My essay :)

Colleges and Universities A-Z Vanderbilt University
1

<p>The message is simple, though the format is very formal and abstract. I know a couple of you have seen this, but I figured I'd post it here anyway.</p>

<p>It's not a unique essay in its own right, but the diction and tone I use IS definitely unique.</p>

<p>*"One quiet summer's day after freshman year, I decided to go for a swim. But that time, after years of gliding in the pool, things felt different. Even in the safe, small environment of a swimming pool, when I swam under the water, everything felt so strangely sublime. Suspended between the calm surface and the rough, skin-scraping bottom of the pool, I was in an aquatic limbo. As I glanced around, everything was serene, silent, and slightly hazy -- like a soft, peaceful dream. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.</p>

<p>As my lungs began to run out of air, I had this inescapable desire of not wanting to go back up. I wanted to be a mermaid. I wanted to keep this ethereal beauty flowing through my veins. But after reality sank in, I realized I had to inevitably go back up for air.</p>

<p>That day, I dove into the water as a simple-minded, concrete thinker. I came out as a visionary observer with a penchant for making the extraordinary out of the ordinary. Now I can take any mundane object, event, or situation and turn it into something exceptional.</p>

<p>In Organic Chemistry last year, I made indigo dye out of sodium dithionite, NaOH and 2-nitrobenzaldehyde to illustrate a simple aldol condensation reaction. The end result was no surprise: the white fiber turned blue. Of course this universal application, such as in the production of blue jeans, is important and all, but that didn't matter. Just seeing those colorless liquid reagents mix together to form twinkling, green crystals that oxidize in air to form a teal and, ultimately, a royal blue color was alone an enlightening experience. </p>

<p>I continued to stare into that chromatic Erlenmeyer flask. It was hard to look away. I stained my hands and arms with my mixture, and I was happy-- the blue ink was a part of me. To take mundane substances and turn them into bewitching chemical artwork was a very gratifying experience. As a result, I was tainted by a deep desire to experiment and an everlasting love of all things chemistry.</p>

<p>For my dorky school, prom has never been a priority. It's not even called prom, but instead Cobalt, after the chemical element (maybe that's why my science-loving self decided to become prom director). Essentially, any venue that has food, any form of music and any decorations that have some cohesive theme would be sufficient enough for any prom [and every past prom]. Well, I made sure that would never happen again. After many business calls and hours budgeting, I managed to take the lifeless venue, a virtually empty warehouse, and combine dark, magical concepts to create a sight of genuine awe. I added the extravagance of an Italian carnivale by using luminescent green, maroon, blue and purple ribbons streaming from tables to chandeliers 30 feet high; the gothic quirkiness of Tim Burton and The Cure by using three-foot long black, blue, and purple feathers as well as red wilted roses as centerpieces for the black tables; and the beauty of Cirque du Soleil by incorporating celestial corde lisse trapeze artists hanging and twirling from the ceiling. It was pure phantasmagoria. I managed to break a completely boring tradition while starting a creative new one in which the seniors actually stayed the whole time!</p>

<p>Taking the plunge on that fateful summer day was all it took. Now I have managed to construct my own beautiful, preternatural world from the same pieces that everyone else has. I stop to smell the roses: I appreciate and admire the little things in life, and take the things I'm given and make the most of them. Through beauty and unusual vision, true and complete peace and joy are simple to ascertain. All you have to do is look closer."*</p>

2

<p>See people, it's these types of essays that get people into college. This is eloquent writing and it speaks to me. If you're going to go for a personal essay, I say that you should tied things together as this one did with the water, prom, and Chemistry. Indeed, Hilsa has taken the plunge. She, unlike me, didn't have to take risks and try to make someone laugh so that she could get make herself stand out among other applicants.</p>

<p>The class of '14 and on forward needs to make note of an essay such as this one.</p>

<p>Do I need to post mine?</p>

3

<p>Vandy you need to post yours</p>

<p>Hilsa, your essay is truly a beautiful piece of writing. I never though of essays like this, i thought they had to be like any typical piece of school writing. You can see the hard work put into it, and that it was not something thrown together to meet a deadline....=]</p>

4

<p>Wow hilsa!!!! That was AMAZING. I would be shocked if you didn't get in. This essay is terrific, nuanced, subtle, and very articulate - good job! I'll post my Commonapp essay and my creative writing piece that I also submitted to my admission counselor. Hopefully y'all will like it :)</p>

