Generally speaking, a good essay should have the following:
1)
Hook
2)
Focus/focal idea
3)
Words that tie back to the idea of the focus
4)
A conclusion that makes the essay feel complete. The conclusion should add to or reflect on the
significance of the event.
5)
Reflection on how/why this matters to the writer!!!
***For the essay entitled “Art,” label where you see each item listed above. If you do not
see it, make a note of that.
College Entrance Essay Examples
Art: Taylor D. Dallas, TX
The man I photograph spends his days in the city library and nights on Park Avenue. He does not, however, reside in
a luxurious home because the Park Avenue in Dallas is covered in boxes and unmovable bodies, quite the opposite
of the same-named avenue in New York City. Only the hopeless remain on that frozen street during the day, while
others find sanctuary in the warmth of the library. Inside, men and women rush with the purpose of finding books and
getting back to their cars, hands firmly pressed against their wallets.
I expected the people from the Avenue to be outcasts of both the library and the streets. My assumptions illustrate
the drastic misconceptions I once had for my city. Though trained to look down on adults who look down on
themselves, I began to empathize. After spending a day with this man less fortunate than any I have ever seen, I
opened my eyes to a different world, and I do not intend to close them.
The man with the magazines stuffed inside his coat pockets caught my attention. He had an exotic face. His too-short
pants and beaten dress shirt implied his poverty. And his gaze differed from his companions’, which further intrigued
me. I felt like he might be as out of place as I was; we connected for a moment. If I had known more about his life, I
could have started a conversation. But I took my place at a nearby table and pretended to have come to the library for
reasons other than photojournalism. Maybe I should have approached the fascinating stranger, but I foolishly doubted
our connection. So, I left the library.
Walking back to my car with an un-touched 24-exposure roll of film in my camera, I felt embarrassed with my unusual
shyness, but not discouraged. The experience sparked a new curiosity, and I felt overwhelmed with questions. This
stranger’s life - in comparison to mine - left me wiping my eyes as I struggled with my car keys.
Though I did not capture my first encounter on film, my many other visits to Park Avenue now fill a portfolio with the
stories of the men and women who live in shadows cast by well-endowed museums, nouveau apartments and
corporate skyscrapers. While their haunting expressions once paralyzed me, they now enthrall me with a desire to
study social conditions throughout the world. The streets opened my eyes.
I intend to focus my camera and my education on understanding social issues that plague humanity.
The Power of Words: By Joseph L. Auburn, NY
In reflecting on the events of my life that have impacted me, I returned to the night of August 1, 2006. I found myself
in Row G of Radio City Music Hall in New York City sitting by my mother, not at all tired, although we had flown from
Las Vegas to Syracuse the day before, and my family had driven five hours to the city for “An Evening with Harry,
Carrie and Garp,” a charity event with readings by three authors. The excitement rushing through me kept me awake
and alert; I was standing and applauding a tiny blonde woman with amazing silver snake shoes as she prepared to
read.
The Harry Potter series was my gateway drug into my intellectual puberty. I was so fascinated by the Harry Potter
world that my mother began taking me to academic conferences focused on the books. Beginning with The Witching
Hour in 2005, through Lumos, Prophecy, Portus, and Azkatrz in 2009, I have attended presentations about the Latin
etymology of terms and spells, the mythical tales of the artifacts, and the idea of literary alchemy. These books
opened my eyes to the whole world, and to knowledge itself. They were the stimulus that kept my brain working over
the summers. More importantly, they helped me adopt the philosophy useful in school and beyond, that there is
always another way to do something, or to perceive an issue. With uncertainty and doubt, comes innovation and new
ways to look at problems that may result in new, different, faster and easier solutions. And all this came from a little
“magic,” from a book that many people see as a series for children.
Along with fans and students from many countries, I attended lectures about Ms. Rowling’s ability to beautifully craft
the saga, with every painstakingly small detail connected to something else. For example, Dr. John Granger, a
“Potter Pundit” who has written several critical and religious-based analyses of the books, reminded the audience that
Harry’s (and his mother Lily’s) green eyes owe a literary debt to Dante’s Beatrice. From Jonathan Swift to Chaucer to
Dickens and Austin, I learned that like all great books, Rowling’s stories fostered a connection across mind, body,
and soul. Although the series has been criticized by those who believe it corrupts children and teaches witchcraft, I
was able to hear discussions by those who purported that, like the Bible, these books teach wonderful messages if
one goes beyond the literal level to the allegorical. It is my generation’s shared text; all college freshmen are familiar
with the stories, and that gives us a set of common beliefs and ideas that can serve as a springboard to new learning.
