College ESSAY #1
Froyo
Last semester, a boy asked me to get froyo with him. All confidence and overly gelled
hair, he strode up to my group—composed of my older sister and friends he’d never met—and
said “Go on a date. With me. To Zoyo.”
I said no. Not because his swagger and face in general were inexplicably annoying. Not
because he TOLD me to go with him instead of asking me, which I found rude. But because I
honestly just hate froyo. Also, more than that, I hate dates. People assume because I’m a preppy
blonde, Elle Woods is my role model, I have the IQ and attention span of a goldfish, and, worst
of all, that froyo is like crack to me. None of those things is true at all. Nevertheless, none of
them measures up to the fact that boys think that because I’m a girl I love dates. They couldn’t
be more wrong.
A traditional date is basically my worst nightmare. Three hours staring at someone who is
basically a stranger, making small talk about stuff I really could not care less about. Yes, I do
like living on campus. No, I’m not in a sorority. Yes, Arizona is damn hot. During these 3 hours,
you’re constantly hyperconscious of everything happening around you, to you, and with you.
You are suddenly paranoid about the weirdest stuff—“I should sit up straighter so my b**bs look
bigger”—and basic tasks suddenly become huge and complicated. Walking like a normal human
being is not so natural any more, and you’re pretty sure your face is twitching as you try to look
interested and sexy at the same time. It’s exhausting.
In high school, this awkward ritual made sense. Amidst throngs of hormonal, socially
inept, and strange teenagers, the discomfort of a formal date is no more awkward than their
already hilariously awkward daily lives. However, in college everything changes. Dating
becomes much more casual.
Casual dating, to me, is much more effective. It’s cheaper, more time-efficient, and just
generally fits my lifestyle better. I feel like you can make a much deeper connection with
someone while mutually swimming in pools of self-pity about the tests you have coming up than
you can forcing small-talk and good posture over a paper cup of overpriced frozen “dairy”
product.
Forget just romance. The best connections in general I’ve made in college happened at 2
in the morning over some delicious almost-food procured from our local Taco Bell. When all the
conventions of a date are gone, you’re left with the person. Everything about them is laid out for
you to see. Are they anxiety prone? Are they funny? Are they as good of a procrastinator as you?
Are they bat-s*** crazy? No matter what you find, you know it’s real, and you can make a
decision.
This, for me, is romance. Once you eliminate the formality, the fancy clothes, and the
overpowering Axe body spray, you find something honest. Something thoughtful. When a boy
brought me a plate of my favorite Pita Jungle after I had had a bad day, I was touched because it
meant so much more. It meant that he listened to me, both about my obsession with their
hummus (honestly, it’s insane. I once ate there 4 times in 3 days), and about how bad of a day I
was having. He cared enough to go out of his way to do something personal and actually helpful
for me. I also got to eat Pita Jungle in my pajamas, which is pretty much the best thing I could
ever imagine. When that same boy made me waffles, because he knows how much I love them, I
pretty much fell in love right then and there.
While it seems that most of my love is food based, and honestly it probably partially is,
these thoughtful gestures are spontaneous, romantic, and casual. I would much rather have a guy
jokingly hold a stereo outside my window a la John Cusack to reference a good movie than a guy
give me a box of chocolates to tell me how “sweet” I am. Yes, guys (note: that’s guys, plural)
think that’s clever.
Showing originality and forgetting about traditional ideas of dating and romance open the
world up to so many more possibilities. They turn ice cream runs into hilariously laborious hikes
up A-mountain, where we can both laugh at how out of shape I am. They turn expensive dinners
into riveting marathons of “Parks and Recreation,” where we get the best ab workout of our life
“lol-ing” at Ron Swanson discussing politics.
Most importantly, they turn the date from a date into time well spent getting to really
know someone. Cheesy, I know, but true. When you cut past all the bull-crap, you get to
something real, and that’s what dating is trying to accomplish in the first place.
So next time you want to ask someone out, be original. Think about how you can really get to
know them.