<p>Commonapp:
"What are you?" What people usually mean when they ask this is, "What is your
ethnic background?" However, I always reply with, "I am a human." I am a shaggyhaired,
Florida-tanned teen, sporting the average interblend of PacSun, American Eagle,
and Old Navy brand wear. I am a typical person whose identity is hidden behind a dusty
mirror of social prejudices.
The dust begins to disperse as most people, their annoyance betrayed by their
wrinkled foreheads, deem me ignorant, assuming I misunderstood the question. But I am
human. I am neither attempting to be clever nor am I trying to elude. In an attempt to
see the other side, to catch a glimpse at the aged mirror's reflection, the questioning
continues until my ancestry is asked. To this, I respond: "I am an Afghan."
Despite my reflection radiating through the mirror, the dust still coats it, masking
my reluctance as alleged anxiety. Because people cannot see neither themselves nor me
through the mirror, my motives are misinterpreted. They assume, based off their
perception, that I have something to hide. But there is nothing. I am simply human. It is
a simple declaration, yet the perplexity baffles many, for there is no definitive definition.
What does it mean to be human? As mathematicians assert, there are "infinitely many
solutions." Beneath the dust, there is a reflection of me, and of you, and we both long for
the same desires.
I clean my mirror and realize this innate truth through my daily routine. My
mornings are rushed, yet minute details crystallize the moment. While I prepare my
classic American PB&J, already thinking about lunch, my mom stuffs the kitchen with
exotic spices and curries native to her culture. When I approach my lunch table, I unpack
my dusted mirror. As I remove my sandwich and Oreos, I delve into high school
conversation, discussing homecoming, probable calculus quizzes, and the presidential
election. At this moment in time, the people I am surrounded by constitute as a family,
swiping the mirror clean of dust.
I return home, greeted by a family dinner. Here, in my dining room, the spices
and curries my mother rustled with in the morning attack my olfactory powerhouse.
Slowly, the spices wipe my mirror. Dinner is served. Traditional meals of qorma - a
chicken casserole packed with curried onions - and rice pallow – a dish consisting of
meats, carrots, and raisins – circulates around the table. It seems like a different culture
and it is, when caked by dust. However, as the mirror becomes clean, it is evident that
my two seemingly disparate worlds are identical. My father begins his rant about work,
soon accompanied by my mother's addition, and then I contribute with my college
worries. At this point, my brother interrupts, talking about his car. Both of these tables
are communions, families, and havens, where joy intersects with fear, where Oreos and
qormas meet.
As I peer into the mirror; I see my own dustless reflection, and I realize my roles
in Vanderbilt University will not be to diversify the campus but rather reveal the
commonality within the walls of diversity. I am Abrams. An Afghan. An American. A human. A Commodore."</p>

<p>Creative piece (about my favorite book): </p>

<p>I'm going to write about my favorite book, The Foot Book by Dr. Seuss. Yes, I know I sound crazy. Yes, I know that anyone above the age of five would probably discard the book as "childish," but for me, my educational journey holds its roots within this book.</p>

<pre><code> Coming from a low-income immigrant family, my family was limited to what toys they could buy for both me and my brother. While my brother was content on playing with model toy cars, Legos, and action figures, I always just wanted three things: a backpack, a notebook, and a pencil. I really don't remember why I had an obsession with school, but my mother said that I always happy to just "write" in my little notebook while I sat "in class" in my baby stall.

However, something was missing. A book. Not one of those coloring books or pop-up books, but a real book - a complete story with a beginning, middle, and an end. Yes, my parents took me to the local library where I was able to select two books, which in turn, took home and devoured the same day, but I never had my own book. A book without a barcode, a return date, and a potential late fee. A book that was new, a book that could proudly state: "This book belongs to Abrams Jamassi."

Then one day, I got a package from my local YMCA. My mom opened the package and handed me my first book, The Foot Book. For me, this felt like winning the lottery. I quickly ran into my room, examining the book. There it was: brand spankin' new, each page folded crisply. On the front cover, an inscription explained that this book was given to me as a mission that every child in my area would be able to own their very own book. The next day, I proudly shared my book with my classmates. To my surprise, none of my classmates in my kindergarten class received a book. Then one kid spurted out that I got a book because I was "poor" and "stupid." Obviously hurt and confused, I ran to my mom after school and asked her if it was true. She said, in her broken English:
</code></pre>

<p>"Bachaam, the book you got don't mean you're stupid. We are poor, but you it is not your fault. If you want a brighter future, education is your key to it. Everything in life has a root, let this book be the root for your education. Get an education. But never forget that you must give back what you are given. The people who gives this book to you, gives a start, a beginning. When older and wiser, you must give someone else a start and beginning for them to succeed as well." </p>

