 Well
Done Personal Essay
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Three times
a week after school I go visit my dad. When I enter the hospital room where
he has lain in a coma since his accident,
my eyes often wander
to the lone golf ball my mom placed at his bedside. Just six months ago,
my father was driving a golf cart across the street that bisects the local
golf course when he was hit by a car. He suffered severe brain injury, and
the doctors have ruled out any possibility of him waking up again. When I
look at him lying in bed, frail but peaceful as if he were asleep, it's hard
not to dwell on the "what ifs": what if he hadn't played golf that
day? What if he hadn't been behind the fence when the black Camry plowed
into it? What if I still had the chance to ask all those questions that choke
me up when I see him in the hospital? I can't pretend that I have developed
enough distance from the event to draw conclusions about life, but I am already
beginning to see myself in very different terms.
Ironically, through this accident my dad has given a chance to face reality
head-on. Before the accident, my relationship with him was warm but fraught
with tension. He never seemed satisfied with what I did and reprimanded me
for every wrong step I took. He had strong opinions about my hairstyle, clothes,
friends, and--above everything else--my academic performance. When I was
not sitting at my desk in my room, he invariably asked me why I had nothing
to do and told me I should not procrastinate. He stressed that if I missed
my teenage years of studying, I would regret it later. He didn't like me
going out with my friends, so I often ended up staying at home--I was never
allowed to sleep over at other students' homes. All I remember from my past
high school years is going to school and coming back home. I was confused
by my parents' overprotective attitude, because they emphasized independence
yet never actually gave me a chance to be independent.
In terms of career, my dad often lectured me about which ones are acceptable
and which are not. He worried incessantly about whether I would ever get
into college, and he often made me feel as if he would never accept my choices.
Rather than standing up for myself, I simply assumed that if I studied hard,
he would no longer be disappointed in me. Although I tried hard, I never
seemed to get it quite right; he always found fault with something. As if
that weren't enough, he frequently compared me to my over-achieving older
brother, asking me why I couldn't be more like him. I must admit that at
times I even questioned whether my dad really loved me. After all, he never
expressed admiration for what I did, and my attempts to impress him were
always in vain.
In retrospect, I don't think I fully understood what he was trying to tell
me. These days, when I come home to an empty house, it strikes me just how
dependent on my parents' care and support I have been so far. Now that my
dad is in the hospital and my mom is always working, I see that I must develop
the strength to stand alone one day. And, for the very first time, I now
realize that this is exactly what my dad was trying to make me see. I understand
that he had a big heart, even though he didn't always let it show; he was
trying to steer me in the right direction, emphasizing the need to develop
independence and personal strength. He was trying to help me see the world
with my own eyes, to make my own judgments and decide for myself what I would
eventually become. When my dad was still with us, I took all of his advice
the wrong way. I should not have worried so much about living up to my parents'
expectations; their only expectation of me, after all, is that I be myself.
In mapping out my path to achieving my independence, I know that education
will allow me to build on the foundations with which my parents have provided
me. My academic interests are still quite broad, but whereas I was once frustrated
by my lack of direction, I am now excited at the prospect of exploring several
fields before focusing on a particular area. Strangely, dealing with my father's
accident has made me believe that I can tackle just about any challenge.
Most importantly, I am more enthusiastic about my education than ever before.
In embarking on my college career, I will be carrying with me my father's
last gift and greatest legacy: a new desire to live in the present and the
confidence to handle whatever the future might bring.
Comments
This essay does a good job of evincing the applicant's concern for others,
confidence, insight, maturity, optimism, and success in working to overcome
a very difficult situation. The student's language brings across genuine
emotion without falling prey to melodrama. The introduction, though somewhat
sorrowful, ends with a focused statement on how the accident has propelled
the student to reassess himself, his relationship with his father, and his
life in general.
The essay does
an excellent job of building upon previous points and moving the reader
toward the conclusion. The flow and coherence
do not waver, keeping
the reader's attention focused. The student is able to display how he has
changed from a naïve, confused child into a mature, understanding young
man ("I was confused by my parent's overprotective attitude…I
must admit that at times I even questioned whether my dad really loved me…I
see that I must develop the strength to stand alone one day.").
The conclusion ties the material back to education without making the reader
feel sorry for the writer. The student is strong, not dwelling upon the unfortunate
nature of his circumstances, but rather focusing upon how he is using and
will use his father's condition as a motivating force in his life. The piece
ends on an uplifting note, showing the student's strong character and maturity.
Poorly Done Personal Essay
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My appearance is not remarkable; when you look at me, you see a five-foot-nine,
brown-haired, blue-eyed, 16-year-old high school senior. A sweater, long
pants, and sneakers constitute my dress code; my ties and expensive shoes
remain in the closet. As such, to those who do not know me, I am ''ordinary.''
Nonetheless, after becoming acquainted with me, you will see that my ''cover''
is no indication of my true self.
I am more serious than most of my contemporaries. Frequently, I study in
the third-floor basement of the Princeton University Library to avoid the
incessant rings of the telephone, leaving only as the sun sets and trekking
home for an hour via train and foot. While other secondary school students
may tune to the hard rock of Princeton's 97.1 WPST, I watch Prime News with
Bernard Shaw. If someone tells me that he or she does not understand the
day's calculus lesson, I voluntarily explain it--even if that means losing
all of a valuable 40-minute study hall. When the typical ''You don 't have
to bother'' response comes, I say, ''Yes, I do; you don't understand it.
Now be quiet and listen.'' Although for the past ten years I have consistently
endured long, strenuous practice sessions with my viola, the thought of ending
this ''career'' truly frightens me.
Motivation plays a key role in my success. I suffer from a disease that
affects many people: lack of time. Twenty-four hours in a day simply is not
enough. Nevertheless, motivation keeps me going on the days when I wake up
at six o'clock to go to high school, leave school to walk a mile to the train
station, wait for the train, walk to my Spanish class at Princeton University,
study, walk another mile to the Medical Center at Princeton, volunteer for
three hours, and return home at seven o'clock to eat dinner, write an essay,
and study for an economics exam. Still, I enjoy going through my daily routine.
The thought of sifting through pages of scholarly works to gather information
for a class does not discourage me; it intrigues me. A recent research paper
for my A.P. American government and comparative politics class using mathematical
calculations and equations to demonstrate biases of the Electoral College
was not only, as my instructor said, ''without question, the best paper I've
ever read'' but also an aid to my concurrent study of derivatives in my A.P.
calculus class.
Conversations with me on current events will often result in heated debate.
No matter what my position, I attempt to argue the other view--a habit that
often causes me to alter my opinion. During the most recent presidential
campaign, I spent two weeks at lunchtime questioning the best solution for
deficit reduction. Of the four people who ate with me, all expressed their
position on this issue: Cut government spending before raising taxes. I was
also a steadfast proponent of this view. However, after gathering my thoughts
for a few moments, I vehemently argued that while government spending should
be cut in some sectors, taxes needed to be raised at the same time. I argued
so forcefully that I and three others at my table now hold that the only
way to maintain our current standard of living and cause significant deficit
reduction is to combine spending cuts with tax hikes.
Although my ''cover'' may not be extraordinary, I like to believe that my
inside is unique and creative. If a stranger could imagine my habits, personality,
and feelings just by looking at my face, of what value would I be? People
are not their ''covers''; to judge them as such would merely be foolish.
Comments
The major problem with the essay is that the student goes out of his way
to include information about his achievements, as if he were afraid to leave
out any detail that might impress his reader. The sentence about his viola
lessons, for instance, is tacked on to the second paragraph. That he enjoyed
his research for his paper on the Electoral College nicely illustrates his
scholarly bent; that specific detail is well chosen. He spoils its effect,
though, by dragging in the additional information that his teacher thought
the paper the best he had ever read.
Another reservation is about the student's vocabulary. The essay begins
engagingly, with an unassuming, understated opening that plays nicely with
the idea that people can't judge a book by its cover. Fairly quickly, however,
the language becomes stiffer and more formal. By the end of the piece, the
student is presenting himself as a ''steadfast proponent'' of a view and
''vehemently'' arguing for his position. To write that he held a view and
argued strongly for it would have been adequate. The essay would be stronger
if the words were drawn from the student's spoken--rather than written--vocabulary.
It's always a good idea to read an essay aloud: If the writer can't imagine
himself ever saying the words he has put on the page, he needs to adjust
his vocabulary until he sounds like himself.
The writer comes
off as a pedantic overachiever. The command to a classmate to "be quiet and listen" makes
him seem overbearing and impatient--qualities admissions officers do not
want in successful
applicants.
Well Done Story Essay
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I walked into the first class that I have ever taught and confronted utter
chaos. The four students in my Latin class were engaged in a heated spitball
battle. They were all following the lead of Andrew, a tall eleven-year-old
African-American boy.
Andrew turned
to me and said, "Why are we learning Latin
if no one speaks it? This a waste of time."
