegate, or alienate me. Instead, it will build me a space from which I can expose the perversity in calling someone perverse.

Comments by Admissions Officers who Assisted with the Course Development

One admissions officer called it a “work of art, “ and another described it as “the stuff of graduate research.” One admissions officer offered a warning to applicants, though. “This is not the conversational style that I recommend that most applicants use, because too often students at this stage sound pretentious and awkward if they try to go beyond a simple style.” Another felt it very important to stress that a topic does not need to be this grandiose, personal, or revealing to be effective. “True, these topics often tug at the heartstrings and therefore get more notice . . . but it’s worth mentioning that you don’t need to be a gay Asian activist to get noticed.” The combination of such a deeply personal topic, the depth of insight, and the ability to articulate such a breadth of thought is impressive.

Some say that mankind is complex beyond comprehension. I cannot, of course, speak for every other individual on this earth, but I do not believe that I am a very difficult person to understand. My life is based upon two very simple, sweeping philosophies: pragmatism in actions and idealism in thought. Thus, with these two attitudes, I characterize myself.

Pragmatism in actions. I believe utterly in one of those old cliches: we are given only a limited time upon this earth and every moment wasted is lost forever. Therefore, I do not engage in those things that I view as useless. The next question is obvious. What do I view as useless? In reality, perhaps too many things and definitely too many to address in one essay. However, I can indulge in the discussion of a few. Hate is a wasted emotion. Hate accomplishes nothing. It does not relieve hunger. It does not alleviate pain. It creates only avoidable aggression. I do not believe in any kind of hate, including prejudice and racism. My energies and time can be better spent elsewhere. Anger too. What does anger do? Nothing. It frustrates us and aggravates us, and we can avoid it. Being frustrated is not a pleasing experience for me. When I was young, or rather, when I was younger than I am now, I would explode at the smallest disturbances (I’m sorry mom and dad). Now, I have realized that anger is a waste of time, and I no longer have a temper to lose. I would much rather wallow in happiness. And in my happiness, I do not worry much over my image in the eyes of others. The important word here is much, for there are opinions of certain individuals about which I do care a great deal, but these are few. They include my family, my close friends, and those who possess the power to affect my life significantly (for example, university admissions officers). Otherwise, I pay no attention to whispers behind my back or vague rumors circulating in the air above. As long as I know the truth, however harsh it may be, and those that I care about know the truth, I am not troubled. The masses may think as they wish. They are entitled. As can probably be observed from this essay thus far, my outlook on life saves me more than a bit of stress. I hate no one, I am never angry, and I really don’t care what most other people believe. It is quite a calming experience. Have no fear though, stress pierces my existence from many other venues.

And now for the other half of my personality. I am a hardcore idealist (and very naive). I believe that I can change the world, and I intend to. Either one man at a time, or a generation at a time, I will leave my stamp emblazoned upon humanity. I maintain that there lies in man the ability to accomplish anything and everything. Nothing is impossible. But before changing the world, we must learn to change ourselves. And here enters another one of my theories. There are two stages in resolving a problem, and they are both equally important. First, the problem must be identified and recognized. Then, the solution may be found. I know that my profound theory sounds ridiculous and obvious, but many people never even pass the first level. They know something is wrong and they complain, but they do not take the time to divine the source of their troubles. If only they would open their eyes a bit and look around, they might find that the key to their dilemma was actually quite simple. Then again, the answer might be more difficult than the problem itself. Admitting the existence of a problem becomes even more difficult when the issue concerns the self. I am continually striving to improve myself, constantly seeking perfection. I sometimes ask others to critique my personality and my actions and reveal what they regard as my flaws. Then, I can better evaluate myself with their more objective views. After that, the process is not complicated. I identify those areas that I am not completely satisfied with and determine some means to rectify the condition. So far, I have not had many difficulties with this fix-it-yourself, or rather, this fix-yourself-yourself system. This self-improvement has given me self-confidence as well as an optimistic attitude on living. By demonstrating to myself that I alone can change the many aspects of my persona, I have led myself to believe that all aspects of life can be altered as well. All that is required is a bit of will (and some intelligence helps too). I believe the will of man is the greatest driving force in our lives.

