50 Successful Harvard Application Essays

Essays are for reference only. Do NOT copy or imitate anything!

Important note:

All these essays are strictly for reference only. Any form of copying or imitation is

considered plagiarism and hence severely punished by admission officers.

Remember that these 50 essays are very popular and have been around for a very

long time (probably even before you were born!). Therefore, the admission officers

are VERY familiar with them. Again, do NOT copy or imitate anything from these

essays if you want to succeed.

哈佛

50

篇

essay-- 1

。塑造自我

A Formation of Self

Before even touching the camera, I made a list of some of the photographs I would

take: web covered with water, grimace reflected in the calculator screen, hand

holding a tiny round mirror where just my eye is visible, cat’s striped underbelly as

he jumps toward the lens, manhole covers, hand holding a translucent section of

orange, pinkies partaking of a pinkie swear, midsection with jeans, hair held out

sideways at arm’s length, bottom of foot, soap on face. This, I think is akin to a

formation of self. Perhaps I have had the revelations even if the photos are never

taken.

I already know the dual strains the biographers will talk about, strains twisting

through a life. The combination is embodied here: I write joyfully, in the margin of

my lab book, beside a diagram of a beaker, “Isolated it today, Beautiful wispy

strands, spider webs suspended below the surface, delicate tendrils, cloudy white,

lyrical, elegant DNA! This is DNA! So beautiful!”

I should have been a Renaissance man. It kills me to choose a field (to choose

between the sciences and the humanities!). My mind roams, I wide-eyed, into

infinite caverns and loops. I should fly! Let me devour the air, dissolve everything

into my bloodstream, learn!

The elements are boundless, but, if asked to isolate them, I can see tangles around

medicine and writing. The trick will be to integrate them into a whole, and then

maybe I can

take the photograph. Aahh, is it already there, no? Can’t you see it? I

invoke the Daedalus in me, everything that has gone into making me, hoping it will

be my liberation.

Music is one such element. The experience of plying in an orchestra from the inside

is an investigation into subjectivity. It is reminiscent of Heisenberg’s uncertainty

principle: the more one knows the speed of a particle, the less one knows its

position. Namely the position of the observer matters and affects the substance of

the observation; even science is embracing embodiment. I see splashes of bright

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rain in violin arpeggios fading away in singed circles, a clarinet solo fades blue to

black, and a flute harmony leaves us moving sideways, a pregnant silence, the

trumpets interrupt with the smell of lightning. Perhaps in the audience you would

sense something else.

I think of rowing as meditation. Pshoow, huh, aaah; pshoow, huh, aaah. I can close

my eyes and still hear it. We glide over reflected sky… and lean. And defy the

request

for “leadership positions,” laugh at it, because it misses the entire point, that we are

integral, one organism. I hear the oars cut the water, shunk shunk; there are no

leaders.

Once I heard an echo from all quarters. “Do not rush,” said the conductor, “follow the

baton.” “Do not rush,” said the coach, “watch the body in front of you.” Do not rush.

I write about characters’ words: how they use words, how they manipulate them,

how they create their own realities; words used dangerously, flippantly, talking at

cross purposes, deliberately being vague; the nature of talking, of words and

realities. Perhaps mine has been a flight of fancy too. But, come on, it’s in the words,

a person, a locus, somewhere in the words. It’s all words. I love the words.

I should be a writer, but I will be a doctor, and out of the philosophical tension I will

create a self.

ANALYSIS

This essay is a good example of an essay that shows rather than tells the reader who

the author is. Through excited language and illustrative anecdotes, she offers a

complex picture of her multifaceted nature.

The writing is as fluid as its subject matter. One paragraph runs into the next with

little break for transition or explicit connection. It has the feel of an ecstatic

stream-of-consciousness, moving rapidly toward a climactic end.

The author is as immediate as she is mysterious. She creates and intimate

relationship with her reader, while continuously keeping him/her “in the dark” as she

jumps from one mental twist to another.

She openly exposes her charged thoughts, yet leaves the ties between them

uncemented. This creates an unpredictability that is risky but effective.

Still, one ought to be wary in presenting as essay of this sort. The potential for

obliqueness is high, and, even here, the reader is at times left in confusion

regarding the coherence of the whole. Granted the essay is about confluence of

seeming opposites, but poetic license should not obscure important content. This

particular essay could have been made stronger with a more explicit recurring

theme to help keep the reader focused.

In general, though, this essay stands out as a bold, impassioned presentation of self.

It lingers in the memory as an entangled web of an intricate mind.

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“Growing Up”

“Growing Up”

I’m short. I’m five foot five –

well, five foot six if I want to impress someone. If the

average height of American men is five foot ten, that means I’m nearly half a foot

shorter than the average Joe out there. And then there are the basketball players.

My height has always been something that’s set me apart; it’s helped define me. It’s

just that as long as I can remember, I haven’t liked the definition very much. Every

Sunday in grade school my dad and I would watch ESPN Primetime Football. Playing

with friends at home, I always imagined the booming ESPN voice of Chris Berman

giving the play-by-play of our street football games. But no matter how well I

performed at home with friends, during school recess the stigma

of “short kid” stuck

with me while choosing teams.

Still concerned as senior year rolled along, I visited a growth specialist. Pacing the

exam room in a shaky, elliptical orbit worried, “What if I’ve stopped growing? Will

my social status forever be marked

by my shortness?” In a grade school dream, I

imagined Chris “ESPN” Berman’s voice as he analyzed the fantastic catch I had

made for a touchdown when

–

with a start

–

the doctor strode in. damp with nervous

sweat, I sat quietly with my mom as he showed us the X-ray taken of my hand. The

bones in my seventeen-year-old body had matured. I would not grow any more.

Whoa. I clenched the steering wheel in frustration as I drove home. What good were

my grades and “college transcript” achievements when even my frie

nds poked fun

of the short kid? What good was it to pray, or to genuinely live a life of love? No

matter how many Taekwondo medals I had won, could I ever be considered truly

athletic in a wiry, five foot five frame? I could be dark and handsome, but could I

ever be the “tall” in “tall, dark and handsome”? All I wanted was someone special to

look up into my eyes; all I wanted was someone to ask, “Could you reach that for

me?”

It’s been hard to deal with. I haven’t answered all those questions, but I have

le

arned that height isn’t all it’s made out to be. I ‘d rather be a shorter,

compassionate person than a tall tyrant. I can be a giant in so many other ways:

intellectually, spiritually and emotionally.

I’ve ironically grown taller from being short. It’s en

riched my life. Being short has

certainly had its advantages. During elementary school in earthquake-prone

California for example, my teachers constantly praised my “duck and cover” skills.

The school budget was tight and the desks were so small an occasional limb could

always be seen sticking out. Yet Chris Shim, “blessed” in height, always managed to

squeeze himself into a compact and safe fetal position. The same quality has paid off

in hide- and-go-

seek. (I’m the unofficial champion on my block.)

Lincoln once debated with Senator Stephen A. Douglas

–

a magnificent orator,

nationally recognized as the leader of the Democratic Party of 1858… and barely five

feet four inches tall. It seems silly, but standing on the floor of the Senate last year

I remembered Senator Douglas and imagined that I would one day debate with a

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future president. (It helped to have a tall, lanky, bearded man with a stove-top hat

talk with me that afternoon.) But I could just as easily become an astronaut, if not

for my childlike, gaping-mouth-eyes- straining wonderment of the stars, then

maybe in the hope of growing a few inches (the spine spontaneously expands in the

absence of gravity).

Even at five feet, six inches, the actor Dustin Hoffman held his own against Tome

Cruise in the movie Rainman and went on to win his second Academy Award for Best

Actor. Michael J. Fox (5’5”) constantly uses taller actors to his comedic advantage.

Height has enhanced the athleticism of “Muggsy” Bogues, the shortest player in the

history o

f the NBA at five foot three. He’s used that edge to lead his basketball team

in steals (they don’t call him “Muggsy” for nothing). Their height has put no limits to

their work in the arts or athletics. Neither will mine.

I’m five foot five. I’ve struggled

with it at times, but I’ve realized that being five

-five

can’t stop me from joining the Senate. It won’t stem my dream of becoming an

astronaut (I even have the application from NASA). My height can’t prevent me

from directing a movie and excelling in Taekwondo (or even basketball). At five foot

five I can laugh, jump, run, dance, write, paint, help, volunteer, pray, love and cry.