I broke out
in a cold sweat. I thought, "How on Earth
am I going to teach this kid?"
It was my first
day of Summerbridge, a nationwide collaborative of thirty-six public and
private high schools. Its goal is to foster a
desire to learn
in young, underprivileged students, while also exposing college and high-school
students to teaching. Since I enjoy tutoring, I decided to apply to the program.
I thought to myself, "Teaching can't be that difficult. I can handle
it." I have never been more wrong in my life.
After what seemed like an eternity, I ended that first class feeling as
though I had accomplished nothing. Somehow I needed to catch Andrew's attention.
For the next two weeks, I tried everything from indoor chariot races to a
Roman toga party, but nothing seemed to work.
During the third
week, after I had exhausted all of my ideas, I resorted to a game that
my Latin teacher had used. A leader yells out
commands in
Latin and the students act out the commands. When I asked Andrew to be the
leader, I found the miracle that I had been seeking. He thought it was great
that he could order the teacher around with commands such as "jump in
place" and "touch the window." I told him that if he asked
me in Latin to do something, I would do it as long as he would do the same.
With this agreement, I could teach him new words outside the classroom, and
he could make his teacher hop on one foot in front of his friends. Andrew
eventually gained a firm grasp of Latin.
Family night
occurred during the last week of Summerbridge. We explained to the parents
what we had accomplished. At the conclusion,
Andrew's mom
thanked me for teaching him Latin. She said, "Andrew wanted to speak
Latin with someone, so he taught his younger brother."
My mouth fell
open. I tempered my immediate desire to utter, "Andrew
did what?" I was silent for a few seconds as I tried to regain my composure,
but when I responded, I was unable to hide my surprise.
That night I
remembered a comment an English teacher had made to me. I had asked her, "Why
did you become a teacher?"
She responded
with a statement that perplexed me at the time. She said, "There
is nothing greater than empowering someone with the love of knowledge." Now,
I finally understood what she meant.
When I returned
to Summerbridge for my second summer, the first words out of Andrew's mouth
were, "Is there going to be a Latin
class this year?"
Comments
This is a fairly
strong essay. The writer opens with action and paints a vivid picture in
the reader's mind of the situation ("I walked into
the first class that I have ever taught and confronted utter chaos.").
Precise details and descriptions, such as "cold sweat," "indoor
chariot races," and "Roman toga party," help solidify the
scene. The use of dialogue and thoughts to make points is much more enjoyable
to read than simple declarative statements.
What separates
this essay from other good story essays is that the writer interposes apt
commentary within the anecdote: Waiting
until the final paragraph
to discuss how the experience changed him would have resulted in a drier
piece. The essay does a good job of portraying the writer's growth during
the experience, because it notes his genuine surprise and subsequent realizations
("I thought to myself, 'Teaching can't be that difficult. I can handle
it.' I have never been more wrong in my life.").
The conclusion is executed well, bringing the reader back to material presented
in the introduction while indirectly emphasizing how the experience has made
a lasting impression upon both the writer and his pupil.
Poorly Done Story Essay
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I live in a small suburban town, where the atmosphere is slowly being destroyed
by the influx of commercial business and development. A great source of anxiety
to me is the extent to which this may eradicate the town's heritage and environment.
. . .
A cool evening breeze wafted over the age-old former municipal court, illuminated
by a stately street lamp from the late nineteenth century. Through the rhythmic,
dreary swaying of two tall willows, one could perceive the building's simple
architecture: four perpendicular walls and a sharply pitched roof. Windows
were few and unadorned. The single magnificent feature of the court was a
towering steeple, evidence of its early service as a Protestant church. Once,
children and their parents gathered there in their best attire for Sunday
sermons. Now, the ancient edifice stood silent, a lifeless presence dwarfed
by the vastness of the cloudy sky. As the clouds drifted, a glimmer of moonlight
fell on the building, lighting the hallway within. The corridor was enveloped
in white, from the porcelain tiles to the alabaster walls. Two antique benches,
crafted from mahogany, stood at either end of the hall, their splendor obscured
by a thick layer of dust.
A few minutes later, the main door creaked open, and the street lamp projected
onto the hallway the silhouette of a lone, plain-looking man. He moved confidently
through the courthouse, since after his duty in the army he had served as
magistrate within these walls. Moving toward one of the four inner doors,
he thrust it open with flamboyance, admiring his former office with the strength
of a thousand memories. Thoughtfully, he continued to his chair and sat down.
Taking up the gavel, he smiled; the furnishings in the room had neither been
replaced nor refurbished since its construction, and they remained as solid
as the day they had been made. Poised upon his former judicial post, he relived
his favorite cases. Most were neighborly quarrels or property disputes, and
none were as brutal as those he was hearing about these days. Disturbed by
these thoughts, the man arose and moved toward the door once more, and after
swiftly passing through the corridor, he left the building. As he exited,
he felt something bound over his foot. Since winter was approaching, he believed
it was probably a squirrel hoarding food; reaching into his coat pocket,
he produced a half-eaten sandwich, bent down, and placed it on the clayish
ground for the animal, should it return.
An hour later, a black, polished oxford crushed that sandwich, and the brilliant
glow of a lantern flooded the small courthouse. The man who loomed in the
doorway was nattily dressed: the suit he sported was expertly tailored, his
overcoat was of the finest wool, and his elegant hat was tilted back at a
dashing angle. He was young, no more than thirty years of age, and he walked
quickly through the hall, glancing around furtively and taking deep breaths
from a smoldering menthol. Lackadaisically sliding into a bench, he stirred
up the age-old dust, which rose quickly around him. Irritated, he continued
to move about, scrutinizing the rooms. The furnishings, he thought, would
bring quite a sum through auction, as would the oil paintings on the walls-portraits
of men who had contributed to the community. Then he could bring in a blasting
crew to level the building. He found the court's history to be of passing
interest but was deeply attracted to the profitability of building a shopping
center on the land.
Content with his plans, he pictured himself a dozen times richer and smiled
approvingly to himself. As he turned to depart, he noticed a half-destroyed
window and decided to end its misery. With a swift and brutal kick, he shattered
the remaining glass, rending a spider's web in the process. Approaching the
door, he turned off the switch that gave power to the street lamp; no sense
in wasting electricity and, therefore, money. He casually dropped his cigarette
on the tiled floor and stamped it out with his heel. Heading for his car,
he murmured to himself that the trees would have to be cut down to extend
the parking lot. That would cost a fair amount, but he hoped that selling
the lumber would pay for most of it. Getting into his sedan, he looked around
and wondered why people had lobbied against his venture; after all, it could
only bring the town revenue. Then there was the roar of a Buick six-cylinder,
and as its drone dissipated into nothingness, silence descended upon the
courthouse once again, to remain until the demolition crew arrived the following
morning.
Comments
This essay, except for the first paragraph, would serve as a passable piece
of creative writing--if that was the assignment. However, the application
essay is a personal statement, used by admissions officers as a tool to get
a better sense of the applicant's personality. The precise, vivid details
and well-executed narrative clearly show this student is a good writer, but
they tell admissions officers little about his unique character and beliefs,
except that he dislikes the influx of commercial business and development
into his town. The introduction is too disconnected from the story, and the
use of the ellipsis creates an awkward transition to the second paragraph.
The student has erred in stating his thesis too soon and in never proving
to the reader that the commercial development would be detrimental--except,
perhaps, to the former magistrate.
Well Done Detail Essay
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I close my eyes and can still hear her, the little girl with a voice so
strong and powerful we could hear her halfway down the block. She was a Russian
peasant who asked for money and in return gave the only thing she had--her
voice. I paused outside a small shop and listened. She brought to my mind
the image of Little Orphan Annie. I could not understand the words she sang,
but her voice begged for attention. It stood out from the noises of Arbat
Street, pure and impressive, like the chime of a bell. She sang from underneath
an old-style lamppost in the shadow of a building, her arms extended and
head thrown back. She was small and of unremarkable looks. Her brown hair
escaped the bun it had been pulled into, and she occasionally reached up
to remove a stray piece from her face. Her clothing I can't recall. Her voice,
on the other hand, is permanently imprinted on my mind.
I asked one of the translators about the girl. Elaina told me that she and
hundreds of others like her throughout the former Soviet Union add to their
families' income by working on the streets. The children are unable to attend
school, and their parents work fulltime. These children know that the consequence
of an unsuccessful day is no food for the table. Similar situations occurred
during the Depression in the United States, but those American children were
faceless shoeshine boys of the twenties. This girl was real to me.
When we walked
past her I gave her money. It was not out of pity but rather out of admiration.
Her smile of thanks did not interrupt
her singing. The
girl watched us as we walked down the street. I know this because when I
looked back she smiled again. We shared that smile, and I knew I would never
forget her courage and inner strength. She was only a child, yet was able
to pull her own weight during these uncertain times. On the streets of Moscow,
she used her voice to help her family survive. For this "Annie," there
is no Daddy Warbucks to come to the rescue. Her salvation will only come
when Russia and its people find prosperity.
