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Colleges and Universities A-Z University of Chicago ✅
201

<p>dchow08: I really liked your essay. Correct me if I'm wrong but the "aura of the classic table" is likened to UChicago itself, right? Anyway, well done.
Here's my own one on the table. I got waitlisted.</p>

<p>Jane helped lay out the table cloth, as the dew slowly soaked in and held the cloth firmly to the lush bed of grass beneath it. The chilly Chicago weather nipped at her ears, as she looked up at the sky, searching for any sign of rain or other mysterious force that might break their midnight meeting. All that looked back at her was a perfect night, the vast expanse of clear sky, fringed at the horizon by a scatter of trees, and embedded with the tiny diamonds that litter our universe. ‘Crystal clear’, if you may. </p>

<p>Josh followed her gaze, as he took his place on the cloth. It was an odd mix of people- some veterans, others just finding their feet in this offbeat gathering, but all there quite by accident- strolling through the grounds aimlessly, lost in thought, feeling the need to talk but not anything specific nor to anyone in particular, accidentally bumping into these soft, esoteric voices ambling through the chilly air. Finding this an intellectual outlet of sorts. They sat there in no specific order, as each person just made themselves comfortable, the word itself holding a different meaning for each of them. The conversation neither floated at the centre nor at any other specific point, but instead lay in the thick air that enveloped them, floating through the wide canals left between their bodies, often bumping into these human banks and transferring its vigour from point to point, the thoughts from person to person.</p>

<p>“Marvellous. Aren’t they?” Josh asked, his eyes also transfixed at the heavenly lights floating above them.</p>

<p>“‘Jewels'-my grandmum would call them.” Revealed Jane, surprised at her own forthrightness in her first words to a completely unknown senior.</p>

<p>“Aren’t they, now?” prodded Joe, probably the laziest person on campus, but somehow wide awake at this time of the night. Excited to the brim, with a steely glint in his eye, he passed on his latest experiment with bread and meat. Though an old timer at this ‘table’, he enjoyed each night more than the last. “Always wondered what it would be like to be one- floating up above everyone, watching on as the world continues its inane movements at the crazy pace it does, the craziness of which will only be truly realised in the serene environment up there. “What do you think, Jane?” he continued.</p>

<p>“Want to be one?” Jane reflected, growing accustomed to her own comfort with this group of complete strangers. “My grandmum used to tell me that that’s what you became when you died. Someday, I’d want to meet her up there. I guess that’s a yes then.” </p>

<p>That statement alone seemed to spark off a glow of conversation, as Judy and James took sudden interest in debating the different beliefs on life and the even more different ones on death, further invigorated by their heated religious battle in class that day. Jonathan joined in and veered into the political notions backing such beliefs and questioned whether the concept of acceptance in heaven, based on actions on earth, was at heart a capitalist ideal of rewarding the best. He equating it to Darwin’s theory of evolution and the ‘survival of the fittest’. Unsure where she had landed herself, Jane looked around amused as James countered Jonathan by claiming that Darwin’s ‘survival’ meant continued life on earth whereas according to karmic philosophy the ‘fittest’ or the best are given leave from being on earth. Hence it wasn’t ‘survival’ that was given to the fittest, instead quite the opposite.</p>

<p>“Its ‘Moksha’ then, that you’re chasing Jane.” I explained, “Freedom from the cycle of life and death.”</p>

<p>“Ah, ‘Moksha’, is it?” Joe asked nobody in particular, “Tell me, how badly would you want Moksha? What would you be ready to give up to attain it?”</p>

<p>There was a sudden yet gradual silence. </p>

<p>“Life.” Thought Jane but immediately realised the dilemma, “In a quest for ‘moksha’ even life is too insignificant a contribution.” Her thoughts continued, amazed as much by it as by the group of strange, yet somehow already familiar, people around her trying, in their own unique way, to arrive at an answer.</p>

<p>The halo of conversation continued to glow, no longer in words, but instead in thoughts, as each person, lost in their own world, searched for that one thing that meant more to them than life itself. Lulled in her thoughts, Jane thought of her grandmother and, as if to look at her, turned her head heavenwards, but in vain. Instead of the litter of stars she saw a host of clouds crowding up the ceiling. She looked down at her watch- it was three o’clock. Gently lifting herself, careful not to wake the others up, she smiled away from the warm mass of bodies, delighted at her midnight ‘discovery’, one that was going to be a regular part of her for years to come.</p>