<pre><code> Taking her words to heart, I read The Foot Book until I memorized it. Then it happened. My thirst for reading began. Till this day, I thank the people who gave me this book. But as I grow older, I realize that, unlike me, there many people who aren't blessed to receive a book - or their key for their future. This triggered me to found my own non-profit organization, Understand Me, which aims to unearth issues not revealed via mainstream media, so that people from all roots - and of all feet - can walk upon their beginnings.
</code></pre>

5

<p>When I entered middle school, I presumed that my future career would specialize in some form of art, whether it dealt with creating character designs for a Disney film or designing a video game and website for Microsoft; however, without a passion for art, how could I confess that I truly enjoyed my profession? I have absolutely no idea. </p>

<p>I constantly think back on my freshmen year of high school when we had to tell our guidance counselors what we aspired to major in when we entered college. Everyone who had spoken before me sounded so self-assured about their college goals. Where was my confidence? I could not digest my realization that I had no desire to use my ability to draw or even design websites in a career that specialized in such work! So, when it was my turn to talk to the counselor, I lied about my career interest. Laughter filled the room soon after… If facial expressions could be translated into words, hers would have read an ugly explicative. Honestly, the thought of drawing comics to make money repulsed me. I told the woman that I would be a sex therapist.</p>

<p>Even Spongebob Squarepants, a jovial sea sponge, knew what he wanted to do with his life: serve Krabby Patties. Spongebob worked for a gluttonous, choleric crustacean, but this did not discourage him from pursuing his dream of serving quality food to other sea animals. Seriously, how many people in this world would be happy working for a money hungry crab? This yellow idiot was completely content with his job! If Spongebob can engage in the pursuit of happiness, I can find an occupation that interests me. Right? If not, sex therapy, here I come.</p>

<p>In my junior year, still undecided on a college major, I spoke with a substitute teacher about premarital sex and teenage pregnancy. I listened to her rather long story of how she struggled to provide a home for her daughter and attend school simultaneously. After she finished her story, she congratulated me for being a great listener (You have no choice but to be a "great" listener when someone talks so much that they don't realize you have yet to respond!). When I did provide my input on the issues, she admitted she enjoyed my opinions on the situation and wished I was her father when she was juvenile. I will admit that her story, while lengthy, remained engrossing throughout; it was that discussion that drew me to my muse: working with people but not while they engaged in their mating rituals.</p>

<p>So, I decided I would enter a career in sex therapy, anyway. I'm kidding, but I recalled how Spongebob would come over his Squidward's house and try to get him to go jelly fishing with him, but as usual, Squidward would deny the request and bellowing demeaning comments towards Spongebob. Although, once the porous little guy did get Squidward to involve himself in the abstract activity; Squidward enjoyed it. Persistence is what I lacked, and the hunt to find an enticing profession went onward. Thank the Lord that the latter half of the Spongebob Squarepants show included a short scene of Spongebob pretending to be a psychologist and talking to his speedboat instructor about her problems because I became fully aware that I yearned to be a psychologist. Spongebob one, Quintarrius two--I was now in the lead.</p>

<p>Maybe Spongebob is a role model rather than a comedic character used to entertain the fancies of children. Maybe I am a comedic human being trying to transform myself into a role model. Could I encourage the future generations to not let their talents divide them from their true desires? When I filled out my senior schedule, I still took the opportunity to include a fine arts class on my schedule; no one wants to lose their talents even if they don't always appreciate them. Spongebob taught me that I don't live in a pineapple under the sea nor will I create an animated movie as momentous as, say, the Lion King. The fry cook and I have one thing in common: a desire to keep people happy. </p>

<p>Oh, by keeping people happy, I meant through counseling and not sexual therapy.</p>

6

<p>rockerguyasj </p>

<p>The reason I like your essay is because you got in so much information in just one page. Vanderbilt loves every facet of diversity, and you really brought in "diverstity." When you spoke of your race and added in Commodore showed your true passion for the school. You, my fellow classmate, like Hilsa, have provided a way for the admissions counselor to wipe away a dusty mirror and delve into more than just numbers, but into a person. A Commodore.</p>

7

<p>Vandyprayer, I think your essay is excellent and thought-out. I also applaud your honesty - how many applicants would admit that Spongebob is their role model? I think adcoms appreciate applicants who are honest about who they are rather then the "cookie-cutter" and "packaged" ones. Man, everyone here is such a good writer!</p>

8

<p>It is a typo in my essay, but I fixed it before it was submitted to the school.</p>