Comments
This essay opens
with an engaging introduction, creating a vivid, detailed picture of the
experience in the reader's mind. Using
the character Little
Orphan Annie as a way to give the reader a sense of Elaina's qualities is
successful. Though the student knows most people will have knowledge of the
character, she adds extra detail to make Elaina distinctive. Such descriptive
phrases as "Russian peasant," "Arbat Street," "old-style
lamppost," and "shadow of a building" help establish the unique
setting in a creative manner.
The middle paragraph develops the significance of the issue, comparing it
to the Great Depression of the 1930s. This specific evidence, combined with
the detailed explanation of the student's personal experience, wins over
the reader to the student's argument.
This essay is interesting because the thesis is at the end of the essay.
Since the student has been subtle with her points, using a vivid description
of the anecdote to plead her case, the strategy is successful. The student
comes across as a mature candidate, because she has an opinion she backs
up with evidence without being preachy.
Poorly Done Detail Essay
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here.
Ten years from now Tim Dickson won't even remember my name. The unknowing
recipient of my undying love for two years, Tim had been everything a girl
could ever ask for: smart, handsome, witty, athletic, with a voice that could
make angels weep. Everyone knew his name. To a shy little country mouse,
nearly invisible in our student body, he was the epitome of manliness. I
sat in my corner of room C-119 and gazed adoringly at his profile as he amazed
the class of Modern World History with his dashing style. Carefully planning
the routes to my classes to coincide with his, I was his silent shadow.
After fourteen months, contrary to my hopes, Tim still was not aware of
my existence. Determined to bring myself to his attention, I staged my entrance
to his heart with all the flair I could muster. I would breach his defenses
at the next history oral presentation in the guise of the dashing Cardinal
Richelieu.
It was now or
never! Striding into the classroom, my head raised, eyes flashing, I stood
proudly, the colors of my eighteenth-century
costume catching the
light and giving me courage. My opening line shook with tight emotion. "Gentlemen,
I am disgusted!" My voice alternately lashed out in rage and purred
in soft persuasion. I gloried in my elocution. Each word was power. My voice
rose to a brilliant conclusion, and I stood with my arms outstretched and
my head bowed in submission.
Dead silence.
My left knee trembled uncontrollably. Why did no one speak? My hands began
to shake so I pulled them behind me-like one condemned. My eyes gauged the
distance to the door.
Then someone began to clap. More joined in. Tim looked into my eyes-and
smiled. He smiled!
Joy, oh joy. My soul overflowed with rapture. I had done it! He noticed
me! All the shame, all the worry, and all the castigation melted away in
that moment. I knew how to make him love me. I simply had to speak better,
sing better, act better, and write better than anyone else.
Determined, I joined competitions, played in concerts, and wrote essays
that were read in class. When Tim transferred to the A.P. class, so did I.
I threw myself into class discussions, attempting to dazzle him with my intelligence
and intrepidity. Making friends with his friends, I dogged his steps.
The next summer Tim moved away. I never heard from him again. But the transformation
in me had taken place. Now I was involved for the simple pleasure of being
involved. Challenging people surrounded me. Biff taught me to love. Dave
taught me to laugh. Ramez taught me to break my limits. Alit gave me confidence.
Whenever I was in danger of reverting to a wallflower, one of my new friends
would drag me into another club or activity.
In every foray
into the threatening world of "school activities," I
still feel an overpowering impulse to run. But although my feelings haven't
changed, my actions have. My stomach still tightens when I enter a room of
unfamiliar faces, but I walk in. I still want to run from risk and recrimination,
but I keep my feet firmly planted.
Tim Dickson was the single best thing that ever happened to me, all because
he didn't know me from Adam.
Comments
The essay is
choppy with underdeveloped paragraphs and an unnecessary stream of consciousness.
Though it is admirable that the student
has become more
involved in school and pushed herself to excel ("I joined competitions,
played in concerts, and wrote essays that were read in class."), she
has been pushed into doing so by others. The essay makes the student come
across as impetuous, immature, and unconfident. The main detraction is that
she lets the reader infer that she is easily swayed by others, particularly
by men. This quality leads admissions officers to infer that the student
could be swayed just as easily into dangerous activities and be unable to
make mature decisions for her own self protection. Though admissions officers
would appreciate the honesty, the student should have left out some of the
intimate details of her personal life.
Well
Done "Personal Growth" Essay
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Tom Zincer succeeded
in his task. My science class's first field trip took place on a bitter
cold February day in Maine. Tom, our
science teacher, led
the group of relatively puzzled, well-bundled students into the forest. I
was right behind Tom, and the sound of his red boots breaking through the
thin layer of ice that covered the crusty snow seemed to bounce off the trees
and scare away the few singing birds that had not migrated south for the
winter. We stopped fourteen times during that four-hour field trip to hear
Tom ramble on about the bark of "this" deciduous tree and the habitat
that "this" coniferous tree needs to grow. We examined animal droppings
and tracks in the snow and traced a bird's song back to its singer. This
was all meaningless to me. I was cold and bored and wanted the field trip
to end.
I would later
write several essays in my journal about the fact that writing a detailed
seven-page analysis of the field trip took
all the beauty out
of the event. I would complain to Tom about how boring and mundane his class
was and how impossible it was to be so "anally" observant. I argued
that no field trip could ever be enjoyable if we had to write down and later
analyze the percentage of deciduous and coniferous trees, the air temperature,
the amount of snow on the ground, the slope of the course taken, the change
in temperature over the day, and a plethora of other minutia. Basically,
I was lazy. No, no. I was not lazy. I was just not ready; I was not yet ready
to become an observer.
"Sam, just trust me on this one. You'll thank me later," Tom said
at the conclusion of our meeting. I had gone to see Tom privately in order
to discuss how I could survive his class. The minutia was killing me, and
my slow death was reflected in my dismal grade. Upon leaving that meeting,
I made a personal and academic decision to develop my observational skills,
both to please my teacher and to avoid the disappointment of another "D+."
On my next field trip, I set out into the forest with two pencils cocked
between my two ears like guns ready to fire. My teeth were clenched with
the determination to stay focused throughout the entire field trip and write
down every word that man uttered. However, I constantly felt myself drifting,
and while my mind wandered, the group advanced significantly ahead of me,
and I missed the sighting of another bird. I ran up to the group just in
time to hear Tom start his lecture about a nearby rock formation. Instead
of listening, I was asking my friend to see his Picasso-like rendition of
the bird. I, therefore, fell behind on the lecture, and so went the endless
cycle: fall behind, try to catch up, fall more behind. When it came time
to rewrite my field notes in legible form, I stared at a piece of paper that
consisted of smudged squiggly lines and eventually tears. Frustrated and
disappointed, I retreated back to my cabin to seek refuge.
I quickly got undressed and slipped under my blanket for warmth, comfort,
and most importantly protection. After I gave myself a few minutes to calm
down, I took out the wet crumbled piece of paper from my pocket and tried
to redraw a stick figure of a bird. The twelve stick figures, representing
the twelve different birds we saw, looked exactly the same, and trying to
redraw each body part of each bird to scale was so difficult that I felt
like each pen stroke was met with a ton of resistance. Giving up, I pushed
the piece of paper back into my pocket and lay down on my back. I saw Simon
sitting in his characteristically feminine position on Ethan's bed. Simon
was sitting, facing Ethan, with his legs crossed and his right hand casually
nestled on his right kneecap, his foot twitching like the tail of a happy
dog. Ethan was lying on his side with his big black headphones cupped around
his ears, reading Faulkner. As my head swiveled, I noticed Conrad, sleeping,
as usual, with his blanket clenched tightly under his chin, with both fists.
I heard Fred and Rob discussing the pitfalls of modern education and could
see Donald's head rhythmically moving back and forth, in sync with Jimi Hendrix.
I then realized that I too was part of my environment. I realized that I
was a silent participant, and more importantly, I realized that I was an
observer.
On my next field
trip, I had one pencil nonchalantly nestled on top of my right ear. I set
out with no mission in mind and had no vengeance
in my heart.
I intentionally lagged behind my fellow classmates in order to get a wider,
broader perspective of the environment. Applying what I learned in my cabin,
I was able to engage all of my senses and could attempt to take in the vastness
of it all. When we returned from our field trip, the task of doing a "rewrite" did
not seem so odious, and my pencil flew across the page like a writer who
just experienced an epiphany and wants to get his idea down before he forgets
it. I drew every bird, tree, and rock as best I could, and although they
were not perfect, they were exactly what I saw.
Comments
In this essay,
the student intends to show how he grew both emotionally and academically.
In the beginning, he believes so strongly
that his field
trips are worthless that he actually tries to persuade his teacher of his
point of view. The student then takes the reader along on his "journey" from
resistance and self-doubt to the discovery that he can do what the teacher
requires of him. This essay is particularly successful because the reader
can really see the student's struggle and ultimate triumph.