202

<p>In the end, the essay that I chose represented my way of thinking the best, despite the fact that it was option 5. At first I felt as though I was "cheating," but I'm happy with my decision. Also, my topic has a UChicago reference, so it shows that I'm a fan of the essay topics (and that I'm not just trying to avoid them through using option 5).</p>

203

<p>DS started with Option Five, went to the table, wans't happy with the result, and went back to his own prompt. It was very Chicago-esque and worked for him.</p>

204

<p>I just picked Option 5 and used my Common App essay. I was in a time crunch. :P</p>

205

<p>I picked option five and wrote a very short play. It definitely was something that could not possibly be used for the CommonApp, though. They seemed to like it, too, since I got in ; ) If you can do a good option 5, go for it! After all, Chicago doesn't want to restrict you in any way, whatsoever.</p>

206

<p>As I read through the essays for the class of 2012 I feel like mine is so... not interesting? I did the table essay, and approached it in a much different fashion than those of you here. It worked, seeing as I was accepted, but I like the way people told stories here. But I really have been influenced by those that have become a part of who am I; those that share similar passions as me and those that I see in specific things I participate in. It highlighted those things that are most important to me, that have made me who I am today.</p>

<p>Anyway here's mine.</p>

<p>Every community I have found myself to be part of is integrated into the other facets of my life. I live a volunteer’s life, a dancer’s life, a track athlete’s life, a student’s life, and a thinker’s life. Yet, although separate in their ideals and activities, they come together at my dinner table influencing who I am today.</p>

<p>The table is fashioned from stainless steal that wraps around the edges of the table top, with only one large leg supporting it in the middle. But it is the see-through table top that is one of the most interesting aspects. It functions similar to the digital slide-show picture frames that sit upon the fireplaces in some houses. Under the surface is a mixture of images, math equations, scientific tools, dance shoes, racing spikes, hospital gurneys, and textbooks. But there are also memories and dreams: whispers and ripples of laughter, whispers of important conversations. It utilizes touch screen technology, allowing whoever sits there to recall anything at the touch of the table. The technology incorporated into the table serves not only as a note pad and memory piece, but also as an independent source of inspiration.</p>

<p>There are dents and dings in the table from dropped shot puts and thrown discs, initials and humorous dinner quotes roughly etched with knives around the edge, and occasionally surgical gauze packages from the hospital or ankle casts from the dancers. Each person who takes a spot at my dinner table will find that it is circular, and ever rotating like a lazy-Susan. It is this simple rounded shape that makes it possible for each person to see those around them, each equal and at eye-level. The rotation allows for the sharing of ideas, of passions, of dreams. Every night during dinner you will find the convening of a fascinating group of individuals.</p>

<p>From the fourth floor of the Galter Pavilion at Northwestern Memorial Hospital to my table come approximately 25 nurses, 8 doctors, dozens of patients, a handful of lab assistants, and an exceptionally small group of volunteers. More importantly, however, you will find a community dedicated to the health and well being of each patient who walks through the doors. Each of these individuals finds a seat at my table, bringing with them the compassion they share with others at the hospital. It is only natural that these young men and women would meet at a table such as mine, for the exact physical nature of the table is signature of a clean hospital environment.</p>

<p>Then there is a group of 15 girls; girls that I have matured with as both a fellow Irish Dancer and as a friend. We have come a long way from the team we originally were. We started as 16 lanky, awkward 13-year-olds. All struggling with puberty and school, each had something better to do than dance. No one wanted to be with the other girls. We did not care for the dance and we definitely did not care for one another. </p>

<p>Five years later, after innumerable practices, after calluses and muscles grew, after our bruised and blistered toes learned to withstand pain, after learning to love, we stood as one team. Each of us working as 1/16th of a whole, we competed, practiced, felt pain, cried, laughed, failed, and triumphed as a team. We flowed together, weaving our intricate choreography as a unified body. We were like a well-built watch, with each of us moving in sync with the others. </p>

<p>It is these girls who bring life with them, the joys of a childhood that is yet to be forgotten, and an inspiring story of a team that worked its way from a small church hall to the world championship stage. And sometimes you may even find crutches or knee braces propped up delicately next to their chairs. Along with them comes my Irish heritage, a culture profoundly rooted in my love for dancing. </p>