So there it is. My entire mentality has been reduced to a two page essay. Here and there it’s a bit foolish, but it is what I live by (until, of course, I find better philosophies). Others may accept it or reject it, but I don’t mind much either way as long as it works for me.

** Comments by Admissions Officers who Assisted in the Creation of this Course **

This strikes me as aloof. It doesn’t really make me like the kid-and that’s what a good essay should do!

I found this essay to be trite and pretentious. It really tells me nothing of substance about the author. I have no idea what he will bring to the incoming class, what sorts of interests or activities he has been involved with, what concrete goals he may have. The essay also has a self-righteous feel to it that is annoying.

This essay has a cumbersome beginning. This writer should just drop the first two sentences and begin, “my life is based on. . .” then drop the next sentence, “Thus, with these two attitudes, I characterize myself.” No one writes or talks that way; not if they wish for anyone to listen.

The author blusters that he will “change the world.” Then give me one concrete example of a change you’ve already made. Be genuine enough to give the reader a good-faith deposit on your lofty proclamations. As the saying goes, “If you’re gonna talk the talk, you better walk the walk.”

Reluctantly smearing sunblock over every exposed inch of my fifty-three pound body, I prepared mentally for the arduous task that lay ahead of me. After several miserable fishing ventures which had left my skin red and my hook bare, I felt certain that, at last, my day had arrived. I stood ready to clear the first hurdle of manhood, triumph over fish. At the age of seven, I was confident that my rugged, strapping body could conquer any obstacle. Pity the fish that would become the woeful object of the first demonstration of my male prowess.

Engaging me deeply was my naive eagerness to traverse the chasm dividing boy from man. In fact, so completely absorbed was I in my thoughts that the lengthy journey to our favorite fishing spot seemed fleeting. The sudden break in the droning of the engine snapped me to reality. Abruptly jarred back into the world, I fumbled for my fishing pole. Dangling the humble rods end over the edge of the boat, I released the bail on the reel and plunked the cheap plastic lure into the water. Once I had let out enough line and set the rod in a holder, I sat back to wait for an attack on the lure. The low hum of the motor at trolling speed only added to my anxiety, like the instrumental accompaniment to a horror film. And then it hit. A sharp tug on the line pulled me to my feet faster than an electric shock. I bounded to the pole, and when I reached it, I yanked it out of the holder with all of my might. My nervous energy was so potent that when I tugged on the rod, I nearly plunged headlong over the side of the boat and into the fishs domain. Although adrenaline streamed through my veins, after five minutes both my unvanquishable strength and my superhuman will were waning steadily. Just when I was fully prepared to surrender to the fish and, with that gesture, succumb to a life of discontentment, pain, and sorrow, the fish performed a miraculous feat. Shocked and instantly revived, I watched as the mahi-mahi leapt from the oceans surface. The mahi-mahis skin gleamed with radiant hues of blue, green, and yellow in a breathtaking spray of surf. Brilliant sunlight beamed upon the spectacle, giving life to a scene which exploded into a furious spectrum of color. The exotic fish tumbled majestically back to the sea amidst a blast of foam. With this incredible display, the fish was transformed from a pitiful victim to a brilliant specimen of life. I cared no longer for any transcendent ritual I must perform, but rather, I longed only for the possession of such a proud creature. I hungered to touch such a wonder and share the fantastic bond that a hunter must feel for his kill. I needed to have that fish at any cost.

The fight lasted for only ten minutes; nevertheless, it was a ten minutes which I will never forget. When my fish neared the boat, I felt more energized than I had when the fish first struck. At my fathers command, I netted the fish and hauled it into the bottom of the boat. I was nearly bursting with exhilaration.