This essay grabs
the reader's attention right away and succeeds in keeping it. The first
sentence, "Tom Zincer succeeded in his task," raises
the question in the reader's mind: Who is Tom Zincer, and what was his task?
The question is immediately answered, and, through the use of vivid storytelling
in which the anecdote is developed chronologically, the reader experiences
the student's journey from "non-observer" to "observer." In
addition, the thesis is clearly stated at the end of the second paragraph: "Basically,
I was lazy. No. No. I was not lazy. I was just not ready; I was not yet ready
to become an observer." In the rest of the essay, the writer shows how
he becomes an "observer." The reader can also readily infer the
applicant's maturity and proactive nature: "I had gone to see Tom privately
in order to discuss how I could survive his class." The applicant's
realization ("I then realized that I too was part of my environment.
I realized that I was a silent participant, and more importantly, I realized
that I was an observer.") is successful because he builds toward it
gradually.
The tone of
this essay is effective because it relies on humor and a dose of self-deprecation
to make its points. In addition, the
writer describes
his feelings, his situation, and his surroundings so vividly and in such
a personal way that the reader can almost see the wheels of the student's
mind turn as he writes. A minor negative is the use of the word "odious," which
does not seem as if it is a regular part of the student's vocabulary, instead
probably a term he got out of a thesaurus.
Poorly
Done "Personal Growth" Essay
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are dramatically improved. For samples of EssayEdge editing, please click
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I want to learn to take risks. I want to change my attitude about taking
chances. Assessing my academic and extracurricular achievements, I am proud
of my accomplishments. I see myself as an open-minded, goal-oriented person
who achieves and succeeds through hard work and determination. How much of
that success is a result of staying on comfortable ground?
I began wondering
about the range of my abilities when I attended Northwestern University's
Theater Arts Program last summer. The
theme of the institute,
announced by the director, was: "Dare to fail gloriously." This
idea encouraged participants to take bold risks on the stage. Over time I
applied this philosophy to my acting and my life. I began the Northwestern
program as a quasi-accomplished actress with a hunger to absorb all I could
about acting. I emerged not only a well-rounded thespian, but also a more
secure person with a new outlook. I knew that there was something about my
life that I wanted to change and could change. Now, as I approach college,
I am committed to continuing successes and occasional glorious failures.
The first day
at Northwestern I was asked to choose among three subjects in technical
theater, ranking them in order of preference.
Set Design was
my first choice, followed by Costumes, and finally Stage Lighting. Much to
my dismay, I was assigned to the lighting crew. Though disappointed, I tried
to stay open-minded. I knew nothing about lighting, but followed the slogan
which kept repeating in my head: "Dare to fail...."
By the third lighting session, I had discovered a new passion: I was eager
to learn everything I could about lights. Having always been a performer
who enjoyed the limelight, I had never realized the skill required to create
it properly. In my free time I climbed the catwalks, memorized cues, circuited
lamps, and changed gels. My competence was recognized when I was selected
head light board operator for the final production of the summer.
If the choice to study lighting had not been made for me, I would have missed
an enriching opportunity. The experience taught me to take more risks, rather
than to follow the most certain path to success. The exposure made me realize
how limited my perspective had been in approaching new situations. The choice
that was made for me, undesirable as it seemed at the outset, taught me to
embrace new experiences and ideas.
I believe that "the past is prologue." In
college I will take more risks, convinced that the potential rewards outweigh
my
fear of failure.
I have stopped trying to select a major and am now committed to studying
many academic disciplines before deciding on a field of concentration.
Accepting the possibility of failure is a new concept for me. While I have
had recognition for academics, performing arts, community service, and athletic
achievements, perhaps I have missed some enriching experiences because my
certainty of success was doubtful. I will not avoid such opportunities in
the future since I am changing my philosophy of life: I am learning to take
risks.
Comments
Though this
applicant has made a valiant effort at being personal, her essay lacks
power because it is riddled with clichéd constructions. She
even opens with one: "I want to learn to take risks." Though clichés
are helpful in our daily lives (imagine trying to make completely original
statements for the rest of your life), they are serious deficiencies in admissions
essays. Admissions officers do not want to read the same hackneyed ideas
over and over, since they give little insight into the particular applicant's
character and personality.
Another major
error is that the writer tells the reader early on how she changed, thus
removing the element of suspense and reducing
the reader's
attention: "I emerged not only a well-rounded thespian, but also a more
secure person with a new outlook." Also, successful essays show the
reader, rather than tell him or her things about the applicant. This student,
however, comes right out and states her qualities, almost in a tone that
could be construed as haughty: "I see myself as an open-minded, goal-oriented
person who achieves and succeeds through hard work and determination." What
is more frustrating is that the writer also relies on clichéd rhetoric
in such points, further lessening their power. Though there are some precise
details during the discussion of the lighting experience, the applicant leaves
much room for improvement. Stating, "In college I will take more risks,
convinced that the potential rewards outweigh my fear of failure," is
not enough. The applicant needs to state how specifically: Will she engage
in new extracurricular activities? Will she study abroad? Will she discover
a love of community service? Finally, ending with yet another cliché,
the applicant leaves the reader without much useful material to assess her
candidacy--a problem no applicant wants to create for her or his reader.
Well
Done "Role Models and Influences" Essay
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The one cultural artifact that has influenced me the most is probably my
favorite book: Midnight's Children, by Salman Rushdie. The novel follows
a cast of vivid characters through an epic spanning the history of India
and its people. After reading it, I began to realize my true identity as
an Indian.
Growing up in Malaysia, the only Indians I interacted with were Tamils,
who made up the majority of the local Indian population. When I finally stepped
on Indian soil, it was in the city of Madras, the capital of Tamil Nadu (the
state where Tamils are also the majority). Therefore, prior to reading Midnight's
Children, my vision of India was extremely narrow: I assumed the entire country
was like Tamil Nadu. The book's rich detail and attention to India's cultural
diversity opened my eyes to the heterogeneous nation that it really is. Reading
the novel prompted me to do further research on India, in order to find out
what makes me an Indian. Surfing the Internet and poring over atlases, I
began to acquire a more thorough knowledge of the history of India--and,
along with this historical narrative, I acquired a far more subtle notion
of what it means to me to be Indian.
The more I read, the more I realized that being Indian is an integral part
of my identity. I am not exaggerating when I say that Midnight's Children
made me feel Indian for the first time. I have always been proud of my Indian
heritage, despite being a Malaysian national. Yet previously the idea of
being Indian never really appealed to me. I was a Malaysian, and I hardly
paid attention to what was going on in a land my ancestors left half a century
ago. My parents felt the same way: India, they felt, offered them nothing.
In fact, they were sick of India; they felt corruption and other social ills
were rife there, and they had no wish to expand their ties. As I became more
aware of my cultural heritage, I tried my best to explain to them why I felt
Indian, but they just laughed it off, saying that in time I would realize
that India is nothing but a distant land.
My Indian friends,
on the other hand, were far more open to my ideas. I bought a second copy
of Midnight's Children and lent it
to a couple of ethnically
Indian friends (I jealously guarded my first copy, having grown very attached
to it). Soon, we discovered that our reactions to the book were very similar:
they, too, began to relate to that part of their identity which is distinctly
Indian. Still not satisfied with successfully advocating my views on India
to these friends, I began to further explore and disseminate Indian culture
in school. I set up an "Indian subcontinent" corner in our classroom
and eagerly launched discussions about national and cultural identity. In
retrospect, I might have been somewhat overenthusiastic, but I did succeed
in making a number of students (non-Indians) arrange a trip to India at the
end of the year.
On the other hand, the plot of Midnight's Children is sometimes driven by
fierce, negative emotions, and I had to take extra care not to fall under
its anti-Pakistan spell. This was all the more important because most of
my relatives harbor very anti-Pakistani sentiments. Fortunately, I was able
to overcome their bias and develop a new perspective-my own perspective-on
the subject.
Today, I know that I may not be as Indian as I once thought I was. No matter
what I do to blend in, I will always be an outsider--a mere tourist--when
I visit India. I have surpassed the stage of simplistic Indian nationalism,
but I am still keenly aware that I am, in some way, Indian. If I had not
read Midnight's Children, I might never have realized the full extent of
my Indian cultural heritage.
Comments
This applicant does a good job using a book he read to show how it prompted
him both to discover and reassess his cultural heritage. Although the essay
overall is quite good, the introduction is weak. The essay would have been
more engaging had the applicant started with the second paragraph, thereby
leaving the element of suspense to engage the reader a bit longer.