And for God’s sake, remember, just because she’s blonde, doesn’t mean she likes froyo
College Essay #2
Me, Myself and I
Go to bed late and finish our homework; wake up early and get ready for school; don't
procrastinate and wait till the last minute; always read our assignments so you are ready for our
pop quiz; when studying for a test, be sure that you know the material well, because that way you
will ace the test; never drop out of an honor society; is it true that you forgot about our physics
test today?; always follow the rules so that everyone thinks we're perfect; at school try to take
notes like a scholar and not the slacker you are so bent on becoming; don't forget about our test;
you mustn't play football with the neighborhood children, not even if we have finished all our
homework and done all our studying; don't flaunt our success to relatives- they will expect things
of us; but I don't forget about tests and never in Physics; this is how you sharpen our pencils; this
is how you practice our speaking skills for the debate tournament next week; this is how you
organize our backpack when it gets disorganized and so to prevent us from looking like the
slacker you are so bent on us becoming; this is how you study for the SAT so we do well; this is
how you study for the ACT so we do well; this is how you study for a test- away from people,
because studying needs quiet; when you do a project, make sure to start early or else
procrastinating will overwhelm us; this is how you answer multiple choice; this is how you
answer true or false; this is how you answer fill in the blank; this is how you say good morning
to a nice teacher; this is how you say good morning to a rude teacher; this is how you say good
morning to a rude teacher that we might need extra credit from; this is how you write an essay
for History; this is how you write an essay for Spanish; this is how you write an essay for
English; this is how you write an FRQ for Physics; this is how you write an FRQ for Calculus;
this is how you act in the presence of teachers who do not know us well, and this way they will
not recognize immediately the slacker I have warned us against becoming; be sure to study every
day, even if it is without any notes; don't pretend to not understand- we are not slow; don't copy
people's work- we would never learn; don't pretend to be ready for a test, because we might not
be ready at all; this is how to solve a problem using Algebra; this is how to solve a problem using
Geometry; this is how to solve a problem using Calculus; this is how to write an outline for a big
project; this is how to write a good outline so that we don't have to do the rest of the big project;
this is how to write a first draft; this is how to throw out a first draft we don't like; this is how to
control our schedule; this is how our schedule controls us; this is how to change a schedule, and
if this doesn't work there are other ways, and if they don't work don't feel too bad about giving
up; this is how to procrastinate a project if we feel like it; this is how to work quickly so we can
catch back up; this is how to make good grades; always ask questions to make sure we
understand; but what if the teacher won't answer our questions?; you mean to say that after all we
are really going to be the kind of student whose questions a teacher won't answer?
College Essay #3 Six Nylon Strings
The dark caress of the fret board. The slippery touch of nylon. The complex pattern of
your rhythmic right hand interwoven with the liquid fluidity of your left. The smooth, mahogany
body situated firmly in between your legs, an inanimate lover composed of Spanish wood and six
powerful strings.
And the notes.
Rich and mellow; from the ovular heart of your guitar they sound, drifting into the open
air with the fullness of ripe fruit, with the freshness of summer rain, with the beauty of
undeserved grace. Wood and nylon and human touch combine to produce the divine music that
Pan played on his flute and that Apollo echoed on his lyre.
For six years, I’ve participated in this love affair with classical guitar. I took lessons at
Moody Bible Institute in Chicago every Saturday, and these lessons were amongst the most
frustrating and rewarding moments of my life.
Classical guitar is different from acoustic or electric guitar; it is not simply playing
chords or learning bass lines. Classical guitar combines fingerpicking with arpeggios, structure
with improvisation, complexity with simplicity. The difficulty of technique, of proper wrist
shape, of timing and curvature, combined with the musical theory that forms classical guitar, is
something only understood by classical guitarists. I remember many nights of frustration, going
over the same two measures of Bach or Villa Lobos over and over and over again until I was
satisfied with how it sounded; even the shaving of a single second off a vital note could weaken
the entire piece. The beauty of the classical guitar, I soon realized, came with its price.
Yet, as callouses formed on my fingertips and fresh persistence invigorated every
Saturday lesson, a realization started to stir in me. I would carry my guitar into my room and
play simple melodies; I would listen to a classical piece on the computer and play it alongside
the recording; I would pluck an arpeggio mindlessly as I studied for finals, and this realization
deepened in my mind like a splinter paranoid of being forgotten. I found that what I was
participating in, this practicing and producing of music, was something sacred and ancient and
beautiful, something uniquely human.
Today, I do not play my classical guitar nearly as much as I used to. Strenuous AP
classes at school and impending college applications limit much of the time I have to play.
However, in a rare moment when life slows from its prestissimo race to an allegro stroll, I pick
up my guitar and rest it between my legs. I pluck an arpeggio and listen to the melodic notes
soak through the room. I play and I play and I recall the old, sacred beauty that I have somehow
forgotten.
The music resonating from the polished Spanish wood and warm nylon strings releases a
whisper that divulges the essence of humanity, and every pluck brings that whisper closer to my
ears.
College Essay #4
Botanical Stories
“I don't want to be a writer anymore!” I shouted. The outburst was triggered by an
argument that I had been having with my father. It was one we had had several times before, but
the message never seemed to get through to him, or anyone else.