Released from the net, the fish dropped to the bottom of the boat with a hollow thud, and my jaw dropped with it. I stared in complete horror at the violently thrashing fish which was now at my feet. Within minutes, all of the fishs vibrance, color and life had vanished. Instead, came blood. Lots of blood. It sprayed from its mouth. It sprayed from its gills. Shortly, the boat was coated with the red life blood of the mahi-mahi. It now lay twitching helplessly while it gasped and choked for oxygen in the dry air. I felt sickened, disgusted, and utterly lost in heart-wrenching pity. As I watched the color drain from the fish, leaving it a morbid pale-yellow, I realized that I was responsible for the transformation of a creature of brilliance and life into a pitiful, dying beast.

Despite my brothers cheers and praises, I rode back to shore in bitter silence. I could not help thinking about the vast difference between the magnificent creature which I saw jump in the sea and the pathetic beast which I saw gasping for life in the bloody pit of the boat. What struck me most forcefully on that day, though, was the realization that I was no mere bystander to this desecration. I was the sole cause. Had I not dropped the hook into the water, the fish undoubtedly would still be alive. I, alone, had killed this fish.

In retrospect, I am relieved that I reacted in such a way to my passage from boyhood to manhood. Although my views about many things, hunting and fishing included, have changed considerably since that day, I still retain a powerful conscience which actively molds my personality. One cannot dispute the frightening potential of the human race to induce the permanent extinction of every life form on the planet. As the ability to change the world on a global scale is arguably limited to one breed of life, so, too, is the force which impedes instinctual and conscious action, the human conscience. My own _sense of strong moral principle reaches far beyond simply averting Armageddon, however. I often find myself unable to disregard this force of moral and social responsibility in whatever I do. Part of my keen social conscience is demonstrated in the effort I have made _to be a positive intellectual leader among my classmates and in the community. Realizing how lucky I am to have been born with a high aptitude for learning, I feel sorry that others who also work very hard cannot achieve like I have nor be rewarded with success as I have been. In a leadership role, I hope to constructively guide my peers to find their own success and see the fruition of their own goals. By serving as class president for three consecutive years, as founder, member, and chairman of the peer counseling society, and as a peer tutor, I have enabled others to reach their goals, while finding personal gratification at the same time. I am fortunate in that I have been given the opportunity to optimize the usefulness of my personal virtues in helping others; I can only hope to continue heeding my conscience in work as a research chemist, or whatever I may do in the future. It is my right and my obligation, for I firmly maintain that the charge of a humanitarian conscience is one which each person must eternally bear for the good of humankind and all the world.

Comments by Admissions Officers who Assisted in the Creation of this Course

Our panel loved the personal touch of this essay. “A good example of how a talented writer can make a standard topic appealing” was the general consensus. One officer did think, though, that the writer got “overzealous” with his language and could have avoided some of the more corpulent sentences like, “Engaging me deeply was my naive eagerness to traverse the chasm dividing boy from man, “ by writing with a simpler, more natural voice.

Prompt: Please define your current personality with anecdotes from your childhood.

By unlocking the door to (name) past, one sees his thoughts and actions when they first took hold of his persona. This essay serves as a key to that door and to my current personality.

The first beloved books in my life were the Sesame Street Encyclopedia volumes. At three, I wasn’t old enough to read them, but I always wanted to have them read to me. In fact, I memorized the ten volume set so when my parents would skip some pages I would ask them to read what they skipped. After learning to read on my own, my favorite book became the anatomy volume in the Charlie Brown Encyclopedia. Courtesy of a supermarket book offer, I was the only kindergartner who knew about fertilized egg cells. As I grew older, I continued to read largely because reading taught me so much outside of what we learned in school.

Since kindergarten, my extensive reading also originated my various interests, especially in science. Living within walking distance of the library, I went there every day, enabling me to dabble in a different subject during each visit. By the fourth grade, I had read all the chemistry books containing fewer than 200 pages, by the fifth grade I was reading about Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. During that time period, I became so interested in astronomy through Odyssey Magazine that I sold holiday cards door-to-door in order to buy a telescope.

Reading also helped me in school. A little ingenuity didn’t hurt, either. For example, as part of my third grade reading grade, I needed to do some independent reading. Every sixty pages in a book counted for one star of credit and in order to get an “A, “ I needed fifteen stars. I was greedy and saw this as an opportunity to shine far above the rest of my classmates. Instead of reading many short books, I devoured 300-page sagas by Laura Ingalls Wilder. When everyone else got eighteen stars, the little banana with my name on it had 45. This inner drive and competition still motivates my work today, but unfortunately, no one gives out stars anymore.