The writer set
up the point of contention in the second paragraph ("Therefore,
prior to reading Midnight's Children, my vision of India was extremely narrow:
I assumed the entire country was like Tamil Nadu."). The writer allows
the reader to infer his maturity and proactive nature: "Reading the
novel prompted me to do further research on India, in order to find out what
makes me an Indian." Though at times he resorts to overly conversational
language, he shows that he is indeed genuine: "I am not exaggerating
when I say that Midnight's Children made me feel Indian for the first time." Through
the statement, "I bought a second copy of Midnight's Children and lent
it to a couple of ethnically Indian friends…" he allows the reader
to assess that he is a leader with an outgoing character and concern for
others. Theses are the types of qualities admissions officer seek in successful
candidates.
The student's
final statement ("If I had not read Midnight's Children,
I might never have realized the full extent of my Indian cultural heritage.")
is easily inferred earlier, so it would have detracted from the essay had
he made it sooner. However, reserving it for the end solidifies the theme
and makes the essay a memorable one.
Poorly
Done "Role Models and Influences" Essay
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essay appears unedited for instructional purposes. Essays edited by EssayEdge
are dramatically improved. For samples of EssayEdge editing, please click
here.
If I imagine that I could have dinner with a historical figure or a character
from fiction, I would probably choose William Shakespeare. Shakespeare was
born in Stratford-upon-Avon in 1564 and grew up to become a great playwright.
He died in 1616. He worked in London, where he knew other playwrights and
actors and where his theater was. He never went to college, but in those
days, most people didn't. Some say that Shakespeare couldn't have written
his plays because he didn't go to college. If I had dinner with Shakespeare,
I would ask him what he thinks about the claim that he didn't write his plays.
It would be hard to know just what to talk about with Shakespeare. Maybe
he could help me with my paper on Macbeth. I'd like to know what he thinks
of the interpretation of Macbeth that my English teacher keeps pushing. She
says Macbeth killed all those people just to impress his wife. It seems a
lot more likely to me that Macbeth killed all those people because he wanted
to become king and then keep right on being king once he got started. If
I had dinner with Shakespeare, I would ask him what he thought Macbeth was
up to.
I'd also like to know if he has any advice for an aspiring actor. He was
an actor himself. I would ask him what it was like for him to come to London
from Stratford and break into the big time. I keep reading and hearing about
all these actors who come from small towns just like I do and end up in New
York as waiters or cab drivers. That's not exactly what I want to do with
my college degree, but I guess there are worse things. But I like acting
and think that I might like to give it a try. Maybe Shakespeare could tell
me how he prepared for his first audition. I wonder if he even had an audition.
Maybe he just showed up at the theater and said that he'd like to write plays
and act in them, and that was it.
Those are some of the things I'd like to talk to Shakespeare about if I
had the chance to have dinner with him.
Comments
This essay reads as if it were a first draft of random thoughts prompted
by the question. There are many telltale signs: the mechanical opening sentence
that merely restates the question; the opening sentence of Paragraph 2, which
is belied by the next two paragraphs; the lifeless conclusion; the random
structure of the essay. All of these signs communicate to the reader that
the writer didn't take much time with the essay. A reader who gets that unflattering
message will almost certainly not feel well disposed toward the writer who
sent it.
It is too bad that that is the case, because the essay has some potential.
Many of us have wished, for instance, that we could call upon a famous authority
to back us up in an argument. The writer's disagreement with his English
teacher, as well as his dinner date with Shakespeare, offer him a great opportunity
to live out that wish. However, the reader wants to hear how the student
would draw Shakespeare into conversation about Macbeth. Would he tell Shakespeare
about his English teacher's interpretation and ask him what he thought? Would
he present his own view instead? Would he argue with Shakespeare if Shakespeare
disagreed with him? What would he say if Shakespeare shrugged his shoulders
and told him, ''Gee, I don't know what the play means. I just wrote it to
make a buck''? In short, there is a whole essay in this one question about
Macbeth.
Yet the essay
has further issues. Overall, it is made up of too many short, simple sentences
that hamper the flow. In fact, three
consecutive sentences
in the introduction all begin in the same way, with "He." The writer
should have employed some longer statements of varying complexity. The major
problem with this essay is that the writer has forgotten its autobiographical
purpose. He is the one who is applying to college, not Shakespeare. He is
throwing away his chance to tell his readers something about himself. All
the information in the first paragraph about who Shakespeare was and what
he did for a living can be cut. Then all the suggestions in the rest of the
essay about who the writer is and what he cares about need to be developed.
Again, the reader wants to hear more, such as about his interest in acting.
Has he performed in plays? Has he acted in one of Shakespeare's plays? (There
is a full evening's conversation in that topic alone.) What does he like
about acting? What special advice about acting would he hope to get from
Shakespeare? What if he had to wait on tables for a while to keep body and
soul together between roles? Does he have that kind of dedication?
Developing the essay's autobiographical elements would also lend it the
coherence it now lacks. As it stands now, the writer simply jumps from one
topic of conversation to another. If he were to focus on what interests him
about a chance to speak to Shakespeare, he would give the essay the focus
it needs.
Well
Done "Hobbies and Interests" Essay
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essay appears unedited for instructional purposes. Essays edited by EssayEdge
are dramatically improved. For samples of EssayEdge editing, please click
here.
The sun is still asleep while the empty city streets await the morning rush
hour. As in a ritual, my teammates and I assemble into the dank, dimly-lit
locker room at the Rinconada Park Pool. One by one, we slip into our moist
drag suits and then make a mad run from the locker room through the brisk
morning air to the pool, stopping only to grab a pull-buoy and a kick-board.
Coastal California cools down overnight to the high forties. The pool is
artificially warmed to seventy-nine degrees, and the clash in temperatures
creates a plethora of steam on the water's surface, casting a scene more
appropriate for a werewolf movie. Now the worst part: diving head-first into
the glacial pond. I think of friends still tucked in their warm beds as I
conclude the first warm-up laps. Meanwhile, our coach emerges through the
fog. He offers no friendly accolades, just a stream of instructions and exhortations.
Thus begins another workout. 4,500 yards to go, then a quick shower and
five-minute drive to school. Another 5,500 yards are on our afternoon training
schedule. Tomorrow, the cycle starts all over again. The objective is to
cut our times by another 1/10th of second. The end goal is to have that tiny
difference at the end of a race that separates success from failure, greatness
from mediocrity. Somehow we accept the pitch--otherwise, we'd still be fast
asleep beneath our blankets. Yet sleep is lost time, and in this sport time
is the antagonist. Coaches spend hours in specialized clinics, analyzing
the latest research on training techniques and experimenting with workout
schedules in an attempt to unravel the secrets of defeating time.
My first swimming
race was when I was ten years old and an avid hockey player. My parents,
fearing that I would get injured, redirected
my athletic direction
toward swimming. Three weeks into my new swimming endeavor, I somehow persuaded
my coach to let me enter the annual age group meet. To his surprise and mine,
I pulled out an "A" time. National "Top 16" awards through
the various age groups, club records, and finally being named a National
First Team All-American in the 100 Butterfly and Second Team All-American
in the 200-Medley Relay cemented an achievement in the sport. Reaching the
Senior Championship meet series means the competition includes world-class
swimmers. Making finals will not be easy from here: these 'successes' were
only separated from failure by tenths of a second. And the fine line between
total commitment and tolerance continues to produce friction. Each new level
requires more weight training, longer weekend training sessions, and more
travel. Time that would normally be spent with friends is increasingly spent
in pursuit of the next swimming objective.
In the solitude of the laps, my thoughts wander to events of greater significance.
This year, my grandmother was hit with a recurrence of cancer, this time
in her lungs. A person driven by good spirits and independence now faces
a definite timeline. On the other side of the Pacific Ocean, my grandfather
in Japan also contracted the disease. His situation has been corrected with
surgery--for now, anyway. In the quest to extend their lives, they have both
exhibited a strength that surpasses the struggles I confront both in sports
and in life. Our different goals cannot be compared, yet my swimming achievements
somehow provide a vicarious sense of victory to them. When I share my latest
award or partake with them a story of a triumph, they smile with pride as
if they themselves had stood on the award stand. I have the impression that
my medals mean more to them than I will ever understand.
Life's successes
appear to come in small increments, sometimes mere tenths of a second.
A newly learned skill, a little extra effort put
on top of fanatical
training routine, a good race day, or just showing up to a workout when your
body and psyche say "no" may separate a great result from a failure.
What lies in between is compromise, the willpower to overcome the natural
disposition to remain the same. I know that my commitment to swimming carries
on to other aspects of life, and I feel that these will give me the strength
to deal with very different types of challenges.
Comments
This student
employs precise and vivid details in his introduction, including an opening
statement that befits the way he himself feels on
his way to swim
practice: "The sun is still asleep while the empty city streets await
the morning rush hour." However, he merely hints at what his passion
is, using language such as "teammates," "moist drag suits," "and
pool." Though it is clear how much he loves his sport, as well as how
successful he has been, he offers a genuine point in, "I think of friends
still tucked in their warm beds as I conclude the first warm-up laps."