9

<p>rockerguyasj: I like both of yours. I love the ending of the first one. And I love the second one because Dr. Suess is, perhaps, my favorite author. The only think I can say about it is maybe you should have talked a tiny bit more about your Understand Me project. But that's it. </p>

<p>[guys, don't feel bad to criticize my essay. I won't get my feelings hurt]</p>

<p>VandyPrayer: I'm fixing to read yours.</p>

10

<p>god, that was good (hilsa's).</p>

<p>Here are my 2 main ones</p>

<p>CommonApp:</p>

<p>With a sturdy restraint fastened securely around my ten year old waist, I felt the gentle tug of the cart pulling me closer and closer to the heavens. The smooth ascent was interrupted only by the clickety-clack of chains, a mechanical remix of horsehooves hitting cobblestones. For some reason, I decided to share my thoughts with the stranger sitting next to me.</p>

<p>"Nice day, isn't it? I mean, look at that blue sky, the yellow sun, and this red roller coaster. Wow. Cool, a bird! Hey, this isn't so bad, is it? My mom said it would be scary, but it's not." </p>

<p>For a moment, we stopped. Before I could open my mouth (thankfully), the cart had leveled out into a sharp turn. Suddenly, I saw the cruel fate that awaited me. Judging purely from my exclamations, the cart must have been carrying me into the fiery bowels of hell. Once again, I delivered some truly world-class commentary to my neighbor.</p>

<p>"Ah! Sir, look! We're going to die! It's so steep! We'll crash and burn and splatter into a million tiny pieces! I don't want to die! Stop the ride! Stop the ride!" </p>

<p>In case you were wondering, I did, in fact, survive. </p>

<pre><code>Every child develops a different way to cope with fear and pain. Some cry; some throw fits; some pout. I just talked. Loudly. My parents hoped desperately that it was “only a phase,” but as I grew older, the reign of talkative terror continued! Whether debating politics, discussing Dostoevsky, or directing the basketball team on the court, my vocal cords buzzed almost tirelessly. In the most polite terms, I am an outspoken person. Although my loud voice may help me succeed in classroom discussions and in many extracurricular activities, my mentors have taught me to keep it in check from time to time.
My high school has constantly provided the ultimate environment for expression. With wooden Harkness tables at the center of every room, students engage in vibrant, vocal discussions every day. Lucky me! In my freshman and sophomore humanities courses, I would frequently unleash my interpretation of the given material with reckless abandon, typically disenfranchising the other students. Because I could articulate my opinions effectively and loudly, my friends lovingly dubbed me “The Monopolizer.” For a while, I relished my new role as the quasi-king of discussions. My wise teachers, on the other hand, did not exactly appreciate my behavior. They slowly helped me realize that I was not some “hero of the classroom.” Although I had certainly established myself as a leader, I had become, in some ways, the villain. By assuming that my particular view deserved the most attention, I had been hurting myself and others. In my later academic years, I have learned to suppress the temptation to overrule the voices of my classmates. They now freely and confidently argue with me, and I enjoy classroom discussions more than ever.
Thankfully, I have also discovered other outlets for my eager lungs. My active participation in speech and debate, theatre, and mock trial provides my voice with the opportunity to shine appropriately. These activities constantly condition me to speak with leadership and authority, but in the proper time and place. At the National Forensic League Tournament in Las Vegas, I was eliminated after ten rounds. I had fallen a single rank short of standing on the last, glorious stage in front of thousands. At the time, I felt absolutely devastated. My voice, although loud and strong, had failed me. Nevertheless, my elimination allowed me to enjoy an even greater opportunity. I could watch the final round and absorb the speakers' words of wisdom without worrying about myself or my own performance. Because of my silence, I could truly listen.

For the rest of my life, I will speak to ease my fear and pain. Whatever pleasant climbs or sudden descents I may encounter, vocal expression will always comfort me. I will speak whether I become a lawyer or a politician, whether in academic discussions or in petty arguments. However, I will not speak in a way that causes others to keep their ideas and contributions to themselves. Unfortunately, I still have one weakness: roller coasters. Sit next to me at your own risk.
</code></pre>