As I sat surrounded by avid fans and scholars of John Irving, Steven King, and J.K. Rowling, it gave me hope that this
country will not be consumed by the mundane. With so much emphasis on physical aspects of life, and the material
and sexual focus of the messages thrown at us by the media, it would be easy to become jaded or depressed. But I
am not worried. I have been surrounded by 6000 people, all of whom paid good money, not for a sporting event or a
concert, but to hear authors read their work. I have evidence that words on a page can change not only my life, but
the world.
Better Barbie: By Jesse K. Grand Rapids, MI
I don’t have any alumni ties to Brown, though it’s possible I could be the long-lost granddaughter of James S. Miller.
Never have I sailed the Pacific Ocean on the back of a humpback whale, nor can I wrap sushi with the skill of former
Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto. I haven’t done much research regarding podiatry, and chances are I will never win the
Michigan Mega-Millions lottery. I am, however, the proud owner of a Little Mermaid Edition Barbie.
At some point in almost every little girl’s life, she becomes engrossed in the Pepto-Bismol-pink world of Barbies, a
place I entered at the age of seven. My sister, Hannah, and I decided to take our collection of 11-inch plastic friends
for a dip in the pool one sweltering summer day. Hours of giggling resulted from tossing the Barbies as high as we
could into the air and watching them dive gracefully into the waves. Three … two … one, I launched my Little
Mermaid doll in the same fashion as Apollo 11. We watched her rocket into the sky. I glanced at my sister, who was
scrambling through her scorecards to make sure she had the well-deserved “10” ready. My eyes returned upward,
anticipating the gymnastic stunts Barbie would undoubtedly deliver to her enraptured audience. Where was she? The
crowd was growing restless. Had she landed on the moon?
Utterly bewildered, we combed through the freshly mown grass and woods, but unfortunately, our search bore no
fruit. After a moment of sorrow, our tiny attention spans directed us to a different game, and our minds fluttered away.
Over the years, I encountered many of my own quirky adventures. As a field biologist intern, I camped for 15 days on
an uninhabited island, purified my own water, surveyed the endangered Piping Plover, tested the water quality of
lakes, and found my way out of 70,000 acres of northern Michigan wilderness. My view of the world broadened
through travels and encounters with the Costa Rican, German, French, and Australian cultures. I won varsity letters,
had my poetry published, and volunteered at a local hospital, and as I grew older, the mystery of the once-beloved
Little Mermaid Edition Barbie faded into a misty memory.
One recent fall day, rainbow-colored leaves swirled through the air and the chilly breeze carried its pleasant scent, an
amalgamation of bonfire and pumpkin. Upon the rooftop was not good Saint Nick, but rather my dad, cleaning the
leaves off our house. Tied to the branch of an ancient oak tree, the tire swing moved my body in a pendulum motion.
My dad approached with something dark in his hands. “Eh … does this belong to you, or Hannah?” he said with a
look of perplexity painted on his face. I couldn’t believe my eyes: It was the Little Mermaid Edition Barbie! The poor
girl – she was an absolute disaster. I affirmed my ownership of the traveler, and took her battered body in my hands.
Nine years had passed since I had seen the almost-world-renowned Olympic diver. I recalled that summer day and
smiled as memories flooded my mind. She looked as though she’d been struck by lightning a few times, weathered
heavy monsoons, and held onto the gutter for dear life during tornados. Her mangled arm appeared to have been
mistaken for a worm by a ferocious momma bird. Leaves, dirt, and other debris were entwined in her once shiny,
cherry locks. Her attire was tattered – she seemed to have fashioned herself a Tarzan-esque ensemble. Her
ingenuity was impressive; it reminded me of an experience in which I had to craft socks out of a garbage bag and
medical tape, then wear them for three days in pouring rain. Nevertheless, one thing stood out as I ogled my long-lost
friend: her face.
She wore a radiant smile, a look of contentment, self-confidence, and accomplishment. With head held high and a
positive attitude, she had battled life’s unexpected challenges. She knows now what it means to strive and succeed. I
realized the world of pink doesn’t fit someone with so much potential, so much passion for learning, so much heart,
independence, and creativity. I looked at her and saw myself reflected in her sapphire eyes.
Like her, my dreams lie far beyond those of a Stepford wife, and with the ability to bend and not break, I am ready to
step out of my plastic box society, through the Van Winkle gates, and into a world of endless possibilities. I crave the
works of Thoreau and Emerson, not mall directories or grocery lists. I desire adventure and the opportunity to study
new cultures. I long to write what I want and voice my opinions with my whole heart behind them. And as the Little
Mermaid Edition Barbie sits on my shelf, next to musical and athletic trophies, behind silly pictures of friends, and
alongside books by Maya Angelou and Lewis Carroll, she reminds me of myself. For this ambitious girl, pink is not
enough; she is ready to dive into Brown.