The success
of the essay lies in the great insight admissions officers can gain from
the way the applicant discusses his activity. Statement
such as "The
objective is to cut our times by another 1/10th of second," "The
end goal is to have that tiny difference at the end of a race that separates
success from failure, greatness from mediocrity," and "Three weeks
into my new swimming endeavor, I somehow persuaded my coach to let me enter
the annual age group meet," show that this student is committed, hard-working,
passionate, detail-oriented, and proactive--all qualities admissions officers
seek in future college students. He states his accomplishments with humility,
not haughtiness.
The writer even
goes on to explain how his swimming has meant even more to his grandmother
and grandfather, who have been afflicted with
cancer: "I
have the impression that my medals mean more to them than I will ever understand." The
final statement ("I know that my commitment to swimming carries on to
other aspects of life, and I feel that these will give me the strength to
deal with very different types of challenges.) sums up the essay's main point
nicely. Had the applicant included this language prematurely, the statement
would have been much less powerful.
Poorly
Done "Hobbies and Interests" Essay
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essay appears unedited for instructional purposes. Essays edited by EssayEdge
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For my thirteenth
birthday I received three juggling cubes. Made of soft patchy cloth and
filled with a grainy substance, they were
perfectly engineered
for quick, slightly inaccurate catches. After fingering them for a few minutes,
I decided that, despite my lack of coordination, I would learn to juggle. "It's
a process," I thought, "and I am a savant of logic; I can compensate
for my physical inadequacies with my logical thought." To celebrate
my decision, I tossed one of the balls up with extreme gusto and promptly
missed it with equally unmitigated exuberance.
I leafed through
the book until I had a sufficient grasp of the principles of juggling.
Feeling confident, I picked up the three
balls and attempted
to apply my knowledge. After several weeks of practice and hours of intensive
analysis, I pinpointed my difficulty: the tendency of the balls to rush abruptly
to the ground. I needed something slower. "Scarves," I thought,
but subsequent near-catches with a broken lamp proved that a slower object
wasn't the answer. In desperation, I dispensed with strategy, and instead
began to throw the balls methodically. For the next week, I integrated juggling
into my lifestyle. I would wake up, juggle drowsily, shower, dry off while
juggling recklessly, juggle while lying in bed, and dream about juggling.
My persistence became an obsession; balls danced about my head, cascades
soared majestically over head, and swift pins flipped and spun in the corner
of my eye.
The aforementioned is the story of how my interest in juggling began. After
weeks of intensive practice, I mastered first the rudiments and then the
intricacies of juggling. When I could finally execute complicated trick sequences,
it was official: juggling was a hobby.
I enjoyed the change of pace, physical instead of intellectual, and the
sense of power one feels when gravity is defied. The whizzing, spinning balls
become an other-worldly creation; they move and dance in new and exciting
ways. Once a dance has been mastered, I move on to another one. Whizz! Spin!
I am the creator and the esthete, making and enjoying. Respin and back! The
ball explores new territory. The once impossible is simple. Reverse and under!
A ball goes through, and is replaced by a bowling pin. Smack! Reality hits
suddenly and painfully.
Comments
The most glaring
problem is the lack of a genuine voice. The applicant uses such unorthodox
terminology ("…savant of logic…unmitigated
exuberance…esthete…") that the reader suspects overuse of
a thesaurus. The language is too formal and awkward. The statement, "…I
am a savant of logic; I can compensate for my physical inadequacies with
my logical thought," is not very believable, because most people would
not think in such language.
Another problem
is the poor attempt at humor: "After several weeks
of practice and hours of intensive analysis, I pinpointed my difficulty:
the tendency of the balls to rush abruptly to the ground." Though humor
can be an effective device, this applicant uses stilted language that does
not seem to be his own. He also refers to his own writing ("The aforementioned
is the story of how my interest in juggling began.")--something that
should not be done in a formal essay.
The final straw is that the writer never makes a unique point, offering
a strange conclusion full of onomatopoeia. Since this essay does not offer
much insight into the applicant's personality or character, it does not serve
to help his chances of admission.
Well
Done "Favorites" Essay
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When I was in the eighth grade, my backpack disappeared from my life. I
can't remember what happened to it. I may have lost it, or perhaps my sister
took it. Anyway, I found myself backpackless. I need a backpack to carry
all my books, binders, pens, pencils, highlighters, protractors, calculators
and compasses (sometimes I go a bit overboard with the tools I bring to class).
I began to use this strange pack of my dad's, which was actually more like
a soft-sided briefcase with back-straps. That pack was truly the ugliest
piece of luggage I have ever seen. It embarrassed my friends and made me
feel like a fool, but I had no choice but to wear it. I couldn't find any
alternative where I lived in Saudi Arabia, so I promptly ordered a backpack
from L.L. Bean.
I really enjoy pouring over catalogs, so I enthusiastically decided on the
nine-inch deep L.L. Bean Deluxe (I need a roomy backpack). For the color,
I debated among eggplant, forest green, pine, and the other excitedly named
shades, but eventually decided on mallard blue. It was a shade of blue that
bordered on iridescent. I knew no one else would have a backpack that color.
I sent off my order form and eagerly waited.
It takes a few
months for L.L. Bean to get something all the way to Saudi Arabia, but
my backpack eventually arrived. I realized
that mallard blue
had been a bold choice. The color could definitely be called ugly, and its
brightness could not be denied. It was also huge, especially on my eighth-grade
body. The crowning detail was my initials "H-A-W" embroidered on
the back. Yes, it spells "haw." However, it was clearly an improvement
over Dad's dork-case. I loved it, and it has since gone with me everywhere.
My bag has acquired
a great deal of character since eighth grade. There are little marks and
scratches all over the material. There's
a small sparkly
bead flower I sewed on once in a fit of procrastination; the flower was originally
accompanied by a diagonal line of sparkly beads above the reflective strip
on the bag, but I decided that was just too much and removed the line of
beads. One can faintly see where I wrote "excess" on the bag. I
don't know why I wrote that; I just went through a phase when I thought "excess" was
a cool word. Also on the bag is leftover stitching from where I had attached
a Saudi Arabian flag, which I removed because I feared it made me vulnerable
to terrorist attacks. On the back pocket, I added a patch proclaiming me
to be an "advanced" diver from the scuba class I took during the
summer. When I have time, I plan to add another patch from NOLS, the National
Outdoor Leadership School, where I spent part of my summer. The final touch
is a little guardian angel pin that my aunt gave to me. It looks silly in
its shiny golden newness next to the rest of my rugged ragged bag, but I
could think of no better place for the pin, which I'm supposed to keep near
me at all times.
I think my backpack is a good representation of me. Just like my backpack,
my personality is full of random, loud elements that don't really make sense
together. Their only unifying force is the fact that they all belong to me,
so I like them. Just as my backpack has picked up a patch here and a beaded
design there, I have picked up ideas here and insights there throughout our
travels together. It records my history more personally than a diary ever
could, and although I know it is just a material object, I would be at a
loss if I were ever to lose it.
Comments
Though not as
strong as some of the other "Well Done" essays,
the success of this applicant's work lies in his unique subject matter--his
backpack. The introduction is a bit stolid and too conversational, causing
the reader to lose interest. However, the unique topic helps keep the reader's
attention. The writer shows his ability to relate precise details in the
second paragraph and adeptly (and indirectly) relates that he is a foreign
student: "It takes a few months for L.L. Bean to get something all the
way to Saudi Arabia, but my backpack eventually arrived."
The applicant
shows his maturity and attention to current events through the relation
of his concern about "terrorist attacks." Talking
about the patches and other details of his backpack provides the opportunity
for him to relate some of his qualities and past experiences.
He saves his
explicit conclusion for the end of the essay--a much more successful (and
interesting) strategy than relating the point
early on. Though his realization
could have been more insightful ("Just like my backpack, my personality
is full of random, loud elements that don't really make sense together."),
he is genuine in his expression of confusion. Not everyone will know exactly
who they are or what they want to do with their lives. For students such
as this applicant, college will indeed be the place for him to discover more
about who he really is and aspires to become.
Poorly
Done "Favorites" Essay
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"Have you ever noticed that the people never rip the paper off their
gifts? The boxes are rigged so that the lid will simply lift off." Some
time after sharing this insight with my friend Jennifer, I received a birthday
present from her wrapped in such a way that the top came off without tearing
the blue paper. I kept the special box and placed my birthday cards in it
along with a few other letters I regarded as treasures. Since then, I've
moved across the country twice, but the box remains on the top shelf of my
closet, now joined by two other shoe boxes, a pink, heart-shaped container,
and a hand-woven Guatemalan bag--all overflowing with the letters that chronicle
so much of my life and so many of my friendships.