“What do you mean you don't want to be a writer anymore? You can't just stop being a
writer. That's just stupid,” my father said giving me an appalled look. “You're a wonderful
writer. That's what you're going to be when you grow up.” His reply was firm. It was as if he had
already decided what my future was going to be like. I ripped up the story I held in my hand and
threw down my favorite, black, ball point pen. I glared at the pen laying lifelessly on the ground
for a moment before my expression softened and I leaned down to pick it back up and slip it into
my pocket. I was too frustrated at the moment to be heartbroken about my ruined story, but later
I would regret tearing it to shreds. I'd written it for my dad.
“Daddy,” I sighed exasperated. “I want to be a scientist. I want to be a botanist. I don't
want to write. I don't want fame.” My father stared at me as if he was trying to understand the
meaning behind my words.
“A scientist?” he asked slowly, trying out the words. My parents did not really like the
idea of my wanting to be a scientist at first. They thought that it was just going to be a phase. It
was not a phase though. It is not. I love science and have loved it since my freshman year of high
school. Although, the type of scientist I want to be has changed over the years, the basic idea has
not.
Ink runs through my veins. I love the sound of my pen decorating the page in letters,
words, sentences, paragraphs. I love writing silly stories, scary stories, funny stories. I write to
entertain myself and immediate family members and friends. I write for my younger brothers and
sisters. I write to make them laugh, or cry or fear. I write so that I can see the reactions of my
loved ones. I like when people love my stories and I even like when people hate my stories,
because at least I know they have listened to it, or read it.
But...
Writing is something that I do for fun.
Botany is my passion. I love the idea of knowing exactly where my food comes from. I
love the idea of growing my own food and being able to sustain myself. I love walking through
my garden and seeing all of the plants that I have grown, the fruits of my labor. I have been
interested in medicinal plants since I was fairly young.
My mom is a nutritionist and has influenced my love of organic food and natural
medicine. I have grown up with the idea that healthy food is good food. First and foremost, be
true to your body, mind and soul. That was one of the values that my brothers, sisters and I grew
up with. As a child, one of the things that I wanted to be when I grew up (directly after wanting
to be a pig, because they are pink of course!) was just like my mom. But as the years have
dragged on, my interests have changed and grown. I no longer wanted to be a pig, I wanted to be
an astronaut, an astronomer, and finally, a botanist.
My dream is to one day have my own small, sustainable community in the mountains. Of
course, this is just a dream, and like most dreams it may not come true, I know this and accept it
as an almost fact. But I still like to envision it. My dream seems so small and far away, but I have
spent countless hours thinking and planning about how to make it become a reality. And
although, I love the idea, I have also decided to start out a bit smaller. Instead of building my
own sustainable community, I would like to help families below a certain income level, to grow
organic food and sustain themselves.
I would love to start some kind of non-profit organization because I am interested in
helping people to become healthier in ways that are not expensive. I have heard a lot of people
say that they would be more inclined to feed their families healthier food if it were not so
expensive, but I think that it is important for people to know that not all healthy food tastes bad
and is extremely expensive. Most people do not know that they can find healthy, nutritious food
right in their own backyard. All it takes is a little knowledge about the botany in one's area, and
they can pick a delicious salad out of something most people would consider weeds.
A lot of people spend copious amounts of money on dandelion greens and mint, when
these things can easily be found in the nearest park. Dandelions are not just weeds, they are a
plant with extremely high nutritional value that most average Americans do not even know
about. People are constantly mowing down and spraying these wonderful plants that are rich
with nutrition. If you were poor, would you want to go spend money on a salad that you could
just as easily find in your own backyard?
If people who are struggling to figure out where their next meal were to come from, knew
that there were so many alternatives right under their noses, they would be crawling around in
the dirt everyday, picking those “weeds” that nobody else wants.
I want to give people, who want one, a choice. I would like to help those who want to be
helped. I want to give those who would not normally have one, an alternative as to what they put
into their bodies. Our bodies are our most important and valuable tools. We should be treating
them with the utmost respect and care.
I want to be able to help other people, but I want to gain as much knowledge as I can
before I do. I believe that I can use my skill of writing and my knowledge of plants to good use,
possibly even write my own urban field guide to Colorado's botany. It would be combining two
of my favorite pass times together.
I love creating stories, and I want to write to make my family and friends happy. But the
study of plants is my passion, I want to use that study to help other people, not only my family,
but those who really need the help.
College Essay #5
What a Foolish Hare I Am
In 8th grade, I tried out for the Cleveland Youth Wind Symphony. At the time, I was the
first chair flutist in my school band and had thought I was already better than everyone else. A
friend of mine, who was in a lower seat than me, had already been accepted into the symphony.
