How do you demonstrate character in your own unique ways? Simple, right? Most conformists will stifle their unique voice by attempting to respond to the specific prompts that the Common Application provides. What results is often a generic statement that lacks energy or personality. Write the story that you want to express and then choose the prompt with which it best aligns.
If all else fails you can default to the last prompt, which is essentially topic of your choice. Do not write your way into the essay by simply restating the initial prompt or question. Instead, put the reader in the moment by painting a picture and then elaborate on why it is important. Jedi Mind Tricks: The college essay is not a test to see if you can read minds or anticipate what the admission office wants to hear. Plain and simple, they want to know about you, how well you write and how self-aware you are.
Write the essay for you, not them. Erik DeAngelis, associate director of admission at Brown University advises, "don't fall into the trap of telling us why you're a great fit for our school by telling us all about our school. We know our school! I had never seen the homeless at the stop act so deranged. But I had never been there so late. It was well past sundown. A man passed out on the next bench awoke only to shout and drink. One screamed racial slurs and curses at another while they both staggered around.
Another lacked an arm and had the most baleful gaze I had ever seen. After a few long minutes, a shadow detached itself from the opposite benches, came over and sat down next to me. Squinting, I took in her kind, wrinkled face. Ah, thank god, a kindred soul enduring the same thing. When I was a bit older than you, my home was a car.
Can you believe that my car, an old Toyota, got 50 miles to the gallon? I could drive from here to San Francisco in one sitting. The more we talked, the more I enjoyed her company and forgot about the craziness around me. She loved helping people and went to church. Before I could learn more, a homeless man staggered up to me and asked me for money. I was so uncomfortable I relented. Give them food. The stereotype is true — they buy drugs and alcohol.
Look around you. Just then a bus arrived — apparently hers. She procured two hardboiled eggs from her pocket and offered them to me. I politely declined, and she went to get her stuff. But wait, why was she carrying eggs in her pocket? When the woman emerged from the other side of the stop, she boarded the bus with a sleeping bag and backpack. She was homeless! She smiled down at me, the bus left, and I sat there in quiet shock.
I explored the stop anew. Drugs, alcohol, missing limbs were no longer terrifying. Now, I saw the symptoms of sickness, a sad lifestyle that did no harm except to those who lived it. The homeless lady probably has no idea what an effect she had on me. Because of her, I swore to look through the top layers of every situation. Now that I have a car, I never go to the bus stop, but I know its lesson, at least, will continue to take me places. I hope my expanded empathy and open-mindedness will allow me to feel at home in any foreign situation and connect with all people.
Joe Pucci New York, N. I often try to block out the hectic surroundings by isolating myself in music, but I can never seem to get out of the real life time-lapse. In photography, a time-lapse is a technique at which the frame rate is lower than that used to view the sequence, thus, when the sequence is played at normal speed, it gives the effect that time is moving faster, or lapsing.
In a Manhattan subway tunnel, a real life time-lapse gives the illusion that thousands are moving around you in one single moment. Luckily, that afternoon, the frame rate was higher than the actual visual sequence. The crowd shoved their way toward the platform as the screeching train echoed through the underpass.
The doors opened and I pushed my way toward the already full train. After five seconds, I began to worry, fearing that the door would close and I would be stuck longer in the blistering, underground cave.
The tall, brunette girl in front of me inched her way over the gap between the rusted train and the yellow platform, but one misstep turned my time-lapse upside down. In slow motion, one vertebra at a time, she fell through the gap toward the tracks as the train doors closed. I slipped my hands out of my skinny jeans and reached under her arms as her head neared the platform.
I hoisted her up and the sensor doors reopened as we entered the train. I threw my headphones around my shoulders, clumsily turned down my embarrassing music, and asked if she was okay. My pause had lasted for all of about two seconds. No one on the train noticed, not even her mom. I felt like I had done something much bigger than me, and I also felt like this beautiful girl and I would naturally connect over what just happened.
I simply stood there thinking of something to say, only to be left mute. Life is about taking risks, not about conforming and hiding behind invisible walls. For that girl, she was a vertebra away from not having another chance.
The music was a place to buy myself more time, a place to quickly think about the next move. But the top-half of the sandglass was empty and the girl got off at the next stop, roughly 30 seconds later. My eyes were fixed on her as she left the train and headed for the stairs. Because it grips you from the very first sentence and tells a true story of sorrow and pain. Talking about your deep emotions and painful memories is never easy, but it can make a huge impression on the readers.
You can find the full profile of the student who wrote it here along with their other achievements and profiles of other successful students. And here you can find six more essays which got students into Harvard.
Please let me know about your struggles in the comments section below. I instinctively reached out my hand to hold it, like a long-lost keepsake from my youth. But then I remembered that birds had life, flesh, blood. Dare I say it out loud? Here, in my own home? Within seconds, my reflexes kicked in. Get over the shock. Gloves, napkins, towels. How does one heal a bird? I rummaged through the house, keeping a wary eye on my cat. Donning yellow rubber gloves, I tentatively picked up the bird.
Never mind the cat's hissing and protesting scratches, you need to save the bird. You need to ease its pain. But my mind was blank. I stroked the bird with a paper towel to clear away the blood, see the wound.
The wings were crumpled, the feet mangled. A large gash extended close to its jugular rendering its breathing shallow, unsteady. The rising and falling of its small breast slowed.
Was the bird dying? No, please, not yet. Why was this feeling so familiar, so tangible? The long drive, the green hills, the white church, the funeral. The Chinese mass, the resounding amens, the flower arrangements. Me, crying silently, huddled in the corner. The Hsieh family huddled around the casket. So many apologies. The body. Kari Hsieh.
Still familiar, still tangible. Hugging Mrs. Hsieh, I was a ghost, a statue. My brain and my body competed. Emotion wrestled with fact. Kari was dead, I thought. But I could still save the bird. My frantic actions heightened my senses, mobilized my spirit.
Cupping the bird, I ran outside, hoping the cool air outdoors would suture every wound, cause the bird to miraculously fly away. Yet there lay the bird in my hands, still gasping, still dying.
Bird, human, human, bird. What was the difference? Both were the same. But couldn't I do something? Hold the bird longer, de-claw the cat? I wanted to go to my bedroom, confine myself to tears, replay my memories, never come out. The bird's warmth faded away. Its heartbeat slowed along with its breath. For a long time, I stared thoughtlessly at it, so still in my hands.
They come expecting to see Dirk Nowitzki, and instead they might see a performance more like Will Ferrell in Semi-Pro.
Watkins was the coordinator of the foreign exchange student program I was enrolled in.
Unsettled, I turn to my ever-present book for comfort.
My lanky, bald, and animated instructor, who often wore various cultural outfi Everyone went to the memorial service and everyone brought flowers, and in the silence, we cried. I pretended to watch myself perform in that light, pacing to and fro, shouting heroically to my men and charging headlong into battle, into victory. I will never forget the man who gave me his secret stash of candy, or the night that we celebrated a birthday with a tuna sandwich as the cake, a Q-tip for the candle, and how they sliced it for everyone to share.
When it was over, I wept uncontrollably.
Show 3: "the Struiksma family taught me to reserve judgment about divorced women and adopted children. Because it grips you from the very first sentence and tells a true story of sorrow and pain. UPenn Supplement - Autobiography Robotics It moved timidly at first, its gears slowly churning as it felt the spark of life flow through its wires.