I can break 100 in bowling. I can sing along to Nat King Cole. I can recite Audrey

Hepburn’s lines from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

I can run the mile in under six minutes,

dance like a wild monkey and be hopelessly wrapped up in a good book (though I

have yet to master the ability to do it all at once). I’ve learned that my height, even

as a defining characteristic, is only a part of

the whole. It won’t limit me. Besides,

this way I’ll never outgrow my favorite sweater.

ANALYSIS

“Growing Up” follows the form of discussing a physical or character trait, and

exploring its impact on one’s life. Shim’s strategy is for the reader to u

nderstand his

frustrations with his height, a physical characteristic that has played a great role in

the way he sees himself among his family, friends, and peers.

This piece works because it is to the point, honest, and straight-forward. The

opening,

“I’m short,” delivers a clear message to the reader of the essay’s main idea.

As the essay progresses, Shim reveals his personal feelings and aspirations. He

gives us a window into the very moment of discovery that he would no longer be

able to grow. We are taken on a tour of what makes Shim tick. Being short has

shaped and influenced his outlook on the world, yet it has not diminished his goals.

It is personal, yet remains positive. He recognizes both the benefits and negatives of

his short stature and is able to convey them in a thoughtful manner. Furthermore,

the essay not only lets us into Shim’s thoughts on being small but tells us his varied

interests in politics, space exploration, sports, and the arts. Shim hasn’t just told us

how his height “doesn’t

limit him” he has shown us why.

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“Pieces of Me”

“Pieces of Me”

----Sandra E. Pullman

The black and white composition book is faded, and the corners are bent. It doesn’t

lie flat as many paper clips mark favorite places. Almost every sheet is covered with

writing

–

some in bold handwriting hardly revised, others uncertainly jotted down

completely marked up and rewritten. Flipping through the thin pages, I smile,

remembering from careless thoughts to assassinate prose to precisely worded

poems, this journal marks a year of my life as a writer.

In junior year, my English teacher asked us to keep a journal for creative writing, as

a release from otherwise stressful days. We were free to write on any topic we chose.

From then on as often as I could, I would steal away to the old wooden rocking chair

in the corner of my room and take time off to write.

As I now try to answer the question of who am I for this essay, I immediately think

of my journal.

I am a writer.

My writing is the most intensely personal part of me. I pour my heart out into my

journal and am incredibly protective of it. It’s difficult for me to handle criticism or

change rejection:

I can tell he wouldn’t read it right wouldn’t let the meaning sink into him slow and

delicious it would sound awful through his careless eyes I want him to open himself

up to it and let in a piece of me I want him to know this side of me no one ever has

I want him to be the one to understand let me see he prods once more I tell myself

this time I’ll do

it I let myself go but as it passes into his rough hands I see it for the

first time it’s awkward and wrong just like me I snatch it back from him and crumble

it it falls with hardly a noise into the trash

I am a child.

Growing up, I would always ride my bike over to the elementary school across the

street and into the woods behind it. Crab apple trees scented the fall air and the

winding dirt paths went on forever. I’d drop my bike at the base of a tree and climb

as high as I could. All afternoon I would sit in these trees whose branches curved out

a seat seemingly made just for me.

One day I biked across the street to come face to face with construction trucks.

Those woods are now a parking lot. I cry every time I see cars parked where my crab

apple trees once stood:

He allowed the sweet sadness to linger

As he contemplated a world

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That he knew too much about.

I am a daughter, a cousin, a great-niece.

My family is very important to me. My mother has a huge extended family and we all

get together once a year for a reunion. I play with my little cousins and toss them in

the air to their squealing delight. Many of my relatives are elderly, however, and I

find it hard to deal with serious illness in these people I love. I am also deathly afraid

of growing old and losing all sense of myself. When visiting relatives, I have to come

to terms with these feelings:

With the toe of my sneaker, I push at the ancient pale yellow carpet. Like all the

items in the apartment, it is way past its prime. It is matted down in most places,

pressed into the floor from years of people’s shoes traversing back and forth. It will

never be as nice as it once was, that much is certain. At home it would be pulled up,

thrown out, not tolerated in an ever-moving young family, not fitting in with all the

useful, modern surroundings. But here, in this foreign, musty apartment where my

great-aunt and uncle have lived so long that they seem to blend right into the faded

wallpaper, the carpet is a part of the scenery. It could not be removed any more than

the floor itself.

I am a friend.

I will always treasure memories of sleep-away camp and the friends I fell in love

with there. Many of these people I have managed to keep in touch with, but I regret

that some I have lost:

But now…

the weather is changing. A cold front has moved in. the picture is barely

noticed. Perhaps other pictures of other memories brighter and newer hide it from

view. A cool breeze steals in through the open window, and the careless wind knocks

down an old picture from the bulletin board. The picture falls in slow motion, taking

with it a far-off memory. It comes to rest behind the desk, lying on the floor, never

to be seen again. Its absence is not even noticed.

I am an incurable romantic.

Leaving a party one night, I forgot to return the sweatshirt I had borrowed:

Touching the small hole

In the bottom corner

And the stray thread

Unraveling the sleeve

I lift it up

And breathe in its smell

I smile quietly

It smells like him

I am a dreamer.

I often sit in class and let my imagination take me wherever I want to go. I love to

read stories of mythic Camelot or the legendary Old South, losing myself in my

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favorite books:

The three dimensional

Kaleidoscope fantasy

Of far-off lands

And courtly kingdoms

Of passion and romance

And high seas adventure

Is shining with vivid colors

And singing with non-stop noise

My journal from eleventh grade not only chronicles a year of my life, but it tells the

story of who I am. It is the closest I can get to even beginning to answer that difficult

question:

Tell them she says just tell them who you are let them know what makes you tick

tick tick the clock is counting down I can’t wait to get out of here just a far more

minutes smile and pretend you care tell them who I am in 358 words double-spaced

12 point font as if I even know as if I could even if I did on a single sheet of paper

why I cry why I laugh why I want so badly to go to their lovely school

I guess I do know one thing about who I am.

I am a writer.

ANALYSIS

“Pieces of Me” is an admissions essay with attitude –

a personal statement that

takes a risk.

Like many college applicants, Pullman is interested in writing. Her essay stands

apart form the pack because she doesn’t simply tell the admissions

officer she likes

to write. Instead, when used excerpts from her journal to show the admissions

officer how much she loves to write, how much she depends on her writing to help

her explain and understand life.

But Pullman’s decision to include creative wr

iting

–

i.e. cummings style

–

in her

personal statement is not a decision for the meek of heart or the semi-talented.

Every high school senior has heard stories of college applicants who, in the quest to

stand out among the hundreds of other essays an admissions officer must sort

through, submitted an original screenplay, musical composition, or videotape of an

interpretive dance as their personal statement. In cases like Pullman’s where real

talent show through, those risks may pay off. For others, a more conventional piece

with a strong, clear thesis and well-written supporting arguments may be the better

road to take.

Of course, no piece is perfect, including Pullman’s. As original as many of her journal

excerpts may be, Pullman prefaces many of them with somewhat cliché

transitions

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which weaken the underlying premise of the piece

–

that Pullman’s unique writing

help articulate her unique personality. Her creative writing is exciting and

interesting; her more academic writing is less so.

Still,

“Pieces of Me” is a risky endeavor that works. Pullman succeeds, without the

use of a 3-D visual aid or live performance, in making her application stand out.

“Who Am I?”

“Who Am I?”

--by Michael Cho

I wish I could write about the Michael Cho who stars in my Walter Mitty-like fantasies.

If only my personal statement could consist of my name followed by such terms as

Olympic athlete, master chef, boy genius, universal best friend, and Prince

Charming to every hopeful woman. These claims would be, at worst, outright lies, or

at best, gross hyperbole. My dreams, however, take their place alongside my

memories, experiences, and genes in the palette that constitutes who I am.

Who am I? I am a product of my reality and my imagination. I am innately depraved,

yet I am made perfect. I plan my day with the knowledge that “Everything is

meaningless” (Ecclesiastes 1:2), but I must “make the most of every opportunity”

(Colossians 4:5). I search for simple answers, but find only complex questions.

