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This section contains five pages of content:
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Personal Essay
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Story Essay
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Detail Essay
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Personal Growth Essay
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Hobbies and Interest Essay
Personal Essay
Three times a
week after school I go visit my dad. When I
enter the hospital room where he has lain in
a coma since his accident, my eyes often
wander to the lone golf ball my mom placed
at his bedside. Just six months ago, my
father was driving a golf cart across the
street that bisects the local golf course
when he was hit by a car. He suffered severe
brain injury, and the doctors have ruled out
any possibility of him waking up again. When
I look at him lying in bed, frail but
peaceful as if he were asleep, it's hard not
to dwell on the "what ifs": what if he
hadn't played golf that day? What if he
hadn't been behind the fence when the black
Camry plowed into it? What if I still had
the chance to ask all those questions that
choke me up when I see him in the hospital?
I can't pretend that I have developed enough
distance from the event to draw conclusions
about life, but I am already beginning to
see myself in very different terms.
Ironically,
through this accident my dad has given a
chance to face reality head-on. Before the
accident, my relationship with him was warm
but fraught with tension. He never seemed
satisfied with what I did and reprimanded me
for every wrong step I took. He had strong
opinions about my hairstyle, clothes,
friends, and--above everything else--my
academic performance. When I was not sitting
at my desk in my room, he invariably asked
me why I had nothing to do and told me I
should not procrastinate. He stressed that
if I missed my teenage years of studying, I
would regret it later. He didn't like me
going out with my friends, so I often ended
up staying at home--I was never allowed to
sleep over at other students' homes. All I
remember from my past high school years is
going to school and coming back home. I was
confused by my parents' overprotective
attitude, because they emphasized
independence yet never actually gave me a
chance to be independent.
In terms of
career, my dad often lectured me about which
ones are acceptable and which are not. He
worried incessantly about whether I would
ever get into college, and he often made me
feel as if he would never accept my choices.
Rather than standing up for myself, I simply
assumed that if I studied hard, he would no
longer be disappointed in me. Although I
tried hard, I never seemed to get it quite
right; he always found fault with something.
As if that weren't enough, he frequently
compared me to my over-achieving older
brother, asking me why I couldn't be more
like him. I must admit that at times I even
questioned whether my dad really loved me.
After all, he never expressed admiration for
what I did, and my attempts to impress him
were always in vain.
In
retrospect, I don't think I fully understood
what he was trying to tell me. These days,
when I come home to an empty house, it
strikes me just how dependent on my parents'
care and support I have been so far. Now
that my dad is in the hospital and my mom is
always working, I see that I must develop
the strength to stand alone one day. And,
for the very first time, I now realize that
this is exactly what my dad was trying to
make me see. I understand that he had a big
heart, even though he didn't always let it
show; he was trying to steer me in the right
direction, emphasizing the need to develop
independence and personal strength. He was
trying to help me see the world with my own
eyes, to make my own judgments and decide
for myself what I would eventually become.
When my dad was still with us, I took all of
his advice the wrong way. I should not have
worried so much about living up to my
parents' expectations; their only
expectation of me, after all, is that I be
myself.
In
mapping out my path to achieving my
independence, I know that education will
allow me to build on the foundations with
which my parents have provided me. My
academic interests are still quite broad,
but whereas I was once frustrated by my lack
of direction, I am now excited at the
prospect of exploring several fields before
focusing on a particular area. Strangely,
dealing with my father's accident has made
me believe that I can tackle just about any
challenge. Most importantly, I am more
enthusiastic about my education than ever
before. In embarking on my college career, I
will be carrying with me my father's last
gift and greatest legacy: a new desire to
live in the present and the confidence to
handle whatever the future might bring.
Story Essay
I walked into
the first class that I have ever taught and
confronted utter chaos. The four students in
my Latin class were engaged in a heated
spitball battle. They were all following the
lead of Andrew, a tall eleven-year-old
African-American boy.
Andrew turned
to me and said, "Why are we learning Latin
if no one speaks it? This a waste of time."