My inability
to part with any of my letters--from the shortest note from Grandma to
one of the hundreds of letters from my friend Melissa--cannot
be easily explained. Certainly the love letters play upon my conceit, gently
building my fragile teenage self esteem. Beyond these, however, lie the babbling
prose of girlfriends, the one note I received from my camp roommate, and
the letter accompanying the black and white photo of John, Paul, George,
and Ringo which I won in the "Eight Days a Week" Beatles sweepstakes.
I treasure each of these and hold tight the history locked within them in
my changing world; to quote the opening of one of Melissa's letters, "Life
is so wonderful, and so unfair, and so confusing."
Throughout my
life, I have clung to any concrete portion of the world I could get my
hands on, and I have developed a deep trust
in, and yearning
for, the written word. Unlike spoken words, written words have a timelessness;
they hold a promise forever, and they bind the writer to his promise indelibly.
Smashed between a slumber party invitation and a post card from Florida,
my great grandmother will always be waiting "with love" inside
a card decorated with lavender flowers. When someday I get married, my first
boyfriend will still miss my "soft voice and soft eyes." I rarely
need to check these reminders that I can never stop being loved, being a
friend, and making a difference in the lives of others. I am always conscious
of the gathering that awaits me in the dusty boxes. Each time I receive a
new letter, I carefully place it into the little life museum perched on my
closet shelf.
Comments
This essay lacks
interest, especially because it begins with trite language: "Have
you ever noticed…" Though the applicant does a good job of providing
specific details, she goes overboard, providing too much disconnected information
that she ties together into a generic idea: "…I have developed
a deep trust in, and yearning for, the written word." Though there is
nothing wrong with this statement, the writer never intimates if or how she
has expanded her love of writing--aside from keeping every letter she has
ever received. This could be construed as a negative character trait: the
inability to let go ("Throughout my life, I have clung to any concrete
portion of the world I could get my hands on…"). College is a
time for rethinking oneself, and such a fervent focus on reveling in the
status quo could cause an admissions officer to infer slight immaturity in
the applicant. The deathblow comes with the use of clichéd rhetoric
near the end: "…making a difference in the lives of others."
Well
Done "School Target" Essay
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If an undergraduate's time is spent eating, working, socializing, and sleeping,
I expect that I'll spend large chunks of my time in the cafeteria, the libraries,
and the dorms. My days will most definitely be hectic. As I run across the
quad to my history class, I'll already be thinking of where I'll be heading
after that.
Sometimes I'll be running to a big round table in the Food Court. This table
seems to be a magnet for my eclectic friends. One of the guys, a saxophonist
with whom I play the oboe in an ensemble, is trying to get his own avant-garde
band some places to play. Another student writes an editorial column for
the Daily Pennsylvanian; he always seems to be searching for a hot topic
with which he can stir up a ruckus. A French major who sits next to me in
French class uses French verbs in conversation, causing some confusion for
the rest of us. We tend to talk about everything from the Beastie Boys to
the controversy over political correctness. We sit for hours sharing our
mashed potatoes and discussing activities to collectively embark on for the
weekend. I suggest some rock climbing in the Shawangunks of New York State
or an art show in Philadelphia.
After my extended repast, I'll be heading for a good place to study. When
I have detailed notes to take on the reading for my Social History of China
course, I know that the Quad will be way too busy and social for me to get
any sizable amounts of work done. I'll have to slip away to the Furness Library.
It is so quiet in there that you can hear the students breathing. In the
other libraries there is too much commotion caused by people hustling around
as they search for references. If I worked in the Van Pelt Library, I know
I would speak to everyone who passed by my carrel. Given my extroverted nature,
I am safer in a library like Furness.
At the end of my day, I'll be heading for my dorm, where the door to my
room is hardly ever closed. The people who live in my dorm are definitely
an energetic group. Just like molecules being heated in a beaker, they can't
sit still. They bounce all over the dorm's halls, in and out of my room,
telling me random ridiculous things as they procrastinate about their work.
My roommate and I seem to be from different planets. She grew up in Poland,
Maine, the small town where my camp was, and I grew up in the big city of
Manhattan. At first I'll think that all we have in common is our passion
for chocolate. But after living with her for a few weeks, I'll know that
we were destined to be together. She'll know when she comes back from a day
that just didn't go right at all that I will be there for her to complain
to, and I'll understand. She'll do likewise for me. We'll make each other
chicken noodle soup and coffee to keep us going on long nights of work. I'll
help her decide whether she has a thesis for her paper on Macbeth and then
proofread it for her. She'll explain to me again why humans can 't digest
cellulose--and then try to convince me that it's better to get up early and
work rather than stay up late. We'll order some takeout from her favorite
Cantonese restaurant. At 2 a.m., on full stomachs, we'll get some sleep before
our 9:00 classes, when once again I'll be rushing across Locust Walk to get
to my history class, thinking about where I'll be heading after that.
Comments
The writer deals
inventively with the difficult question "Why are you
and this school a good match?" Instead of telling the admissions committee
what they already know about the college's curriculum, athletic program,
or academic reputation, she tells them what they do not know about: herself.
She answers the question by imagining herself in a college routine. She then
makes that routine specific to Penn through references to the school newspaper,
campus buildings and walks, and a particular history course.
What she reveals about herself along the way from cafeteria to library to
dorm gives this well-structured essay its zest. The reader learns that she
plays the oboe, is a rock climber, goes to art shows, studies history, is
extroverted, loves chocolate, treasures her roommate, does not fully understand
why humans cannot digest cellulose, and happily digests Chinese takeout at
2 A.M. She is confident enough to write in her own voice, using informal
language in an informal essay (''chunks of time,'' ''way too busy and social,''
''random ridiculous things''). Her lively sense of language comes through
in sentences such as, ''It is so quiet in [the Furness Library] that you
can hear the students breathing,'' and in her comparison of her dorm neighbors
to ''molecules being heated in a beaker.''
She is as specific about other details in the essay as she is about herself.
The net effect of these well-chosen details--for instance, about her friends'
varied interests or how she and her roommate cooperate in their work--suggests
that the writer has long been attending the school to which she is applying.
Such a commitment to a particular school will impress admissions officers.
Poorly
Done "School Target" Essay
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essay appears unedited for instructional purposes. Essays edited by EssayEdge
are dramatically improved. For samples of EssayEdge editing, please click
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At this time, my long-range goal is to practice law. My personal goal for
the next four years is to explore the wide range of courses offered in a
liberal arts program. Preparation for law school will be my direction, but
it will not limit my desire to explore other areas.
The curriculum within Boston College's College of Arts and Sciences offers
a number of law-related courses as well as the University Core program, which
would fulfill my professional school prerequisites. The general education
requirements coincide with my own intentions to explore the liberal arts.
During my undergraduate years I would like to continue my interests in mathematics
and French literature as well as delve into unexplored areas. Another aspect
of the curriculum I found especially interesting is the PULSE program. In
addition to the exposure to philosophy and theology, this program would give
me the opportunity to go ''on site'' to interact with the community. I particularly
appreciate the opportunity to design an independent major with the help of
faculty advisers. Also, I especially look forward to returning to France
as part of a Foreign Study Program at the University of Paris.
There are substantial differences between Boston College and other colleges
that offer a liberal arts program. Among these differences is the Jesuits'
superb reputation for excellence in education. The Jesuit influence is my
guarantee of excellence within the faculty, the curriculum, and the student
body. My father has often talked about the influence on him of having been
educated at Jesuit institutions for 12 years. I, too, would like to be the
product of the Jesuits' strong commitment to teaching and to helping society.
It is not so important that I be taught by Jesuits but that I would be surrounded
by the Jesuit philosophy.
Boston is a perfect location for law-school hopefuls and law students. The
internships, libraries, and other resources on campus and throughout the
city offer invaluable advantages to Boston College students. The size of
the university's student body, the faculty, and the policy of interdisciplinary
selection of minors are additional considerations that lead me to apply to
Boston College. The faculty enjoy a reputation for not only being distinguished
in their fields but also for being accessible and committed. I feel that
this is an important factor for preparing for graduate school. In addition,
since students are allowed to select courses from the other four schools,
I would not be limited as I explore new fields.
Not all colleges place a priority on character in selecting their students.
The fact that Boston College selects students who are concerned about others
is important to me. I know that I will continue playing tennis during the
next four years. The fact that Boston College has indoor and outdoor courts
and a program which includes intramural and club sports, as well as tennis
lessons, is very appealing to me.
I consider my undergraduate years as a preparation not only for law school
but also for my personal enrichment. Fortunately, law school requirements
coincide with my personal and career goals. Most law schools desire students
with strong thinking and communicating skills. They value a diversified curriculum
from undergraduate schools that have a reputation for excellence in education.
My interest in Boston College's College of Arts and Sciences comes from knowing
that I will establish a rich foundation not only for graduate school but
also for the rest of my life.
Comments
It is difficult
to write an interesting essay about a place you have come to know from
a catalog, from word of mouth, or from a short
visit. It is
even more difficult to imagine yourself attending a place you have yet to
attend. This student at least tried to meet that double challenge head-on.