Once, on my way to a wrestling tournament, I was so engulfed in thought over

whether living in an abode which rotated near the speed of light would result in my

being younger (utilizing the Theory of Relativity) and stronger (utilizing the

properties of adaptation along with the definition of centripetal and gravitational

force) that I failed to realize that I had left my wrestling shoes in my locker. My

mother says that my decision to wrestle is indicative of the fact I don’t think.

Through working in a nursing home, the

most important lesson I’ve learned is that

I have many lessons yet to learn. Thus the most valuable knowledge I possess

reminds me how little knowledge I have.

Often times people make the mistake of assuming that mutually exclusive qualities

bear no relationship to one another. Not so! These dichotomies continuously

redefine each other. In some cases one is totally dependent on the other’s existence.

What is faith without doubt? Without one, the other does not exit. When juxtaposed,

opposites create a dialectic utterly more profound and beautiful than its parts. Walt

Whitman embraces this syncretism by stating, “Do I contradict myself? Very well

then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes).” My qualities, though

contradictory, define who I am.

Although I can’t make fantastic claims about myself, I must still acknowledge and

cherish the dreams that I have. Admittedly, it is tragic when one is so absorbed in

fantasy that he loses touch with reality. But it is equally tragic when one is so

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absorbed in reality that ho loses the ability to dream. When a healthy amount of

reality and fantasy are synthesized, the synergy is such that something beautiful

will undoubtedly result.

ANALYSIS

This applicant addresses the proverbial

question of “Who Am I?” In doing so, he

expresses, both implicitly and explicitly, his hobbies, extracurricular activities, and

outlook on life. The writer not only reveals his participation in wrestling, work at a

nursing home, and knowledge of Quantum Mchanics, but he also exposes the reader

to many aspects of his personality and inner thoughts on life. His questioning of the

meaning of life and evaluation of his own identity reveal an inquisitive side to his

personality.

Overall, this essay is well written and easy to read. The introduction is strong in that

the applicant levels with admission officer by admitting he does not consider himself

to be a spectacular individual, giving the impression that what follows is written

honestly. Another storng point of the essay is that it reveals many of the activities in

which the writer is involved. This serves to give the admissions officer a more

personalized picture of the applicant. The biblical and Walt Whitman quotations are

very well used and demonstrate the strong intellect of the writer.

While the essay does provide some insight into the philosophical thoughts of the

applicant, in many ways it is too theoretical. The writer could improve the essay by

specifically listing the dreams or goals he cherishes or perhaps by writing in more

detail about one of the many experiences he mentions in the statement. The flow of

the essay is also hindered in a number of ways. First, the word choice seems slightly

unnatural

–

almost as if the applicant relied on a thesaurus when writing the essay;

as a result, the tone seems to be a bit contrived. Second, while the overall theme of

self-identification is maintained throughout the essay, the individual paragraphs

jump from one topic to the next in a disjointed fashion. For example, it is interesting

to know that the applicant worked at a nursing home, but mentioning such does not

seem to fit with the overall progression of the essay. It is important that the personal

statement convey to the admissions officer a sense of who you are and what you are

like in person, but it is not necessary to cram every extracurricular activity or

accomplishment into the essay; there are other sections of the application for listing

such things.

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An Incomplete Story

An Incomplete Story

During the Middle Ages, a ritual existed which dictated how an individual introduced

himself or herself. This introductory process was threefold: first, it demanded that

the individual’s religion be named; next, the individual’s town or

community was

stated; and finally, the family name was said. Even today, this method of

introduction can be effective in conveying the character or identity of an individual.

If I were top introduce myself, I would simply state that I am a scholar (learning is

my religion); I am a contributor to the greater well-being of my community; and my

family will be determined by my future plans and goals (since family includes, but is

not limited, to blood relations).

While my gender is extremely important to me, I first identify myself as a scholar

because intellect does not have a sex. Knowledge transcends gender. Therefore, I

am a thinker, a learner, and a scholar. To me, the process of learning is religious.

Words are my “bible,” teachers are my “priests.” I resp

ect and revere words like

others respect, revere, and fear the idea of God. I understand that words are alive

and I must wrestle them down and tame them in order for them to become my own.

Hence, I make it a habit to collect words. Then, like bangles and crystals that

possess psychedelic and prismatic qualities, I hang the words in my mind for

illumination. The meaning of my precious words are revealed to me by teachers ==

not just those who have a “teaching certificate,” but those who awaken my mind,

who ignite my senses, who alter my perception of the world; together, as Walt

Whitman says, we “roam in thought over the universe,” seeking to enlighten

ourselves and one another.

The college experience, as I perceive it, in addition to it being the next stop on my

journey for self-enlightenment, is to be the crescendo of my intellectual revolution

catalyzed by professors who can awaken my mind, ignite my senses, and alter my

perception of the world. I hope that my perception of the world will be slightly

turned on its head and that I will be made to defend my beliefs and experience the

true meaning of intellectual discovery. Thus, my only real expectation for college is

to be challenged. I look upon the next four years of my life as an opportunity; I can

either seize the chance and significantly better myself through the accumulation of

new knowledge or I can merely go through the paces, achieve good grades, but

never really feel the excitement of the words themselves. Obviously, I am looking

for the former scenario == a place where mental gymnastics are applauded.

But mental contortions should not be done just for the sake of doing them; rather,

they should be understood and applied to everyday life. For this reason, my quest

for self-enlightenment is not limited to the sphere of academics because the college

experience itself is not limited to classes

–

it is the formation of the complete

individual, which means developing both social and academic personalities. I have

confidence that the people I will meet in college will show me and share with me

their enormous zest for life. This extended family will help me to forge my identity

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as a scholar, as a contributor to my community, and as a member of a family.

But neither my family nor my extended family nor my teachers could comprise my

entire identity. Rather, I will remain like the first page of a book with the first line

incomplete

–

a story waiting to be told.

ANALYSIS

Levey’s essay is very much a self

-exploration of being an intellect. Her idea of

emphasizing her love of learning is solid and she clearly has a sophisticated grasp of

prose, but the overall package might have done better with a little more understated

elegance. The introduction is intriguing with the use of an unobvious historical fact

about customs in the Middle Ages. She successfully introduces herself and her

perception of her role in the world. The first two paragraphs are an easy read,

except that the use of too many polysyllabic adjectives can become a little bit

distracting. Per

sonal essays that are “show me rather than tell me” tend to be more

convincing. What mental gymnastics has she experienced before? W

here has

she really pushed for self-growth? The section which describes co

llege as “the next

stop on my journey for self-

enlightenment” and “the crescendo of my intellectual

revolution catalyzed by professors who can awaken my mind, ignite my senses, and

alter my perception of the world” is a little bit over the top. You don’t h

ave to tell the

reader that college is the next step in intellectual growth, the reader should be able

to sense it from the essay itself.

“Myung!”

“Myung!”

--Myung! H. Joh

The hot-blooded Spaniard seems to be revealed in the passion and urgency of his

doubled exclamation points…

-----

Pico Lyer, “In Praise of the Humble Comma”

Are you a member of the Kung! Tribe? is a commonly asked question when people

see my signature, which has an exclamation point at the end of it. No, I am not a

member of any t

ribe, nor am I putting the mark at the end of my name to be “cute.”

It is not simply a hiccup in my handwriting; it is there for a specific reason. But

before I elaborate on why I believe the exclamation point is such an appropriate

punctuation mark for me, let us explore the other marks I might have used:

Myung?

Although the question mark bears a certain swan-like elegance in its uncertain

curves, it simply does not do the job. While it is true that I am constantly discovering

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new things about myself and changing all the time, I know what I stand for, what my

weaknesses and strengths are, and what I would like to get out of life. I know that

I want to major in English, attend graduate school, learn as much as possible from

those who are wiser than I, and eventually teach at a university. I am headed for a

career in English; there is no question about it.

Myung,

I admit that I do pause and contemplate decisions before leaping in and rushing

ahead of myself

–

spontaneity is perhaps not my strong point. But the comma, with

its dragging, drooping tail, does not adequately describe who I am, because I know

that life will not pause for me; nor do I want it to. Mid the chaos of a hectic schedule

that balances clubs, activities, and AP courses, I always feel the rush of life, and I

love it. I do not linger over failures; due to my passionate nature, I am crushed by

disappointments, but I move on. No prolonged hesitations or pauses.