I broke out
in a cold sweat. I thought, "How on Earth am
I going to teach this kid?"
It was my
first day of Summerbridge, a nationwide
collaborative of thirty-six public and
private high schools. Its goal is to foster
a desire to learn in young, underprivileged
students, while also exposing college and
high-school students to teaching. Since I
enjoy tutoring, I decided to apply to the
program. I thought to myself, "Teaching
can't be that difficult. I can handle it." I
have never been more wrong in my life.
After what
seemed like an eternity, I ended that first
class feeling as though I had accomplished
nothing. Somehow I needed to catch Andrew's
attention. For the next two weeks, I tried
everything from indoor chariot races to a
Roman toga party, but nothing seemed to
work.
During the
third week, after I had exhausted all of my
ideas, I resorted to a game that my Latin
teacher had used. A leader yells out
commands in Latin and the students act out
the commands. When I asked Andrew to be the
leader, I found the miracle that I had been
seeking. He thought it was great that he
could order the teacher around with commands
such as "jump in place" and "touch the
window." I told him that if he asked me in
Latin to do something, I would do it as long
as he would do the same. With this
agreement, I could teach him new words
outside the classroom, and he could make his
teacher hop on one foot in front of his
friends. Andrew eventually gained a firm
grasp of Latin.
Family night
occurred during the last week of
Summerbridge. We explained to the parents
what we had accomplished. At the conclusion,
Andrew's mom thanked me for teaching him
Latin. She said, "Andrew wanted to speak
Latin with someone, so he taught his younger
brother."
My mouth fell
open. I tempered my immediate desire to
utter, "Andrew did what?" I was silent for a
few seconds as I tried to regain my
composure, but when I responded, I was
unable to hide my surprise.
That night I
remembered a comment an English teacher had
made to me. I had asked her, "Why did you
become a teacher?"
She responded
with a statement that perplexed me at the
time. She said, "There is nothing greater
than empowering someone with the love of
knowledge." Now, I finally understood what
she meant.
When I
returned to Summerbridge for my second
summer, the first words out of Andrew's
mouth were, "Is there going to be a Latin
class this year?"
Detail Essay
I close my
eyes and can still hear her, the little girl
with a voice so strong and powerful we could
hear her halfway down the block. She was a
Russian peasant who asked for money and in
return gave the only thing she had--her
voice. I paused outside a small shop and
listened. She brought to my mind the image
of Little Orphan Annie. I could not
understand the words she sang, but her voice
begged for attention. It stood out from the
noises of Arbat Street, pure and impressive,
like the chime of a bell. She sang from
underneath an old-style lamppost in the
shadow of a building, her arms extended and
head thrown back. She was small and of
unremarkable looks. Her brown hair escaped
the bun it had been pulled into, and she
occasionally reached up to remove a stray
piece from her face. Her clothing I can't
recall. Her voice, on the other hand, is
permanently imprinted on my mind.
I asked one
of the translators about the girl. Elaina
told me that she and hundreds of others like
her throughout the former Soviet Union add
to their families' income by working on the
streets. The children are unable to attend
school, and their parents work fulltime.
These children know that the consequence of
an unsuccessful day is no food for the
table. Similar situations occurred during
the Depression in the United States, but
those American children were faceless
shoeshine boys of the twenties. This girl
was real to me.
When we
walked past her I gave her money. It was not
out of pity but rather out of admiration.
Her smile of thanks did not interrupt her
singing. The girl watched us as we walked
down the street. I know this because when I
looked back she smiled again. We shared that
smile, and I knew I would never forget her
courage and inner strength. She was only a
child, yet was able to pull her own weight
during these uncertain times. On the streets
of Moscow, she used her voice to help her
family survive. For this "Annie," there is
no Daddy Warbucks to come to the rescue. Her
salvation will only come when Russia and its
people find prosperity.