Despite this desire to do my best, I was quite normal, except for a slight perfectionist’s twist to everything. I too owned a cabbage patch doll, but it was taken away because I cared for it excessively. On one Halloween, I dressed up as Dracula just like a dozen other kids, but I wanted my hair to look so realistic that it took a week to wash out all the gel I used. Finally, much like any other child, I fantasized about adventures, but I took fantasizing one step further. I recorded my make-believe adventures on tape so they could be critiqued afterward.

One of the few things I was not a perfectionist at was my writing. Due to a lack of self-confidence, I would plan papers well in advance but put them off until the very last minute. This habit continues today, accounting for the transition-lacking stream-of-consciousness style found in almost all my writing. I just hope it appeals to Cornell admissions officers.

Comments

This writer undoubtedly made an impression as a child with his voracious reading skills. He is unfortunately a little too aware of this throughout the essay. His attempt to make himself appear driven and ambitious ends up coming across as a bit over the top, and one wonders how such an extreme perfectionist will be able to take the pressures of college life. He could have also done without the bashing of his writing skills in the last paragraph. This display of insecurity undercuts the overconfident tone of the rest of the piece, making the reader suspect that it might have been more bravado and a desire to impress than his true voice. The last paragraph reads like a disclaimer. This is not a good essay. A little editing would have saved this applicant a rejection letter.

A creek is no place for shoes. I think it’s unreasonable to ask children to keep their shoes on in such a place. My bare feet were always covered with calluses from walking down the rough pavement of Peardale Street and around the corner, past the weeping willows, but not as far as the Lindsay’s squeaky old swing-set. It was hard to see from the road, and as far as I could tell, nobody ever went there-except for me. Large pines nearby stood tall and erect, looking down at the ripples and currents that nudged each other about playfully, like children in the back seat of a car on a long drive. Stones and pebbles lined the shallow bottom and allowed the water to glide in creative patterns over their smooth surfaces. Larger, moss covered rocks dotted the bank and provided ideal spots for a child to sit and watch and wonder.

The creek often taught me things; it was my mentor. Once I discovered tadpoles in several of the many eddies and stagnant pools that lined the small rivulet. A cupped hand and a cleaned-out mayonnaise jar aided me in clumsily scooping up some of the more slothful individuals. With muddy hands and knees, I set them on the kitchen counter, and watched them daily as they developed into tiny frogs. I was fascinated by what was taking place before my eyes, but new questions constantly puzzled me. Dad was usually responsible for assuaging these curiosities. He told me about different kinds of metamorphosis and how other little tiny creatures lived in the water that I couldn’t see without a fancy magnifying glass.

By the creek, my mind was free to wander. I remember sitting silently on a mossy rock and watching the birds; I used to pretend I was one. As my body lay still, my imagination would take flight. High above, looking down on this stream from the pale blue heavens, the wind whistled over my face and the sun warmed my body. When my eyes flickered open, it was usually time to go home. Sometimes I even did.

I was always up for a challenge. My sister and I used to jump from rock to rock, in a kind of improvised hop-scotch obstacle course that tested our balance and agility against one another. She was four years older and I had to practice every morning when she was at school in order to keep up. On the rare occasions that I outdid her, I wore a goofy smirk for the rest of the day.

The creek was a frontier. The stream extended far into the depths of the woods. I thought that if I wandered too far into its darkness, I might be consumed by it and never heard from again. Gradually overcoming my fear, I embarked on expeditions and drafted extensive maps using my father’s old compass, a sheet of paper, and a few colored pencils. As my body grew in height and weight, my boundaries grew in extent and breadth.

Years later, I happened to be walking to a friend’s house by way of the creek. It occurred to me that what was once an expedition was now merely a shortcut. Although I had left this stream behind, I found others: new questions and freedoms, new challenges and places to explore. But this creek would remain foremost in my memory, whatever stream, river, or ocean I might wade.