Myung:

I constantly look forward to the surprises that college and my future life promise me;

graduation seems like the beginning of a whole new chapter. But the colon, though

I will not deny its two neat specks a certain professional air, does not do my justice.

I know how to live for today, have fun, and enjoy life instead of just waiting for what

the next chapter may bring. The future is unpredictable. My present life is not simply

the precursor to what may follow.

Myung.

Perhaps this is the most inaccurate punctuation mark to describe who I am. The

drab, single eye of the period looks upon an end, a full stop == but with the greater

aspects of my education still ahead of me, my life is far from any kind of termination.

Myung!

However, the exclamation point, with its jaunty vertical slash underscored by a

perky little dot, is a happy sort of mark, cheerful, full of spice. Its passions match

mine: whether it be the passion that keeps me furiously attacking my keyboard at

4:50 in the morning so that I might perfectly capture a fantastic idea for a story, or

the passion that lends itself to a nearly crazed state of mind in which I tackle pet

projects of mine, such as clubs or activities I am especially devoted to.

One of my greatest passions, my passion for learning, engenders in me a passion for

teaching that I plan to satisfy fully as a professor. I want my students to feel the

aching beauty of John Keats’s words, his drawn

-out good-bye to life. I want them to

feel the world of difference in Robert Frost’s hushed “the woods are lovely, ark and

deep,” as opposed to his editor’s irreverent “the woods are lovely, dark and deep.” I

want them to feel the juiciness of Pablo Neruda’s sensually ripe poetry when he

describes the “wide fruit mouth” of his lover. With the help of my exclamation point,

I want to teach people how to rip the poetry off the page and take it out of the

classroom as well. I want them to feel poetry when they see the way the sharp,

clean edges of a white house look against a black and rolling sky; I want them to feel

it on the roller coaster as it surges forward, up, as the sky becomes the earth and

the ground rushes up, trembling to meet them; I want them to feel it in the neon

puddles that melt in the streets in front of smoky night clubs at midnight. I want

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them to know how to taste life!

My exclamation point symbolizes a general zeal for life that I want to share with

others. And I know that is has become as much a part of me as it has my signature.

ANALYSIS

This essay uses a small punctuation mark to make a big point, loudly and forcefully.

It answers the question “who are you?” in a notably creative, exciting, and

elucidating manner. Through an unconventional presentation, the author manages

to captivate the reader’s attention, while informing him/her of substantially

revealing personal qualities. The strong, energized voice that is used delivers both

a general, palpable sense of enthusiasm and a glimpse into specific ways that it

manifests in the author’s life.

The technical writing in this essay demonstrates skill. Each paragraph expresses

one idea with cogency and brevity. A personified punctuation mark is presented

through an interesting image and is then related to in light of the author’s character.

The final lines of each paragraph then cleverly bring a close to the ideas presented

therein.

Though the addition of an exclamation mark could be seen as gimmicky, the author

demonstrates that she has the energy and thoughtfulness needed to back up her

unusual choice, in real life and on the page. It is obviously not a decision she has

made lightly, not just to make her application stand out, although one gets the

impression that Myung! would stand out in any crowd, regardless of her name. it’s

a risky move, but for her, it works.

“Myself”

“Myself”

--by Jamie Smith

A teenage girl, JAMIE, walks out on stage alone from stage left. She has brown hair

that falls to her shoulders and deep blue eyes. She is wearing a white blouse and

blue jeans and in her right hand is a pair of binoculars. The stage is dark except for

a single spotlight following JAMIE across the stage. When she reaches the center,

she sits down on the edge of the stage, her feet dangling over, and raises the

binoculars to her eyes. She proceeds to stare at the audience through them for a

few seconds, then slowly moves them away from her face.

JAMIE: With these binoculars I can see each one of you on an extremely personal

level. (She brings the binoculars to her eyes then down again.) Do any of you

audience members by any chance have your own pair handy? (scanning the

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audience) I was afraid of this. Well, here, why don’t you take mine for a while? (She

jumps off the front of the stage, hands a front row audience member her pair of

binoculars, then resumes her previous position.) Now look through those and tell

me what you see. Be honest now, I could use a good session of constructive criticism.

Wait, maybe if I stand up you could get a better look at my true self. (She stands and

gracefully turns around.) Make sure you get every angle now. Okay, now tell me

everything you know about me… not much to tell, is there. I mean, you really don’t

know what kind of person is standing up on this stage in front of you blabbering on

about binoculars and constructive criticism. Well, I guess I have my work cut out for

me today; I must describe who I am. Fortunately, I did come prepared. I have

provided myself with a prop

–

and the influence of a very special person

–

to assist

me throughout one of the most difficult performances of my life, an interpretation of

a piece I call “Myself.” (she steps off the stage and returns to the audience member

in the front row.) Do you mind if I take these back now? (She returns to the stage.)

the one prop is, you guessed it, a pair of binoculars. Not just any binoculars, they

are one of the few reminders I have of my great-

grandmother, Gran. No, she wasn’t

an infamous spy at large during World War 2 nor was she an avid birdwatcher. In

1986, when I was six and she was ninety-

four we both watched Halley’s Comet

make its celestial appearance through these binoculars. I remember she said that

she and I were truly blessed because we both were able to see Halley’s Comet twice

in our lives. She told me about seeing it out in her backyard in 1909, when she was

the same age I am now. there we were together, seventy- seven years later,

watching the same comet shoot across the same sky. I think of all the things that

have happened during those seventy- seven years, the triumphs and setbacks Gran

achieved and endured, and it has given me strength to deal with the challenges in

my own life. I imagine how much life had changed since 1909 and wonder how my

life will change by the time I see Halley’s Comet again. What will I become? I will not,

like Gran, be a part of the Oklahoma land run or witness the birth of the automobile.

I will probably not be quarantined for tuberculosis or listen to the progression of two

world wars over the radio. But I know I will do and be something. And the

determination and success of my great- grandmother will help me reach this

something. She is more than a memory or a story, she has become a part of me: my

family, my history, my source of knowledge and my source of pride. Her struggles

and achievements are reflected in mine. She is with me when I rise and fall and

always there to make sure my feet are still on the ground. She is with me backstage

and with me in the spotlight. She is a woman. She is my great-grandmother. And

that’s truly what she is –

great, grand, everything. Gran. It’s amazing how a simple

name can inspire so much.

She sits down, returning to her initial position with her feet dangling over the edge.

She brings the binoculars to her eyes and looks through them. But instead of looking

at the audience, she is attempting to look beyond them, almost as if there is some

invisible sky behind the rows of seats. She slowly moves the binoculars away from

her face, but her eyes are still fixed on some object off in the distance.

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JAMIE: Only sixty-

xi years to go. I’ve got to make them count.

ANALYSIS

Written in the format of a play script monologue, both in style and overall structure,

this essay addresses the concept that it is difficult to evaluate a person from strictly

superficial appearances. In order to truly know someone, no matter how closely you

study their outer appearance, it is what’ inside that counts. Emotions, thoughts,

dreams, and personal goals are the most important and telling aspects of one’s

identity. The writer does not just theorize about such ideas, but makes a logical

progression by giving a concrete, vivid example to back up her thesis. Without

having to explicitly list interests or personality traits, they style of the essay reveals

a good deal about the applicant: she probably enjoys acting or playwriting and is

highly creative and optimistic about life.

One of the strongest aspects of the essay is the fact that it is written as a monologue.

The creative format is going to stand out from the thousands of other application

essays that admissions officers must read. The use of binoculars as a linking device

between the present and the past is highly effective

–

it produces an overall

coherence within the essay. The applicant’s use of a very specific moment to frame

her love for “Gran” increases the naturalness of the passag

e. In many cases, essays

written about family member can sound contrived. The use of a specific event adds

to the realism of the applicant’s emotion. The creative use of stage directions

addresses the adage “show –

not tell” head

-on. It is an effective way of creating a

mental picture of the applicant in a reader’s mind. The essay also ends strongly as

the last line clearly identifies that the applicant is ambitious, hard-working, and

eager to make something out of her life.