Personal Growth Essay
Tom Zincer
succeeded in his task. My science class's
first field trip took place on a bitter cold
February day in Maine. Tom, our science
teacher, led the group of relatively
puzzled, well-bundled students into the
forest. I was right behind Tom, and the
sound of his red boots breaking through the
thin layer of ice that covered the crusty
snow seemed to bounce off the trees and
scare away the few singing birds that had
not migrated south for the winter. We
stopped fourteen times during that four-hour
field trip to hear Tom ramble on about the
bark of "this" deciduous tree and the
habitat that "this" coniferous tree needs to
grow. We examined animal droppings and
tracks in the snow and traced a bird's song
back to its singer. This was all meaningless
to me. I was cold and bored and wanted the
field trip to end.
I would later
write several essays in my journal about the
fact that writing a detailed seven-page
analysis of the field trip took all the
beauty out of the event. I would complain to
Tom about how boring and mundane his class
was and how impossible it was to be so
"anally" observant. I argued that no field
trip could ever be enjoyable if we had to
write down and later analyze the percentage
of deciduous and coniferous trees, the air
temperature, the amount of snow on the
ground, the slope of the course taken, the
change in temperature over the day, and a
plethora of other minutia. Basically, I was
lazy. No, no. I was not lazy. I was just not
ready; I was not yet ready to become an
observer.
"Sam, just
trust me on this one. You'll thank me
later," Tom said at the conclusion of our
meeting. I had gone to see Tom privately in
order to discuss how I could survive his
class. The minutia was killing me, and my
slow death was reflected in my dismal grade.
Upon leaving that meeting, I made a personal
and academic decision to develop my
observational skills, both to please my
teacher and to avoid the disappointment of
another "D+."
On my next
field trip, I set out into the forest with
two pencils cocked between my two ears like
guns ready to fire. My teeth were clenched
with the determination to stay focused
throughout the entire field trip and write
down every word that man uttered. However, I
constantly felt myself drifting, and while
my mind wandered, the group advanced
significantly ahead of me, and I missed the
sighting of another bird. I ran up to the
group just in time to hear Tom start his
lecture about a nearby rock formation.
Instead of listening, I was asking my friend
to see his Picasso-like rendition of the
bird. I, therefore, fell behind on the
lecture, and so went the endless cycle: fall
behind, try to catch up, fall more behind.
When it came time to rewrite my field notes
in legible form, I stared at a piece of
paper that consisted of smudged squiggly
lines and eventually tears. Frustrated and
disappointed, I retreated back to my cabin
to seek refuge.
I quickly got
undressed and slipped under my blanket for
warmth, comfort, and most importantly
protection. After I gave myself a few
minutes to calm down, I took out the wet
crumbled piece of paper from my pocket and
tried to redraw a stick figure of a bird.
The twelve stick figures, representing the
twelve different birds we saw, looked
exactly the same, and trying to redraw each
body part of each bird to scale was so
difficult that I felt like each pen stroke
was met with a ton of resistance. Giving up,
I pushed the piece of paper back into my
pocket and lay down on my back. I saw Simon
sitting in his characteristically feminine
position on Ethan's bed. Simon was sitting,
facing Ethan, with his legs crossed and his
right hand casually nestled on his right
kneecap, his foot twitching like the tail of
a happy dog. Ethan was lying on his side
with his big black headphones cupped around
his ears, reading Faulkner. As my head
swiveled, I noticed Conrad, sleeping, as
usual, with his blanket clenched tightly
under his chin, with both fists. I heard
Fred and Rob discussing the pitfalls of
modern education and could see Donald's head
rhythmically moving back and forth, in sync
with Jimi Hendrix. I then realized that I
too was part of my environment. I realized
that I was a silent participant, and more
importantly, I realized that I was an
observer.