Her essay makes clear that she took the time to study Boston College's programs
and course offerings, to learn something about its faculty, to weigh the
advantages of its location, to consider how its curriculum fits in with her
short- and long-term plans. But because all these things are necessarily
abstract at this point in her life, the essay itself seems abstract, filled
with generalities and clichés about exploring the liberal arts, appreciating
the excellence of the faculty, and enriching her life.
To solve these problems, the writer needs to be straightforward and specific.
If she wants to go to Boston College because she believes it is the best
Jesuit-run liberal arts college in the Northeast, she should say so. And
then--and this is the important part--she should explain why those traits
mean something to her. What specifically has her father told her about his
own Jesuit education that appealed to her or caught her interest? Is she
looking forward to a first semester in which she takes courses of much wider
variety than ever before--differential calculus and the history of Western
philosophy on Mondays and Wednesdays, the arts of the Orient on Tuesdays
and Thursdays, and French literature every morning at eight o'clock? Does
she want to study in the Northeast because her family is nearby and she is
not eager, as some students are, to put thousands of miles between herself
and her siblings, who are not at all obnoxious and who have never once read
her private journal aloud at the dinner table? In short, she needs to shift
the emphasis of the question: It is not about Boston College, but about the
girl who wants to attend it.
This topic tempted the writer to write vaguely about an experience she has
yet to know and enjoy. She included too much and explored it too little.
If she had given herself no more than three-quarters of a page for her response,
she would have had to focus on the essentials instead of the indoor tennis
courts. Then she would have increased her chances of writing a good essay.
Well
Done "International Experience" Essay
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essay appears unedited for instructional purposes. Essays edited by EssayEdge
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Note: This essay was accompanied by a photograph of a saddle shoe taken
by the applicant during a trip to Poland.
I wore saddle shoes five days a week for nine years of my life. I started
Kindergarten with the clunky leather ones that were most common and did not
think much about them. By the third grade I had grown to hate my uniform
and, like all my friends, tried to find the lightest, most un-saddle-shoe-like
saddle shoe. I wore what I could find, plastic blue and white imitations,
until the sixth grade. Then it became popular to wear the old style, clunky,
black heavy, hard leather again. In the eighth grade my classmates and I
signed our good-byes on our shoes, and I wore my saddle shoes home from the
last day of grammar school with a heavy heart. Now I wear those saddle shoes
as a fashion statement, but they serve more as a gentle reminder of old school
friends the years have left behind.
The shoe in
this picture is not mine. When I took this shot, however, it certainly
felt like it belonged to me. During the spring of
my sophomore
year, I spent a week in Poland visiting concentration camps followed by a
week of sight-seeing in Israel. I was accompanied by seven-thousand Jewish
students, Rabbis, teachers, and Holocaust survivors from all over the world.
Together we made up "The March of the Living," an annual program
run by the Bureau of Jewish Education in which students from around the world
meet in Poland and Israel to witness Holocaust Remembrance Day and Israeli
Independence Day.
On my final day in Poland I entered the gates of Majdonek concentration
camp, only a few hours away from the village where my grandparents had lived.
I took this picture there, at the back of an old barrack that has been converted
into a museum. I thought of my family then, my heritage and beliefs. I realized
that for nine years a shoe had identified who I was, and now I was barefoot.
I was only what my past had made me, and over fifty years ago another girl
had a similar definition. This tie came not just because of our shoes, but
because of our religion and our love for it.
Years ago a girl wore that saddle shoe to school. She marveled at its heavy
weight and saw her friends walking in matching pairs. Unfortunately, looking
at the bright white leather amid the faded brown of loafers, heels, and lace-ups,
I knew that girl's fate all too well. They had taken those shoes from her.
They had taken her. And I was thankful to have my own pair waiting in my
closet across the world; thankful for my family, their love, and our tradition.
Comments
The applicant
begins with an engaging opening line ("I wore saddle
shoes five days a week for nine years of my life.) and maintains suspense
throughout the introduction. She uses vivid details ("plastic blue and
white imitations," "clunky, black heavy, hard leather") to
describe the shoes, concurrently relating some personal tidbits of information.
She keeps the
reader's attention by not giving away the context of her essay until the
second paragraph: "During the spring of my sophomore year,
I spent a week in Poland visiting concentration camps followed by a week
of sight-seeing in Israel." Instead of a general exposition about the
Holocaust, this writer quickly personalizes the issue: "On my final
day in Poland I entered the gates of Majdonek concentration camp, only a
few hours away from the village where my grandparents had lived." She
displays a mature nature and ability to empathize with a victim at the camp
through the bond of a shoe that she photographs. The reader is taken on a
vivid journey and learns a lot about this applicant. The ending is emotional
and powerful, creating a lasting impression in the reader's mind: "They
had taken those shoes from her. They had taken her. And I was thankful to
have my own pair waiting in my closet across the world; thankful for my family,
their love, and our tradition."
Poorly
Done "International Experience" Essay
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are dramatically improved. For samples of EssayEdge editing, please click
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I was at the
doorway of a 747 being ushered in by a stewardess to my seat. The chatting
of people, seat belts clicking, and the overhead
baggage made
me dizzy, "NO" I was in shock. I sank into my seat and visions
of the recent family decisions overtook me. I could not believe or understand
the major decision was to relocate to India due to my Dad's job.
Of course, there were grandma, uncles, aunts, and cousins, and there was
that time when I visited with my family. My mind was puzzled and thoughts
of leaving my suburban home, friends, and school soon welled my eyes and
all I could do was cry silently.
The flight was uneventful and after what seemed to be an eternity my mom,
brother, and I were comfortably settled in grandma's home soon to be followed
by my Dad. Although it was a sad time for me I saw and felt happiness all
around me. My relatives were so enthused and began scheduling visits with
realtors, and schools. There were days of shopping on the crowded streets
with cars, bicycles, scooters, lorries, and bull-a-carts all striving for
space to move in different directions. Amidst all this it dawned on me that
I must make the best of the situation. I followed suit on a weekly occasion
battled my frustrations with heated discussions with my mom. There were daily
telephone calls--my dad keeping us abreast of all the happenings especially
the sale of our house.
The rattling
sound of the fan, the music of the mosquitoes, and the occasional thunderstorms
made the best grounds for all the beautiful
memories that vividly
haunted me each night. My mom's soothing tone that related experiences and
possibilities of a move taught me to be patient and deal with the situation.
Her voice stays clear in my mind and my heart, "it would teach me to
appreciate all of life, its culture, make me a mature person, and that I
will never regret the move and its experience."
Pacing a muddy
dirt road, with rain and a cold wind was all worth it when I saw Dad pushing
his cart and waving toward me. The smile
on his face made
me promise, "I would do anything for my Dad" as he would never
do anything to jeopardize my life. So our home was sold and our belongings
in a storage. Finally, we were a united family though 10,000 miles from what
I knew was home and we made Grandma's home our temporary home.
Soon telephone
calls began between India, New York, and London. Oh Yes! Dad heard that
the job in India was stricken due to company issues
and instead
he must go to London. My eyes began to twinkle, yes; London would be easier
to live than India. My feelings were short lived and my heart was heavy,
there was sudden sadness among members of the family especially grandma,
and Mom. Once again Mom put up a brave front and said, "we shall go
anywhere, it will be a new experience for us." There was hugging, crying,
paying salutations to all the elders, and familiar sounds of clicking seat
belts and the sight of puffy white clouds.
The gray skies, cool breeze and orderly traffic assured me that I could
handle this life. Hearing the British accent made me tingle all over, similarities
and differences were running amuck with questions popping up especially of
school.
A pair of neatly pressed gray slacks, a striped burgundy shirt: highly polished
burgundy colored shoes took me to the American School in the heart of London.
I caught sight of the leaf covered basketball court while entering the school.
Trophies adorned the lobby both academics and sports thrived hand in hand.
The small school seemed to function similar to my old school. I gathered
all the information and was ready to take the new plunge.
The cold London air felt good and cleared my head to some degree. Once again,
I decided to make the best of it and hit the town. I felt like a tour guide
dragging my family to the Buckingham Palace, were I was not able to get a
glance of the Queen over reams of heads. A sudden sound of the Marching Band
made us turn our attention to their precision and beauty. The soldiers on
horses, the deep waters of the Tames River, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square,
the Big Ben, Hyde park, and the Shakespearean Theater were remarkable sights
and I was a pure tourist and did not think of the bureaucracy that was involved
in moving to a foreign country.
Soon paperwork was to be exchanged, passports, visas, and formalities taken
care of. In a few weeks, I would begin school in London. It was too good
to be true, the final verdict arrived, visas would take three to six months,
my Dad's office situation was not suitable and he was told now that the move
would be to Chicago or Atlanta.
Huddled on the
bed in a London Hotel room, tempers flared, followed by questions, frustrations |
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