The monologue of the essay is effective, but it is important to point out that such

attempts to be overly creative can backfire. This applicant’s familiarity with this

style of writing is apparent. If you attempt to write your essay in a nonstandard

manner, make sur.e you have a similar comfort level with the techniques you are

using.

哈佛

50

篇

essay-- 2

。观点

哈佛

50

篇

essay

第二部分

观点

point of view

“Introducing Clark Kent and Willy Wonka”

“Introducing Clark Kent and Willy Wonka”

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By Daniel G. Habib

My childhood passions oscillated

between two poles: St. Catherine’s Park and the

67th Street branch of the New York Public Library. Located across Sixty-Seventh

Street from one another, the two crystallized the occupations of my youth. On a

typical day, I moved between a close-knit group of friends at the park to largely

solitary stays at the library. My recreational pursuits were communal; my

intellectual pursuits were individual. The gulf was pronounced: friends rarely joined

my mother and me as we meandered among the stacks, and the books I obtained

from the library never accompanied me to the basketball courts or the jungle gym.

Generally, I slipped away from the park during a lull in the action and returned as

stealthily as I had gone, foisting Roald Dahl paperbacks on my mother and

scrambling to rejoin my friends in arguing the relative merits of the Hulk and

Superman. I never thought to integrate these passions; they remained firmly

segregated. That Clark Kent and Willy Wonka should never cross paths was a given;

the giants existed in separate realms of my life.

More than anything else, my Regis career has reversed that assumption. I now

recognize that my intellectual growth and my peer community are inextricably

linked. I have come to regard those who surround me not simply as a network of

friends, but most vitally as components in the ongoing work of education. I

understand that an individualized process of learning is intellectually impoverished.

The most startling of my educational epiphanies have occurred in the context of

fello

w students. Case in point: my acquaintance with Albert Camus’ absurdist

manifesto, The Stranger. My first reading of the classic, in sixth grade, came in an

atomized intellectual climate. As a result, my understanding of Camus’ philosophy

was tenuous, so much so that, feeling incapable of defending or even articulating

my interpretation of the work, I eschewed any discussion and shunned the chance

for error. Satisfied in my ignorance, I disdainfully explained to my inquiring parents,

“Oh, it wasn’t much of

a murder mystery. You know who kills the Arab all along. And

that whole mother angle just doesn’t fit.” My second encounter with Camus came in

my junior French elective, this time in the company of an insightful octet of

Francophones. As we grappled with

Camus’ vision of the absurd world and

Meursault’s statement of revolt, an understanding emerged from the sundrenched

Algerian beach. Each member of the class offered his insights for consideration,

risking the scrutiny of the group but confident in its intellectual generosity. The

rigorous standards of the class, and our common desire for understanding, led

eventually to firmer comprehension. My balanced interpretation of Camus derived

only from the intensity of discussion, the contributions of my peers, and our mutual

willingness to share our insights.

Through my participation in Regis’ Speech and Debate Society, I have continued in

my quest for the acquisition of knowledge through the group. Extemporaneous

Speaking requires that a speaker provide a thorough analysis of a current

events/policy proposition, after considering and synthesizing numerous sources.

Speakers engage each other on subjects ranging from democratic and free-market

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reforms in Boris Yeltsin’s Russia to the prospects for a Medicare

overhaul in the

Republican Congress. Practices involve evaluation by fellow team members and

success depends intimately on an accurate common understanding of the issues

Lincoln-Douglas Debate, similarly, entails team formulations of argument based on

philosophical principles. We prepare as a team, and I have been privileged to benefit

from teammates’ sophisticated applications and elucidations of issues as diverse as

social contract theory and international ethical mandates.

The group character of the tea

m’s intellectual strivings was brought to bear most

strongly at the Harvard Invitational, in the winter of my junior year. Debaters were

asked to evaluate the proposition that “American society is well

-served by the

maintenance of a separate culture for

the deaf.” The evening before the tournament

began, sixteen debaters massed in one hotel room at the Howard Johnson’s on

Memorial Drive, and, fueled by peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches and

gallons of coffee, we wrangled over the specifics of the unique resolution. The

assimilationist camp suggested that the achievement of group dignity and a private

identity for the deaf had to occur against the backdrop of a larger public identity. The

separatism inherent in ASL or deaf schools fatally divorced the group from

meaningful participation in the American democracy. True cultural uniqueness

required a common frame of reference. Conversely, the deaf separatist partisans

maintained that this decidedly marginalized minority deserved a distinctness of

culture commensurate with the distinctness of its experience. Separation allowed

dignity and empowerment.

As the hours wore on and the dialectic raged out of control, positions became more

entrenched, but paradoxically a truer comprehension arose. The eloquence and

persuasiveness with which each side advanced its interpretation furthered the

exchange. We acknowledged and respected the logic of those with whom we

disagreed, and we reinforced our own convictions by articulating and defending

them. At 1:30, bedraggled, exhausted, and happily not unanimous in perspective,

we regretfully dispersed to our rooms, to sleep off the effects of the session.

If I began my educational career as an intellectual monopolist, I have evolved into

a collectivist. On our last day of summer vacation, a dozen Regis students spent an

afternoon in the Yankee Stadium bleachers, arguing the possible outcomes of the

American League pennant race, then returned to Manhattan’s Central Park to attend

the New York Shakespeare Festival’s arresting

and hyper-controversial production

of Troilus and Cressida. As we exited the Delacorte Theater, we reflected on the

modernization of Shakespeare’s message. Some praised its transmission of

bleakness and pessimism; others joined critics in attacking its excesses and its

artistic license in manipulating the original. Our consensus on the Bronx Bombers’

chances in October was firmer than that on the Greek conquest of Troy, but the

essential truth remains. Regis has wonderfully fused the communal and the

intellectual phases of my life.

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ANALYSIS

Writing about an outstanding learning experience is a fairly common approach to

the personal statement. But while many applicants may choose a defining and

distinct moment

–

winning the state speech tournament or setting the school record

for the highest GPA

–

as an experience worth retelling, Habib instead chooses to

chronicle the gradual process of intellectual maturation. By choosing this topic,

Habib has the opportunity to reflect on his education and recount several formative

experiences, not just resort to trite descriptions of winning or losing.

Habib’s thesis –

that one’s communal life and intellectual pursuits are only enhanced

when fused together

–

is a somewhat abstract and difficult argument to make, at

least for a high school senior. The fact that Habib makes the argument successfully,

through the use of details and concrete examples, makes the essay all the more

impressive.

Still, the essay isn’t perfect. It’s long. The sentences can

be complex and a bit

convoluted. The language used, while enough to impress any Kaplan SAT instructor,

could be toned down to make the essay more readerfriendly. Habib could have

easily shortened his statement by using fewer examples of real-life learning

experiences. Or the experiences he shares could have been shortened: the

admissions committee may not need to know the exact arguments and

counter-

argument Habib’s Lincoln

-Douglas debate team drafted for the Harvard

tournament.

Overall, Habib’s essay help

s distinguish him from other applicants by taking an

interesting approach to a common theme and using concrete supporting arguments.

All in all, it is a well-written essay enhanced by personal insights, examples, and the

all- important details.

“On Diplomacy in Bright Nike Running Tights”

“On Diplomacy in Bright Nike Running Tights”

By Christopher M. Kirchhoff

Beepbeep.

Beepbeep.

Beepbeep. With a series of subtle but relentless beeps, my faithful Timex Ironman

watch alarm signaled the start of another day, gently ending the pleasant slumber I

so often fail to enjoy. With the touch of a button I silenced the alarm, falling back on

my bed to establish a firmer grasp of where I was and why on earth I had set my

alarm for 5:45 A.M. Slowly the outline of my soundly sleeping roommate came into

focus. Beyond his bed was the window. Across the Neva River the view of the

Hermitage and Winter Palace, illuminated brightly with spotlights, faded in and out

of the falling snow. I was definitely still in St. P

etersburg, and no, this wasn’t a

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dream. “Oh yes, running,” I remembered. “Must go running.”