Compared to her, I felt confident that I could get in. I picked up my favorite song, the same one I
used to make 1st chair in my band, and on the day of the audition, I pretty much walked into the
room with my nose in the air.
To my surprise, I received a rejection letter in the mail. I didn’t understand what went
wrong or how there were so many others who were better than me. I cried for days and
complained the audition hadn’t been fair.
Weeks later, this failure had gradually subsided until one day, I was helping my mom do
some cleaning around the house. As I was restacking our bookshelves, I came across a worn
book, The Tortoise and the Hare. I remembered reading the story a long time ago, but I had
never thought much of it back then. As I flipped through the yellowed pages, I recalled how a
hare, who had ridiculed a slow-moving tortoise, was challenged by him to a race. The hare,
confident of winning, quickly left the tortoise behind and decided to take a nap halfway through
the course; when he awoke, however, he found that the tortoise had already finished the race. I
chuckled at the foolishness of the rabbit, and all of a sudden, I realized that the old fable exactly
described my own situation. I had overlooked everyone else before my audition. I had failed to
work as hard as I could because of my overconfidence. I had been that foolish rabbit.
I realize now that I had let arrogance cloud my eyes, and in the end, just like the rabbit,
when I finally awoke from my slumber and entered reality, I saw that I had paid the price for it.
From my experience, I have learned to never again compare myself to others, but instead, only to
myself, and to challenge myself to do the best that I can possibly do.
So instead of giving up and moping over my failure, I decided to pick myself up from my
fall, challenging myself with more difficult pieces and practicing for hours on end. This time, I
would push myself to my own limits, not to anyone else’s. The next year, I auditioned again and
was not only accepted into the group, but was chosen to serve as the principal flutist for the
Cleveland Youth Wind Symphony.
My performance skills were improved immensely; soon after the audition, I achieved the highest
ranking in the Ohio Solo and Ensemble Contest. What I had once regarded as my failure has in
the end served as a pivotal point in my journey to success.
College Essay #6
Last Word.
Fold fabric in half, right side to right side. Lay out pattern piece A and cut.
Lay out pattern piece B and cut.
Stitch the front of piece A to the front of piece B using an inch seam allowance.
Attach an overabundance of sequins in odd places; sew on buttons where there are no button
holes; add frill y trim where there are no edges; and always keep a seam ripper and a need le
nearby.
I am a patchwork, but my life is far from a pattern. I often feel as though I may have to
backstitch a little or patch up a hole. My life is not perfect, but it's certainly an original work of
art. Some people go through life hoping that theirs will be the perfect fantasy they see in the
movies, but not me. I would rather have a unique looking, patched up, sparkles everywhere, pink
trim all over, stitched on upside down and backwards life there ever was, because then it would
be 100% me. And that's just the kind of life I lead.
My patchwork is an ever-changing one. There are days I rip out a piece. I leave the
frayed edges on the hole so that anyone can plainly sec that something is missing, that something
has been removed; and there is a void in need of filling. Other days, I take out my seam rip- per
and carefully undo each stitch until it looks as though the piece has never before been sewn
upon, and then I replace it with something new so it looks as if nothing ever changed. Once in a
while I just cover an old piece up with a new one. The old piece is still there, underneath
everything else, but now it simply exists for my comfort and security, instead of as a display for
everyone else. But the best days are the days I just get to add something new: some jewels, or
lace, or buttons, or a new piece of fabric. See, that's the best feeling - when you can take
something small that was unacknowledged or overlooked or seemingly useless and make it an
integral part of a unique picture.
I am made up of a plethora of tiny pieces and rarities. On their own they might not seem
like a whole lot, but together they make up son1ething special. My pieces are all individual,
asymmetrical and eclectic. Some of the simpler ones were inherited: my brown hair, my long
legs and 111y voice. Other slightly more intricate skills were taught: how to read, the proper
pirouette, jingle bells and the power of hugs. But the most valuable lessons, the ones that are
truly unique on account of the whoopsie-daisies and the patches and the do-overs, are the lessons
I learned on my own: how to sew, form my own opinions, smile, empathize with peo-ple and
trust myself. None of the pieces of my patchwork are truly pure or definite. They are always
changing and rearranging and becoming new things, but each of them is truly me, and for that, I
am truly grateful.
So now I hold up my patchwork quilt with all its mismatched pieces and stitches, and its
goofy buttons and trim, and its patches and holes, and say to you, "This is my life thus far, and
it's far from finished. It's a work of art every step of the way, and even if some days it's not pretty
or doesn't look quite right, it's all me. And one day when it's all finished, it will be truly stunning.