<p>Mixed amongst the doctors, the nurses, the patients, and the dancers sit the track athletes, each clad in their running gear. There is an interesting energy surrounding each of them, stemming from the drive that each brings forth for a “team effort.” There are sprinters, hurdlers, discus throwers, and distance runners, each one part of something much bigger than themselves. The team captains sit amongst their athletes, never giving off an ostentatious aura to those sitting around them. </p>

<p>Following suit are a few members of the Northside College Preparatory community; a community of the intellectually aspiring, the dreamers of the future, and the scholars of tomorrow. There is my one close friend, who even though significantly hearing impaired, has persevered through it all to be the best person possible. There are my friends from calculus and A.P. physics, bringing with them fantastic theories of space and conversations of the practical applications of Taylor polynomials. We enjoy thinking outside the box with one another, discussing the upcoming technology, and cracking inside jokes. </p>

<p>Finally but most consistently, it is my family who sits on either side of me. Forever standing by my side, helping me cultivate my love for learning, and more specifically my love of math and science. They were the ones that provided me with the balloons I used in my kindergarten science fair project, the innumerable novels I continue to re-read, and the drive and determination I find applicable in everything I do today.</p>

<p>My table is beautiful because it has witnessed in each of its visitors passion. Inspiration is a daily, ever-occurring, ordeal. It is among this diverse collection of community members that I have found those who pursue math and science with the same zealous approach as I do, those who dance for the pure love of it, those who run to beat their personal best, and those who have shown me the innate benevolence of the human heart through their compassionate acts. </p>

<p>Lifelong passions are carefully refined each moment at my life’s table, and it is not only my passions, but those of every individual present. It is each young man and woman who sits with me at my table who knows what they have to do to make the world a better place. At my table sit those who will go on and, whether it is through a random act of kindness or a groundbreaking study, challenge the world as we know it today. As we sit there and talk, we share not only our food with each other as the table rotates, but we share our thoughts, our beliefs, and our enthusiasm, feeding off of one another’s passion.</p>

<p>And let us just say that dinner is never boring.</p>

207

<p>lol @ stainless steal</p>

208

<p>lol @ dings.</p>

<p>A+++</p>

<p>Very long though, yes?</p>

209

<p>Hah, but I made it under the 2 page thing though (I decided they meant single spaced :])</p>

<p>my essay for the common app was so long to begin with. Like 300 words. I just started to write about dancing and how it's influenced who I am and BAM! i had like 4 pages. But don't worry, I edited it down to 500 words when I decided to focus on one thing lol.</p>

<p>and mad props to all the essays on here. seriously.</p>

210

<h2>Bravo to all who made the table prompt work. I started out with that prompt and did not like it, it felt too restricting. I answered the "Borges y yo" prompt: Write a page. Who has written it?</h2>

<p>It is nearly impossible to encompass a person in a single event, let alone on paper. These words are dead. They are black squiggles on a white piece of paper. If I write “love”, “pain”, “pride”, there is little to no assurance that what I have understood from these experiences are the same as the way you have.</p>

<p>While what is going through my head may not be the same as what is going through yours, I will simply trust the existence of a communion of ideas which we may or may not share behind the dead weight of these empty words. Language is a funny thing. In itself, it is no better than a chain of accidental markings, but luckily we can still communicate on common grounds through the magic of mutually assured connotations. Still, how can I be sure that the meaning I give is the same one that you receive?</p>

<p>Words. Words are the tunnels by which our thoughts travel down but cannot fit through. No amount of words can express the intensity of their experiences.</p>

<p>Different. Here, we see a word, but behind it is a feeling I sensed at an early age, sitting on a stool, watching my grandma throw hundreds of papers into a burning barrel as black ash rose from the rickety porch, like messages carrying her prayers to the sky. Different is the unsettling thing I felt when my guilty conscience questioned the rationality of my grandma’s religious practices. What was the use of creating smoldering ash? I questioned. Do they do anything to revive Grandpa back? Different was the day I was no longer Buddhist.</p>