Temperature??? I dialed the front desk. “Kakoy tempatura pozholsta.” Not fooled by

my Berlitz Russian, the voice responded, “Negative 7 degrees” in crisp En

glish. I

reached for my running tights, glad that meant negative seven degrees Celsius. I

took another look into the darkness outside. Negative seven degrees Fahrenheit and

I would not be running. The hotel lobby was empty except for the guard and the

woman at the desk. As I stepped outside, I pressed the start button on my Timex

Ironman and began jogging.

It was a pristine morning. The November wind promptly reminded me just what

winter meant at 60 degrees north latitude. With the sky awaiting the break of dawn,

I started making my way through the newly fallen snow. Soon the sound of my

labored breathing came through the rhythmic swooshing of running shoes dancing

through the snow. As clouds of breath collected in front of me, I passed slowly

through them, marking my forward progress with each exhale. Around the corner I

found a freshly shoveled sidewalk. Following the inviting path, I soon came upon the

shoveler, an old man sporting the classic Russian winter outfit: fur cap, long coat,

and mittens. Time had left its mark on his wrinkled face and worn clothing. Despite

the falling snow, which accumulated at a far greater pace than the man could keep

up with, he continued to shovel relentlessly, barely glancing up as I jogged by him.

I respect his perseverance. He was working fiercely in the Russian spirit. And as the

war medals proudly displayed on his coat indicate, he had been doing so for a while.

Perhaps this man was one of the few that survived the Nazi siege on Leningrad, a

living reminder of why the United States must remain deeply involved in world

politics.

As I turned and ran across the bridge leading downtown, the battleship Potemkin

came into view. The Potemkin began the second Russian Revolution by training its

guns on the Winter Palace. Still afloat as a working museum, young sailors in full

military dress cleared its decks of snow. While I ran past the ship, a sailor stopped

to wave. As his inquisitive eyes stared into mine, we both recognized each other’s

young age. I waved back, shouting, “Doebroyah ootra,” wishing him a good morning.

A few seconds later I glanced back, noticing that the same sailor was still looking at

me. I must have been quite a sight in my brightly colored Nike running suit treading

through a foot of new snow. “How ironic,” I thought, “here stands a high school aged

Russian sailor shoveling snow off a ship which I studied in history class, while each

of us is equally bewildered at the other’s presence.”

By the time I reached the Hermitage the sky was clear enough to see my reflection

in the cold black of the Neva River. While running past the Winter Palace, I

quickened my pace, half expecting the Tsarina to step out and stop my progress. I

sprinted through Revolution Square, glancing left to see the spot where Tsar Nicolas

abdicated and right to see the monument commemorating the defeat of Napoleon.

While trodding through historic St. Petersburg, I reflected on the last discussion I

had with Sasha, my Russian host student. Sasha, top in his class in the “diplomatic”

track of study, had talked about his political beliefs for the first time. What begun as

a question- and-answer session about life in the United States became a titanic

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struggle between political ideals. Sasha’s tone and seriousness clearly indicated

that

our discourse was not for pleasure. He wanted to know about our government and

what democracy meant for him and his people. Being the first U.S. citizen Sasha had

ever met, I felt obligated to represent my country as best I could. Realizing that my

response could forever shape his impression of democracy in the U.S., the

importance of my mission as a student ambassador became even more apparent.

For Russians, democracy remains a new and untrusted method of government.

Clearly, Russia is still in a state of change, vulnerable to the forces of the past and

skeptical of the future. Sasha, unable to share my faith in the democratic political

process, listened patiently to my explanations. I tried my best to help Sasha

conceptualize what the United States is about and just what it means to be an

American. For the sake of both countries I hope he accepted my prodemocracy

argument. It was conversations like these that brought a new sense of urgency to

my time in Russia. Through the course of my visit, Sasha and I came to know each

other and each other’s people. His dream of serving as a diplomat may very well

materialize. Perhaps someday Sasha will be in a position to make decisions that

affect the United States. I hope my impression will in some way affect his judgment

in a positive manner.

After jogging up the hotel steps, I pressed the stop button. Not bad for a morning

run I thought. Sixty-

four minutes in deep snow, about seven miles’ worth. Press

Mode button. Time zone one: E.S.T. Columbus, Ohio. It was Saturday night back

home Thinking of home, I remembered the student in my homeroom who cried,

“You mean you’re gonna go and meet those Commies? So you think you can change

the world?” Press Mode button.

Time zone two: St. Petersburg, Russia, November 4, 1995. greeting the dawn of a

new day I thought, “Perhaps! Perhaps in some small way I can change the world,

one conversation at a time.”

ANALYSIS

The month that Christopher Kirchhoff spent in Russia as a “student diplomat”

undoubtedly provided him with more than enough experiences to include in an

admissions application. But in his essay “On Diplomacy in Bright Nike Running

Tights,” Kirchhoff successfully avoids falling into the trap of many applicants whose

statements are based on once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.

Kirchhoff easily could have written something along the lines of, “My time in Russia

provided me with a rare opportunity to witness an emerging democracy grappling

with its newfound freedom. Armed with a keen interest in the post-Communist

plight, I set forth to learn from my Russian brethren and to teach them about their

American peers.” These statements are not necessarily untrue, but they are also not

especially original. Such an essay would hardly stand out among a stack of

statements written by students retelling the glory of winning the state

debate/football/academic challenge championship.

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Instead, Kirchhoff tells the admissions committee about the Russia he has come to

know on his early-morning jogs. We learn that he is a disciplined runner, a

perceptive observer of human nature, a willing learner of the Russian language.

Bright Nike running tights, his Time Ironman, and the rhythmic swooshing of his

running shoes are details that his audience will remember. They also provide the

perfect segue into the more substantive issues Kirchhoff wants to address in his

essay

–

the conversations he has had with Russians his age. The reader gets to

know Kirchhoff before we get to know his views on such weightier subjects as

diplomacy and the American role in international relations.

While his supposedly verbatim thoughts after waving to the young sailor sound

stilted, Kirchhoff’s understated and personal approach throughout the majority of

his essay makes up for his waxing a bit too eloquent at times. Ideally, it would have

been nice to hear just as much detail about his conversations with Sasha as we do

about St. Petersburg at 6 A.M. The essay loses the details when it matters most.

Also in terms of detail, Kirchhoff makes a slight error in hi

s statement that “the

Potemkin began the second Russian Revolution by training its guns on the Winter

Palace.” It was in fact that Aurora that fired mostly blank rounds on the palace –

the

battleship Potemkin was the scene of a 1905 revolt by sailors in Odessa. These

mistakes are rather minor since the essay is not particularly centered on the ship.

However, let this serve as a valuable lesson: it is important to extensively check all

facts used in your essay.

Still, Kirchhoff’s essay works.

“Salade Olivier”

“Salade Olivier”

By Svetlana Rukhelman

For as long as I can remember, there was always the salade Olivier. It consisted of

boiled potatoes, carrots, eggs, bologna and pickles diced into tiny cubes and mixed

into a giant enamel pot together with canned peas and mayonnaise. It was

considered a delicacy, and prepared only on special occasions such as birthday and

dinner parties. But it was also a ritual, the only component of the first course which

was never absent from a dinner table, no matter which of our relatives or friends

was throwing the feast.

Ironically, the salade Olivier was never my favorite food, though the attitude of my

taste buds to the dish did evolve through the years. In my earliest childhood, I

favored the compliant potatoes, then began to lean toward the pickles and bologna

–

that sweet-and-sour, crunchy-and=soft combination that never loses its appeal

–

and next passed a phase in which the green peas appeared so abhorrent that I

would spend twenty minutes picking every pea I could find out of my serving. Only

recently did I resign myself to the fact that all the ingredients must be consumed

simultaneously for maximum enjoyment as well as for the sake of expediency.

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It may seem odd, then, to be writing in such length in praise of a dish one does not

particularly like. But culinary memories are determined not so much by whether we

found a food tasty, but by the events, people, and atmospheres of which the food

serves as a reminder. In my mind, the very making of the salade has always been

associated with the joyful bustle that accompanied the celebrations for which the

dish was prepared: the unfolding of the dinner table to its full length, the borrowing

of chairs from neighbors, the starched white tablecloths, simmering crystal

wineglasses, polished silverware, white napkins, delicate porcelain plates of three

different sizes stacked one on top of another, the aroma floating from the kitchen all

through the apartment, my father taking me on special shopping errands, the

wonderful dilemma of “what to wear?” and myriad other pleasant deviations from

the monotony of everyday existence. Though simple in theory, the preparation of

the salade Olivier was a formidable undertaking which occupied half the morning

and all but one of the stove burners. At first it was my responsibility to peel the

boiled potatoes == the one task which did not require the use of a knife or other

utensil, and one which I performed lovingly, albeit inefficiently. As I sat at the

kitchen table, my five-year-old fingers covered in several layers of potato skin, my

mother and I would lead heart-to-heart discussions, whose topics I no longer

remember, but of which I never tired.