Until then, I like it just the way it is right now, because it is constantly chang-ing and will never
be this way again. So today, I'm just going to enjoy it."
College Essay #7
"Mike"
Influence? Why is it that the people who influence us most influence us in ways that are
not easily quantified? Through her work with abused children, my mother has shown me the
heroism of selfless dedication to a worthy cause. By being an upstanding individual, my
playwriting teacher in middle school acted as an inspiring male role model at a time when I
needed one most. By being approachable and interesting, my World History teacher in my
freshman year of high school opened my eyes to the connections between a society's culture and
its history and broadened my view of cultures and the world. While these influences mean much
to me and have contributed greatly to my development, they came too easily to mind.
The fact that I could sit down and write a list of how these people influenced me suggests
that the influence did not alter me in any profound way. These people are all my elders, and
perhaps I feel distanced from them. The person whose influence shook me to the deepest level is
a person whose influence is nearly impossible to describe. Mike, the best friend I’ve ever had,
changed me, and I changed him at one of the most crucial times in our lives: the seventh grade.
We developed our personalities, our senses of humor, and our love for girls at the same time and
in the same manner. It would cheapen his influence to quantify it; I am what I am because of
him; I cannot say that about anybody else.
Mike came to my school in the seventh grade, and we immediately clicked. Before he
came, I didn’t feel like an outcast by any means, as I had my friends that I had known since first
grade. However, until Mike, I never had anyone my age to identify with completely. Mike made
me feel confident in who I was; he reaffirmed my drives and my thoughts and my inspirations.
At this awkward stage in our lives, we found uncritical appreciation in each other. We both were
obsessed by movies and had a similar sense of humor. We had the same problems and the same
thoughts. That was all it took.
Halfway through that same year, Mike and I became inseparable. In fact, our yearbook
had a section that lists the names of students and what they were never seen without. Under
Mike, it read: “Ted, ” and under Ted: “Mike.” I became a staple at his house and he at mine. We
no longer had to ask our parents if it was ok to have a sleepover on weekends, they assumed we
would. On weekdays, we usually walked over to his house, which was near school, and hung out
there till I had to go home. Our favorite past time on those long afternoons after school was to
walk to the nearby food mart and get a bag of chips and two 24 oz. Coca-Colas. Watching a
movie, we would sit on his couch with our chips and Coke and talk about our dreams of working
together in the movies. Mike wanted to be a director and actor, and I wanted to be an actor and a
playwright/screenwriter. It was the perfect combination. We even tried writing a few scripts
together.
Of course, as two seventh grade boys, it wasn’t all skips through the park either. We were
extremely competitive and would get into brutal fights for seemingly no reason at all. One time, I
pulled out a chunk of his hair, but I don’t remember what started the fight. I think that our
connection was so intense that we could not have normal emotions toward each other. As
friends, we were best friends, but in an argument, we wanted to fight each other to the death.
Still, the Wrestlemania days were rare; ordinarily, the intensity of that connection was a good
thing. I was pretty shy about girls, and when I did talk about them with guys, I would usually just
say a girl was "hot." With Mike, I could really talk about girls and who they were; with Mike, I
didn’t have to put on my public “cool” façade but could really say what I felt about a girl.
Then we went to separate high schools. We tried to maintain the friendship, and you
might think we would have been able to since we had been so close, but we drifted apart. Our
friendship was based on being near each constantly, of growing up in the same town, under the
same conditions, with the same hopes, fears, and dreams. Now we still go to movies occasionally
and hang out, but it's not the same, and we both know it. I thought Mike and I would be friends
forever, and maybe we will be. I mean, we have to make those movies together, right? But the
way things look right now, I doubt we will ever reconnect. Our friendship in the seventh grade
was magical, and lightning doesn’t strike twice.
My playwriting teacher from middle school left, but I handled it. I learned a great deal
from him, and I appreciate him for the subject he taught and the way that he taught it. I will
probably miss my parents when I leave for college, but I doubt the separation will pain me
deeply since the connection between parents and children will always be there. With Mike, I lost
the best friend I ever had, and I lost that forever. Losing that kind of bond cuts deep, and I know
it's the type of wound that doesn't heal. It’s the type of wound you just live with.
But just because we're not friends anymore, it doesn't slight the times we had when we
were friends. Those times are what influenced me so deeply. No, Mike did not work some lesson
into my heart, he worked himself into my heart, and even if I never see the guy again he changed
me forever. I think that finding someone who you truly connect with and feel that you were
destined to meet, someone who you feel truly understands you and makes you feel special, I
think meeting someone like that is one of the most profound experiences you can have.