The Bitter and the Sweet: By Miranda Killeen, TX
The candy’s smooth wrapper crinkles as I trace its edges with my fingertips, imagining its contents. The wrapper
tears like a fine fabric, revealing a corner of dark chocolate. I break off a piece and take pleasure in its creamy
essence. I have always had a sweet tooth, but it is not just sugary snacks that I crave. Being raised by a single parent
has been a bittersweet experience, but one that has given me resilience and ambition.
When I was young, my mother would tell me that the racks of candy in the store’s checkout line belonged to the
cashier. She said this not to confuse me, avoid spoiling me, or even to teach me a lesson about earning rewards,
though she inevitably did. She said it because she didn’t want me to worry because she could not afford a 50-cent
chocolate bar. Nevertheless, I saw through her tactic and made a promise to myself that I would grow up to be
prosperous enough to buy my family all the Hersheys on the stand.
Instead of focusing on our economic instability, my mother selflessly pushed me to strive for success so that I could
lead a more comfortable life than hers. She worked long hours every night and struggled to pay the minimum due on
her bills. Still, she would find time to read and snuggle with my sister, Emily, and me. Mom taught me the value of
perseverance, education, and moral fiber. Although I did not have two parents, I was loved and nurtured just as
much.
Not all of life’s milestones were easy; some left an insurmountably bitter taste in my mouth. Domestic abuse, divorce,
and homelessness, for example. I dealt with these when my mother married a man in Maryland and moved us
several states away from our roots in Georgia. The first few months were great: baseball games, family trips to the
mall, dinners together, and movies. It felt like we were the perfect All-American family. Then things changed. Baseball
games were too expensive, and trips to the mall were replaced with days Emily and I spent isolated in our rooms on
his orders. Screaming matches between my stepfather and my mother interrupted dinners, and he swapped movie
tickets for vodka.
We spent five years living in a family setting that had turned into a war zone. I remember the verbal spats became so
routine that I would no longer rush to my little sister’s room to cradle her in my arms and wipe away the tears spilling
down her cheeks. Emily and I grew so used to this lifestyle that we just turned on the televisions in our rooms to
drown out the screams. We became immersed in the world of sugar-coated sitcoms, pretending the spiteful cursing
matches downstairs were normal.
Then one evening, an argument erupted. My sister and I had begun to predict the start of these altercations. We
called our system ETF, Estimated Time of Fight, named for its accuracy. Emily joked about patenting it some day. But
on this night my mother swung open my bedroom door and told me to pack – we were leaving and not coming back. I
could hear Emily sobbing in her room.
We loaded our things into Mom’s Ford, my stepfather barking hatefully all the while. We drove for a long time before
Mom pulled into the parking lot of a large store. I gazed out the window, watching people carry bags to their cars and
head off to their warm homes. They were oblivious to our bittersweet tears. They had no idea how relieved and
traumatized we felt, all at the same time. I was 14, my sister 11, school was still in session, and we were homeless.
“We’re not the first people to go through this, and we won’t be the last,” Mom assured us.
A friend of my mother’s let us stay with her. Each day, Mom would wake us before dawn so we could commute from
Virginia to Maryland for our last three months of school. I remember looking out at the gleaming Washington
Monument from the Potomac bridge, wondering how many others in the nation had suffered in silence. How many
had packed up and moved on?
We eventually relocated to Texas, where Mom is still working to re-stabilize her life. And now, as I compose this
essay with some dark chocolate – my favorite candy – close at hand, I realize my family and I are at the best point in
our lives. I have triumphed here, both academically and personally. I satiate my hunger for knowledge by remaining
dedicated to my intellectual pursuits – for example, the Distinguished Graduation Plan with its rigorous course of
study and community service, and the learning opportunities it offers.
I savor the fact that I am not a bitter product of my environment; I am not a person who lets trying times interrupt her
focus, for I know that they are learning experiences also. Success, like candy, can be the sweetest treat of all.
Failing Successfully: By Candace M. Berea, KY
My day in the sun had arrived – my magnum opus would be revealed. I had just delivered a memorized speech that I
had labored over for weeks, and I was about to learn how the panel judged my performance. The polite but sparse
audience leaned forward in their folding chairs. A hush fell across the room. The drum rolled (in my mind, anyway).
The contest organizer announced the third-place winner. Alas, the name was not mine. Then he read the secondplace winner, and once again it was not me. At last, the moment of truth came. Either I was about to bask in the
warmth of victory or rue the last several months spent preparing. While neither of these came to pass, my heart felt
closer to the latter.