Eventually, my mother introduced me to the Dicing of the Potatoes, and then to the

Dicing of the Bologna, the Dicing of the Pickles, the Shelling of the Eggs and the

Stirring in of the Mayonnaise as well. But there was one stage of the process I found

especially mesmerizing. It was the Dicing of the Eggs, carried out one hard-boiled

egg at a time with the help of an egg-cutter. Nothing was more pleasing to the eye

than the sight of those seven wire-like blades, arranged like prison bars, slicing

through the smooth, soft ellipsoid.

Today, we still make the salade Olivier on some formal occasions, and, as before, I

sometimes participate. And every time I see the eggslicer or smell the pickles, I am

reminded of our Kiev apartment, of those much-anticipated birthday parties, of the

joy I felt as I helped my mother cook: of all the things which made my childhood a

happy one.

ANALYSIS

This essay seeks to introduce us to the author via a description of the author’s

childhood conditions and family experiences as well as experiences from the

author’s cultural heritage. The salade Olivier

, a delicacy in both Ukranian and

Russian diets, serves as the central organizational motif for this description.

The essay’s power comes from its amazing descriptive qualities. The reader is given

a vivid and detailed picture of both the salade and much o

f the author’s childhood.

The essay also entices the reader by deliberately omitting a description of the

salade’s cultural origins until the very end of the text. This technique forces the

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reader to move through the essay with puzzling questions

about the salade’s origins

and the reader’s unfamiliarity with such a dish, motivating the reader to remain

engrossed in the work and seek out the answers of interest. Only in the end are

things revealed, and even then the reader may not be fully satisfied.

Despite the essay’s great descriptive power, however, the reader is given few

specific details about the author or the Unkrainian culture that serves as the

backdrop for the author’s childhood. Including more such details could dramatically

incr

ease the essay’s strength, especially given the unfamiliarity of most readers

with the culture that stands at the core of the author’s heritage.

“The Tug of War”

“The Tug of War”

I stand between two men. The caramel- skinned man on my left holds his cane as if

the world is waiting for his entrance. On my right the taller vanilla-skinned man

stands erect as if he must carry the world. Each man reaches for my hand and

before long, a tug-of-war ensues between them. Each tries to pull me over the line

of agreement but my body stays in the middle. During this struggle I hear their

voices saying:

“Cast down your bucket where you are!”

“The problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line!”

“It is at the bottom we must begin, not at the top!”

higher education!”

“The only way we can fully be men is with the acquisition of social equality and

Their voices blur. My torso stretches wider and wider. My arms grow in length as

each man pulls and pulls. Finally, I yell, “I can’t take it anymore!”

This is the scene that plays in my head when I contemplate the philosophies of

Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. Du Bois, two foes attempting to answer a

question that never seems to go away: “How shall the African

-American race be

uplifted?” their answers rep

resented the right and lift of the social spectrum in the

early 1900s. I attempted to present their views in the IB Extended Essay. While I

wrote the paper something inside of me felt the need to agree with and choose one

philosophy over the other. I could

n’t. So this struggle developed.

In the beginning, Washington looked as if he had already lost the tug-of-war. When

I first encountered the ideas of Washington I wanted to grab him and ask him,

“What was going through your head?” The former

-slave-turned-leader- of-a-race,

Washington advocated industrial education over higher education, When he said,

“cast down your bucket,” he meant relinquishing social equality in the name of

economic prosperity. When I read this, one word popped into my mind, “Uncle Tom.”

I felt that Washington had betrayed his race when he renounced social equality.

Wasn’t that a right every man wanted?

After examining Washington, examining Du Bois was like jumping into a hot bath

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after sliding headfirst through a field of cow

dung. The intellectual’s ideas of higher

education and social equality sat well with my middle-class African-American

stomach. Du Bois represents everything I grew up admiring. Du Bois was the radical

who attended Harvard University. His idea of a “talented tenth” to lead the

African-American race starkly resembles the black middle class today. I had no

choice but to agree with Du Bois.

So enamored with Du Bois was I that I forgot about Washington’s practical ideas of

self-help and economic power. I witness

ed Washington’s ideas acted out in everyday

life. I bought my “black” hair products from and Asian owner in the middle of the

ghetto and the corner store owned by Iranians supplied me with chips and candy.

These facts made me feel that maybe African-Americans had shoved Washington

too far back into the closet. At this juncture, Washington began to give Du Bois

competition in a formerly one-sided war. Economic prosperity means power; a race

with economic power cannot be denied social equality, right?

In order to resolve the dilemma presented by this tug-of-war, I looked at the

ingredients of my life. Washington appealed to the part of me that wanted to forget

about social equality. That part of me wanted to live as it came and focus only on

self-advancement. Du Bois appealed to the part of me that felt no man was a man

without social equality. Either way, both appealed to my life as an African- American.

The

fact

that

two

early

twentieth-century

advocates

affected

a

‘90s

African- American girl shows that their message was not lost in the passage of time.

Neither man won the tug-of-war. Maybe this tug- of

—

war in my head was not meant

to be won because their philosophies influenced me equally. Washington provided

the practical ingredients for social advancement while Du Bois provided the

intellectual ingredients for such advancement. African- Americans must evaluate

both philosophies and determine how both views can facilitate the advancement of

the race. I still stand between two men but now I embrace them equally.

ANALYSIS

The question of racial identity can be an enormous one for many people and often

makes a great college essay. Writing an essay about this part of your development

is insightful into your person and your views. Admissions officers are trying to get to

a portrait of who you are and what you value, and little is more revealing than a

struggle for racial identity. Freelon chose to write about two black leaders to show

what her racial identity means to her. Her essay also shows a keen interest in how

history can be applied to her life

–

an interest that would appeal to admissions

officers trying to pick thoughtful individuals.

Freelon’s essay

is well written and well organized. She moves smoothly from her

opening thoughts into the body of the essay and devotes equal time to each

philosophy. She also shows clear examples of why she originally liked Du Bois and

why she changed her mind about Washington. Her essay show important elements

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of human nature

–

she admits that as a “middle

-class African-

American,” she has a

bias, and she is also wrong from time to time.

The main danger in this essay is oversimplification. It’s difficult

to condense the

arguments of two leaders into a few paragraphs, and Freelon doesn’t present the

total view of their philosophies. She also assumes a familiarity on the part of the

admissions officers with issues of racial identity, which may or may not be true.

Overall, however, Freelon’s essay is an excellent example of how a personal identity

struggle can reveal a lot about the person inside.

“Thoughts Behind a Steam

-

Coated Door”

By Neha Mahajan

Till taught by pain Men really know not what good wate

r’s worth.

------Lord Byron

A light gauze of steam coats the transparent door of my shower. The temperature

knob is turned as far as it can go, and hot drops of water penetrate my skin like tiny

bullets. The rhythm of water dancing on the floor creates a blanket of soothing

sound that envelops me, muffling the chaotic noises of our thin-walled house.

Tension in my back that I didn’t even know existed oozes out of my pores into

streams of water cascading in glistening paths down my body. I breathe in a mist of

herbal scented shampoo and liquid Dove soap, a welcome change from the

semi-arid air of Colorado. In the shower I am alone. No younger siblings barging

unannounced into my room, no friends interrupting me with the shrill ring of the

telephone, no parents nagging me about finishing college essays.

The ceramic tiles that line my bathroom wall have the perfect coefficient of

absorption for repeated reflections of sound waves to create the wonderful

reverberation that makes my shower an acoustic dream. The two by four stall is

transformed into Carnegie Hall as Neha Mahajan, world-renowned musician, sings

her heart out into a shampoo bottle microphone. I lose myself in the haunting

melisma of an aalaap, the free singing of improved melodies in classical Indian

music. I perfect arrangements for a capella singing, practice choreography for

Excalibur, and improvise songs that I will later strum on my guitar.