<p>Cool. Cool is the icy walk felt under my shoes as I slowly stepped to the stage to receive my championship trophy at the Norfolk Debate Invitational. It is my smile reflected in placard gold and the beautiful ambience of a hundred people, clapping, just for me. It is the knowledge that I have won fifteen straight rounds and lost none; it is the sense of officially living up to your name as the “Huadinator” by terminating all known opponents in armed verbal combat, and so you felt edgy and cool like the guns and steel of the real Schwarzenegger himself.</p>

<p>Salty. Salty is the peculiar stench of ocean water smacking across my mouth as I tried to carry the iron weight of my father’s body to shore. It is the constant reminder that he would have died, had someone else not come to save his life on time. It was the contents of his lungs collapsing, and it is the eccentric character of our relationship; never before were we so close than when our lives almost ended that summer of 2004.</p>

<p>Amy. It is a name, but names are empty cavities for the existence they wish to label. I never quite considered myself an “Amy”, as strange as it sounds. I have certainly met other Amys in my lifetime, and my connections with them are extremely weak. I have even met people with the last name ******. While they too have black hair and Asian heritage, they are not me. I am not a generic, empty cavity. I cannot say that Amy has written this essay.</p>

<h2>Who I am is yet another. I am not only the sole executor of these words; I am also behind them, around them, between the paper and the ink. I am the source of their meanings and the bold aftermath of their formation, that attempts to concoct THE paper that speaks about the essence of me. I am both everywhere on this page and more. While it has given away parts of who I am, the spirit of my existence cannot be wholly captured on one piece of paper. I have written this essay.</h2>

<p>I was accepted RD</p>

211

<p>I'm impressed by all the esays here! Here's mine, it's the Borges one... I got accepted :) . I feel it's simple and honest :) .</p>

<pre><code> Center Stage
</code></pre>

<p>The rush of having over five hundred people quietly waiting for you to speak is an incomparable feeling. It was the graduation ceremony of the Lincoln School senior class of 2007. Although I was a junior, as President of the student body, it was my responsibility and honor to speak on the importance of school spirit and to present the “Trojan Award” to the graduating Valedictorian. Stepping onto the podium, I straightened my tie, checked that my hair was still perfectly combed, tucked in my shirt, and finally, took a deep breath. It took me a few seconds to adjust to the blinding stage lights which inevitably made me the center of attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my parents, sitting proud and smiling reassuringly at me. It was time to get this show on the road. I cleared my throat and as I began to speak, the initial nervousness quickly turned into an exciting adrenaline rush. The words I had nervously practiced just a few hours ago in front of the mirror now flowed out confidently and convincingly. Before I knew it, my speech was over. After presenting the “Trojan Award,” I thanked the audience for their applause and darted off the stage. My duty as president had been accomplished.</p>

<p>I ducked into the men’s room, where my briefcase was waiting. As I pulled out my favorite pair of worn out Converse shoes with one hand, I yanked off my tie, pulled out my shirt tails, messed up my hair and grabbed my electric guitar with the other. I had pulled off my extreme makeover in less than 3 minutes. My band mates, all seniors and still dressed in their caps and gowns, were waiting for me to go up on stage.</p>

<p>The rush of having over five hundred people quietly waiting for you to perform is an incomparable feeling. It was the concluding ceremony of Lincoln’s School Class of 2007 graduation and our biggest gig. Although the audience was comprised mostly of proud parents and grandparents, we were ready to rock the house. I cocked my head, listened for the drummer’s cue, and dove into the first chords of U2’s “Beautiful Day”. Our initial concern over this choice of rock music for such a formal ceremony quickly turned into electrifying exhilaration at the sight of our spectators. Those proud parents and grandparents were on their feet, clapping to the beat and moving to the rhythm. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my parents, grooving to the music like a couple of teenagers. I cleared my throat, only this
time to sing backup vocals. Five songs and three smashing guitar solos later, we took a final bow to our unlikely new aficionados.</p>

<p>As I stepped off the stage Mr. Prince, the high school principal, approached me in awe. “Well, well, Mr. Saborio, are you a President or a rock star?” I laughed and shrugged my shoulders, but his was a question that has resonated in my head ever since. I actually don’t know which of the two I am or which of the two my counterpart is. What I do know is that both of us love being on stage, under the blinding lights that inevitably make us the center of attention.</p>

<p>I walked out of the school auditorium that day feeling pleased with myself, my briefcase in one hand and my guitar in the other.</p>

212

<p>Option #5
Prompt: Henry David Thoreau wrote in his work, Walden, "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away." Describe the drummer to whom you pace.</p>

<pre><code>Somewhere at the back of my mind exists a competition between musicians who are constantly trying to outperform each other. In this cacophony of sounds, every note strikes preciously and every moment hangs as unpredictably as the previous. From the moment I wake up at the demand of my blaring alarm clock till the moment I head to bed listening to the radiator clinking and clunking away, the sounds have been merciless. Among the many talented musicians is a drummer who has the drive to practice day and night. Unfortunately for him, he has been absorbed into this dissonant mix of sounds that seemingly governs my life.