<p>Other random one:</p>

<p>As I sit in my hammock on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I can feel the soft touch of golden sunbeams falling gently on my face. Clouds with familiar faces wade through the waters of the sky, and I can hear the soothing voice of wind whispering delicately in my ear. All around me, the world lies calm, at peace. Inside, though, within the busy streets of my mind, thoughts race back and forth at a frenzied pace. Each time I turn a page of "Walden," I feel Thoreau's words of wisdom shooting through my bloodstream like narcotics, flooding me with knowledge and endorphins. Every day, every hour, every minute, I crave another hit. Prose, poetry, plays, it doesn't matter. I am an addict. Over the past seventeen years, I have developed an unquenchable thirst for the written word, one that takes precedence over all other intellectual pursuits. With the entire literary world at my fingertips, how could I possibly make time for any other academic subject? Who needs math or science when I have my books?
Admittedly, I exaggerated those opinions a bit. As a younger student, I may not have viewed education quite so radically, but I definitely considered English more valuable than other fields of study. Although my "addiction" kept my mind constantly active, my eager thoughts became limited, confined to a self-made prison of literature. I suppose a closed mind is better than no mind at all, but I desperately needed someone to open it.
Enter John Mays, my Advanced Precalculus teacher. At first, I considered him my intellectual opposite in every way. When Mr. Mays sits in his hammock on a sunny afternoon, he derives trigonometric equations that model the behavior of the UV rays. How could we ever see eye to eye? In the spring of my Junior year, Mr. Mays effectively tarnished my naive perceptions about him and about math. On that fateful day, Mr. Mays assigned a six-page term paper, titled "Truth and Beauty in Mathematics: the Aesthetics of Numbers." No research required, just pure philosophical pondering. He was asking me to write about math, to consider the similarities between Michelangelo's David and the Pythagorean theorem!<br>
This connection between two seemingly distinct academic areas woke me with a jolt of mental electricity that I had never felt. Now, I have a new addiction. Of course, I still crave stories and sonnets, and I will probably major in English Literature, but my interests have expanded. For the next four years, I need a constant flow of diverse information coursing through my veins, an education that will broaden all of my intellectual horizons. I cannot wait to discuss the ethical arguments of Thoreau, but can I study the elegant mystery of transfinite numbers, too?</p>

11

<p>Hookem</p>

<p>I'm not just dishing out compliments tonight, but this sounds like one of those model essays that they post on the internet for Ivy League visionaries. The roller coaster thing actually sticks in your head, and the fact that you use being loquacious to your advantage really helped. I think when the admissions officer reads your essay, they're going to admit you because they would love to have the next great orator graduating from their school.</p>

12

<p>VandyPrayer: It's cute and silly. Which part did you fabricate, I'm curious?</p>

<p>hookem168: I love both of them, especially the last [as you can tell, it's somewhat similar to mine]. The first one illustrates your accomplishments and the second illustrates your mind. Very lovely.</p>

13

<p>haha thanks, but I would sell my soul to be able to write essays like hilsa. That was sick.</p>

<p>btw, yours was one of the most creative things I've ever read. The Spongebob thing was hilarious. You took a huge risk with the sex therapy satire, to be sure, but here's my opinion: it'll pay off big time for some schools, and screw you over at a few others. It really depends on the adcom who reads it.</p>

14

<p>Yeah, VP, I agree with hookem. If the adcoms have a sense of humour, then it will work. If not, then you're screwed.</p>

<p>Thanks to everyone for their compliments on my essay. I didn't post it for compliments [just to show an alternative essay style] but the fact that I'm getting positive feedback is wonderful and unexpected. =]</p>

15

<p>haha same with mine. I was expecting the typical: "Yeah; it's ok. Hit or miss."</p>

<p>but w/e :)</p>

16

<p>Dude...hookem...your essays are outstanding. What I liked most about your essay is your voice - your writing comes out so naturally, as if you were just talking to the reader face-to-face. Also, both essays shows self-growth and maturity and I can definitely relate to the 1st one because I was guilty of being "the monopolizer" at my class discussions too!</p>

17

<p>... and we still have to wait 3 months, except for you EDIIers. You guys only get to wait 1. <em>jealous</em></p>

18

<p><em>jealous as well</em></p>

<p>However, I couldn't apply ED for financial reasons, so I know I made the right decision :/
(Plus, I'm a bit curious about which other awesome schools will take me!)</p>

19

<p>Being poor really sucks now. Thank god for need-blind schools who demonstrate 100% financial need.</p>

<p>I only applied to 4 others, all of them I know I'm already accepted into except for Emory. But I'd pick Vandy over Emory anyday.</p>

20

<p>i would totally put my essay on here...but there are SO many lurkers/people who may steal my work...but I guess it shouldnt matter since the whole applying to college thing is over with..</p>

<p>my essay was on my Calculus class..kinda weird, but it worked... If anyone wants to read it, PM me!</p>