Sometimes I sit in the shower and cry, my salty tears mingling with the clear drops

upon my face until I can no longer tell them apart. I have cried with the despair of

my friend and mentor in the Rape Crisis Team when she lost her sister in a vicious

case of domestic abuse, cried with the realization of the urgency of my work. I have

cried with the

inevitable tears after watching Dead Poet’s Society for the seventh

time. I have cried with the sheer frustration of my inability to convince a friend that

my religious beliefs and viewpoints are as valid as hers. Within these glass walls I

can cry, and my tears are washed away by the stinging hot water of the shower.

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The water that falls from my gleaming brass showerhead is no ordinary tap water. It

is infused with a mysterious power able to activate my neurons. My English teachers

would be amazed if they ever discovered how many of my compositions originated

in the bathroom. I have rarely had a case of writer’s block that a long, hot shower

couldn’t cure. This daily ritual is a chance for me to let my mind go free, to catch and

reflect over any thoughts that drift through my head before they vanish like the

ephemeral flashes of fireflies. I stand with my eyes closed, water running through

my dripping hair, and try to derive the full meaning conveyed in chapter six of my

favorite book, Zen and the Ar

t of Motorcycle Maintenance. I’ll be lathering shampoo

into the mass of tangles that is my hair as I work on a synaesthesia for the next two

lines of a poem, or the conditioner will be slowly soaking through when I experience

an Archimedean high, as a hard-to-grasp physics concept presented earlier in the

day suddenly reveals itself to me. Now if only they had let me take that AP Calculus

test in the shower…

The sparkles of falling water mesmerize me into reflection. Thoughts tumbling in

somersaults soften into a dewy mellowness. Do these drops of water carry a seed of

consciousness within them? As I watch the water winking with the reflected light of

the bathroom, it appears to glow in the fulfillment of its karma. Then, for a split

second, all thoughts cease to exist and time stands still in a moment of perfect

silence and calm like the mirror surface of a placid lake.

I know I have a tendency to deplete the house supply of hot water, much to the

annoyance of the rest of my family. I know I should heed m

y mother’s continual

warnings of the disastrous state of my skin after years of these long showers; as it

is, I go through two bottles of lotion a month to cure my post-

shower “prune”

syndrome. But my shower is too important to me. It is a small pocket of time away

form the frantic deadline and countless places to be and things to do. It is a chance

to reflect, and enjoy

—

a bit of welcome friction to slow down a hectic day. The water

flows into a swirling spiral down the drain beneath my feet. It cleanses not only my

body, but my mind and soul, leaving the bare essence that is me.

Analysis

This essay illustrates how something as ordinary as a hot shower can be used

auspiciously to reveal anything of the author’s choosing. Mahajan could have

focused on the academic subjects or extracurriculars she mentions in her essay,

such as physics or the Rape Crisis Team, but instead she chooses a daily ritual

common to us all. Though everyone can relate to taking a shower, doubtless few

shower in quite the same way Mahajan does or find it to be such an intellectually and

emotionally stirring experience. The intimacy of the act sets an appropriate stage

for her personal description of unraveling from life’s stresses by singing into a

shampoo bottle microphone.

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There is no signal, clear focus to the essay, but this accurately reflects the shower

experience itself

—“to catch and relect over any thoughts that drift through my head

before they vanish.” Mahajan touches on schoolwork, classical Indian music

and

contemplation about her favorite book, all with humorous flair, and she even goes

into emotionally revealing descriptions of crying in the shower. Unfortunately, she

dwells on crying for an entire paragraph, and reader cannot help but wonder

whether sh

e could survive without her shower to cleanse her “mind and soul.”

Ultimately, that Mahajan derives literally so much inspiration and relief from the

shower seems rather hard to believe. The notion that she could have done better on

her AP Calculus test had she been allowed to take it in the shower is amusing, but

doesn’t seem to add much beyond the suggestion stand that vague “hard

-to-grasp

physics concept” seems excessive. Already she distinctly conveys her interest in

science through her language

—“the pe

rfect coefficient of absorption for repeated

reflections of sound waves” –

and a supposedly subtle reaffirmation of this interest

seems unnecessary.

Mahajan’s vivid language and unusual description are principle qualities of this

essay. She deftly avoids the temptation of resorting to cliché

s, and most everything

is entirely unpredictable. A relatively minor point is that her economy of language

could be improved, as otherwise fluid sentences are occasionally overdone with an

excess of adjectives and adverbs. Nonetheless, Mahajan conveys her talent for

creative writing, and this carries her essay for beyong the lesser issues mentioned

earlier. And, of course, her distinctive showers theme helps this exhibition of talent

stand out.

哈佛

50

篇

essay-- 3

。难忘的时刻

Sensibility

-- by Amanda Davis

The putrid stench of rotten salmon wafts through the boardwalk, permeating the

Five Star Café with a fishy odor. I stand, chopping red peppers for tomorrow’s soba

salad, in the back of the minuscule kitchen. Adam, a pretty boy with cropped hair,

stands beside me, relating tales of snowboarding in Sweden while slicing provolone

cheese. Tourists walk by the café

, some peering in through the windows, others

interested only in fish swimming upstream

–

clicks of cameras capture the endless

struggle for survival. It is 3:00 in the afternoon, the lunch rush has died down, the

evening rush has not yet started. I relax in the rhythmic trance of the downward

motion of the knife, as I watch the red peppers fall into precise slices. The door

opens. A customer.

Adam looks toward me. “Your turn.”

I nod, pull myself away from the peppers, and turn to the register. A man stands,

looking at me. His eyes, hidden under tangled gray hair, catch mine, and my eyes

drop, down to his arms. Spider lines of old tattoos stand out, words and pictures and

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symbols sketched on thin, almost emaciated arms. I know I am staring. I look up.

“Can I help you?” I brightly ask.

He looks at me warily. “A cup of coffee.”

Adam hands him a cup and goes back to slicing.

“That will be one dollar, sir.” He fumbles in his pocket, and pulls out a wrinkled dollar

bill. He extends his hand, then

–

suddenly

–

pulls back. His face changes, and he

leans toward me, casting a frightened glance at the cash register.

“Is

that

–

is that --

” he stumbles over his words. “Is that alive?”

I look to the machine. Its common gray exterior rests on the counter, the green

numerals displaying the amount owed. I think of my first days at the Five Star, when

I was sure that it was alive

–

a nefarious machine manipulating the costs to cause

my humiliation. As the days proceeded, we slowly gained a trust for one another,

and its once evil demeanor had changed

–

to that of an ordinary machine. I think of

the world

–

controlled by machines, the cars and computers and clocks

–

would they,

could they, rise up against us? The espresso machine is behind me, it could attack

–

the hot water spurting forth, blinding me as the cash register falls and knocks me

onto the floor as I

–

No, of course not.

Sensibility wins again.

“No, sir. It’s just a machine,” I explain. He eyes me, untrusting of my words, in need

of reassurance. “It takes money.” I take his dollar, and show him how, with a push

of a button, I can place the money inside. He takes his coffee with both hands, and

sips it.

“A machine…” he quietly repeats.

The cash register sits, silent on the counter.

ANALYSIS

In both subject matter and style, “Sensibility” is a breath of fresh air. Imagine

reading stacks of essays about mundane topics, and then coming upon one about

red peppers, provolone cheese and a cash register

–

how could it not stand out?

Rather than describing a life- altering experience or an influential relationship, the

writer reveals herself and her talents indirectly by bringing us into a captivating

scene.

With the skills of a creative writer, the author uses crisp detail to make the Five Star

Café

spring to life and to place us in the seaside kitchen. Even if all the essay does

is grab our attention and force us to remember its author, this essay is a success.

But “Sensibility” has other strengths. The dialogue with the emaciated man raises

provocative questions about modern life. How do we relate to the machines around

us? How does “sensibility” change in this new envir

onment? And how do machines

affect our relations with people of different classes and backgrounds? The essay

does not pretend to answer these questions, but in raising them it reveals its author

to possess an impressive degree of sophistication and, at bottom, an interesting

mind.

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