Losing is a part of life, and I have dealt with the emotional baggage that travels shotgun with it on more than one
occasion. However, it was an indescribably underwhelming feeling to drive 200 miles round trip, get up obscenely
early on a freezing Saturday morning, and yet still finish fourth out of four contestants. After Lincoln lost the 1858
Illinois Senate race, he reportedly said, “I felt like the 12-year-old boy who stubbed his toe. I was too big to cry and it
hurt too bad to laugh.” Oh yeah, I could relate.
I had spent many hours in front of a computer and in libraries doing research for the Lincoln Bicentennial Speech
Contest. As I pored over several biographies, one notion stood out: Lincoln was handed many sound defeats, but he
never allowed them to (permanently) hinder his spirit or ambition. While I believe many history lessons can be applied
to modern life, I hadn’t considered “the agony of defeat” as a historically valuable learning experience. I never
dreamed I could relate to Lincoln! A president no less, and the greatest at that. I thought “failing successfully” was a
very appropriate topic, given the many letdowns Lincoln experienced, and so this became the title of my speech.
After not placing in the first year of the speech contest, I really wanted to compete again. Lincoln had been the
epitome of persistence, so I was not going to give up on a contest about a historic individual who did not give up! I
reworked my speech for the following year, and while I did not come in last, again I did not place. Some days you’re
the dog, and some days you’re the hydrant, and this was definitely a hydrant day that brought me down for a while.
I couldn’t accept the fact that I had failed twice in something that I had worked so hard on, until I contemplated the
individual whom I’d spent so much time learning about. Never mind the lost prize money (ouch, major) and praise
(ouch, minor) – I had learned, really learned, about a great man who had experienced failure and disappointment,
and had many chances to give up. We remember Lincoln because he didn’t take this route; he didn’t throw lavish
pity-parties, and he persevered to become, according to many, the greatest American president.
While I did not earn monetary awards as a result of this contest, I did gain a new perspective. Through learning about
Lincoln, I discovered that I can fail successfully, and that it is possible to glean applicable wisdom from the lives of
those who have come before us. Now, whenever I’m faced with a setback, I remember what Lincoln said after his
unsuccessful 1854 Senate race: “The path was worn and slippery. My foot slipped from under me, knocking the other
out of the way, but I recovered and said to myself, ‘It’s a slip and not a fall.’”
Never Stop Moving: By Shaina F. Brooklyn, NY
Stepping onto that grey marley dance floor was like landing on another planet. To my left, there’s a seventyish
woman in a thong leotard. She is a cross between Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? and one of
those dancehall hostesses from Sweet Charity. To my right is an even older man in a hot pink Carmen Miranda tank
top rolled up to reveal a leathery stomach. Part of me wanted to run screaming from the room. But curiosity prevailed.
Taking a deep breath and finding a place at the barre was probably the best decision I’ve ever made.
During my freshman year in high school, I fell in love with dance. I was terrible, but I loved it. Before that, the extent of
my dance training had been rolling around on the floor with other three year olds. Now, in high school, I was still
dancing like an awkward toddler—arms and legs flailing, attempting to do what my brain wanted them to do. I wanted
to be better than that. So every summer morning, as well as every Saturday during the school year, I would spend an
hour on the subway from my home in Brooklyn to the upper West Side of Manhattan. At Luigi’s Jazz Center, I found
exactly what I needed.
Luigi created his own jazz technique after he became paralyzed on one side of his body in a near-fatal car accident.
The doctors told him it was unlikely that he would ever walk, let alone dance, again. Instead of accepting this fate,
Luigi developed a series of exercises to help himself recover. Here I was, almost 15 years old—too old to start
learning how to dance—and here he was, struggling to dance against steep odds. I was inspired.
At the end of my first month at Luigi's, I was still cowering in the back of the classroom, hiding in the shadows of the
better dancers. The more seasoned dancers were warm and welcoming. After class, we would go out for coffee and I
would listen to their stories about being on the road, working with crazy directors, and falling in love with gay men.
These women have been my support system as they challenge me in class and praise my growth and maturity. Even
though my dad teases me and calls me “the honorary member of the post-menopausal club,” I am truly grateful to
have these women for friends.
By August, my glissade began to look less like Charlie Chaplin and more like Cyd Charisse. The 83-year-old Luigi
would continue to motivate me with his encouraging remarks, "You're getting so good! Beautiful." and the occasional,
"Nice buns!" His elegant technique reflects his determination and success. The hard work behind each step is
masked by the sweeping movements and lightness of the upper body. He taught me the nuances of dance and the
importance of epaulement, the carriage of the shoulders, to give the dance shape and character. I soaked up his
every word. By the end of the summer, I’d found my spot at the front of the class, an elegant port de bras, a new selfconfidence, and some great friends.
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