On my next
field trip, I had one pencil nonchalantly
nestled on top of my right ear. I set out
with no mission in mind and had no vengeance
in my heart. I intentionally lagged behind
my fellow classmates in order to get a
wider, broader perspective of the
environment. Applying what I learned in my
cabin, I was able to engage all of my senses
and could attempt to take in the vastness of
it all. When we returned from our field
trip, the task of doing a "rewrite" did not
seem so odious, and my pencil flew across
the page like a writer who just experienced
an epiphany and wants to get his idea down
before he forgets it. I drew every bird,
tree, and rock as best I could, and although
they were not perfect, they were exactly
what I saw.
Hobbies and Interests Essay
The sun is
still asleep while the empty city streets
await the morning rush hour. As in a ritual,
my teammates and I assemble into the dank,
dimly-lit locker room at the Rinconada Park
Pool. One by one, we slip into our moist
drag suits and then make a mad run from the
locker room through the brisk morning air to
the pool, stopping only to grab a pull-buoy
and a kick-board. Coastal California cools
down overnight to the high forties. The pool
is artificially warmed to seventy-nine
degrees, and the clash in temperatures
creates a plethora of steam on the water's
surface, casting a scene more appropriate
for a werewolf movie. Now the worst part:
diving head-first into the glacial pond. I
think of friends still tucked in their warm
beds as I conclude the first warm-up laps.
Meanwhile, our coach emerges through the
fog. He offers no friendly accolades, just a
stream of instructions and exhortations.
Thus begins
another workout. 4,500 yards to go, then a
quick shower and five-minute drive to
school. Another 5,500 yards are on our
afternoon training schedule. Tomorrow, the
cycle starts all over again. The objective
is to cut our times by another 1/10th of
second. The end goal is to have that tiny
difference at the end of a race that
separates success from failure, greatness
from mediocrity. Somehow we accept the
pitch--otherwise, we'd still be fast asleep
beneath our blankets. Yet sleep is lost
time, and in this sport time is the
antagonist. Coaches spend hours in
specialized clinics, analyzing the latest
research on training techniques and
experimenting with workout schedules in an
attempt to unravel the secrets of defeating
time.
My first
swimming race was when I was ten years old
and an avid hockey player. My parents,
fearing that I would get injured, redirected
my athletic direction toward swimming. Three
weeks into my new swimming endeavor, I
somehow persuaded my coach to let me enter
the annual age group meet. To his surprise
and mine, I pulled out an "A" time. National
"Top 16" awards through the various age
groups, club records, and finally being
named a National First Team All-American in
the 100 Butterfly and Second Team
All-American in the 200-Medley Relay
cemented an achievement in the sport.
Reaching the Senior Championship meet series
means the competition includes world-class
swimmers. Making finals will not be easy
from here: these 'successes' were only
separated from failure by tenths of a
second. And the fine line between total
commitment and tolerance continues to
produce friction. Each new level requires
more weight training, longer weekend
training sessions, and more travel. Time
that would normally be spent with friends is
increasingly spent in pursuit of the next
swimming objective.
In the
solitude of the laps, my thoughts wander to
events of greater significance. This year,
my grandmother was hit with a recurrence of
cancer, this time in her lungs. A person
driven by good spirits and independence now
faces a definite timeline. On the other side
of the Pacific Ocean, my grandfather in
Japan also contracted the disease. His
situation has been corrected with
surgery--for now, anyway. In the quest to
extend their lives, they have both exhibited
a strength that surpasses the struggles I
confront both in sports and in life. Our
different goals cannot be compared, yet my
swimming achievements somehow provide a
vicarious sense of victory to them. When I
share my latest award or partake with them a
story of a triumph, they smile with pride as
if they themselves had stood on the award
stand. I have the impression that my medals
mean more to them than I will ever
understand.
Life's
successes appear to come in small
increments, sometimes mere tenths of a
second. A newly learned skill, a little
extra effort put on top of fanatical
training routine, a good race day, or just
showing up to a workout when your body and
psyche say "no" may separate a great result
from a failure. What lies in between is
compromise, the willpower to overcome the
natural disposition to remain the same. I
know that my commitment to swimming carries
on to other aspects of life, and I feel that
these will give me the strength to deal with
very different types of challenges. |