Some people may consider my drummer a genius because he is capable of recognizing brilliance when he hears it. Infinitely diligent, he has been known to spend weeks working on the same idea before setting aside the potential masterpiece. His ideas do not always come to fruition, but the pieces that he does share never fail to inspire. I hear him playing off in the distance as I work, study, and take exams. He plays the familiar tunes of Bach or the “Jeopardy Think” music as I scribble down answers in a furious pursuit to finish my tests on time. He is the voice of reason and serves as motivation for diligence and the genuine pursuit of learning.

However, there are still others who may easily consider my drummer a madman because he often goes the extra mile to spite authority. Resistant against education and "the man," he plays music that parallels the tunes that fueled the rebellious attitude of the sixties. He sees beauty not as cadence, but as well planned chaos. So while I will hear Bach’s classics off in the distance as I am writing lab reports, the louder and more unsettling theme of the Twilight Zone plays rapidly to fluster my mind. As a result, I all too often receive a grade that I wish existed only in the Twilight Zone. He is intelligent enough to realize the value of knowledge; but like Pink Floyd, he insists “we don’t need no education.” He is the voice of procrastination, rebellion, and mostly importantly, skepticism - the powerful filter between reality and fantasy.

The dichotomy in this drummer obscures itself when time is generous and responsibilities are few. Without the pressure of work, I do not crave inspirational music and can relax. From this peace, rebellion becomes senseless. In this rare situation, my drummer does not quit playing altogether; instead he shares with me the unsuccessful projects that he has been working on. He still experiments with motivational and rebellious rhythms, but he capitalizes on this free time to work on songs about love, life, and people in general. Although his work hasn’t lived up to his expectations thus far, he continuously studies music from the likes of The Beatles and Marvin Gaye in hopes of finding his own place in this genre.

From the dull authoritarian blares which govern my day’s hours to the calming meditation music that seems to have become my only oasis, sounds influence me enormously. The drummer in my life knows both genius and madness, but defies encapsulation by either of those simple labels because the life that most suits him is simply that of a struggling artist who occasionally winnows inspiration from chaos and confusion.
</code></pre>

213

<p>Option #4 (The make-your-own-story-using-these-key-ingredients one). It's a bit sadder than most. I also used this essay for UPenn's page 217 optional (we'll see how that turned out soon). It's only 439 words, possible proof that length isn't important (yes, I know that's what she said). I was accepted RD. </p>

<p>Try and find what the 4 things are!</p>

<p>A Dedication</p>

<p>What did it matter that we were aging? What did it matter that our bones creaked, or muscles ached, or minds weakened a little more with each passing day? Her hair still fluttered softly in the summer breeze, and my beard continued to grow, grayed and majestic. The old bench by the porch still held our combined weight without complaint, a testament to our time on earth. She still breathed. I still lived. </p>

<p>The doctors never figured out what was wrong. I had quit my job teaching at the University of Chicago to be with her. Money could wait. Money *would *wait. </p>

<pre><code> When her eyes gave way, I promised to be her vision, vowed to defy fate. I illustrated the starry night and the cloudy day, the brilliance of the sun and the curvature of the moon. I detailed buildings, faces, people, places. I led her through the house and tied her shoes. I drove her down the shore, always driving a bit slower so that she could feel the sea-salt breeze upon her face for a little while longer. I wrote down her letters using the same Ticonderoga #2 pencils that she had used for decades. What she could not see, I said.

When her sense of smell collapsed and muted her taste buds in kind, I explained every scent and every flavor that she encountered. Deep in her mind, I was sure that she could still remember the savor of steak, the potency of wine, the delicate snap of spice. I was determined to let her experience life to its fullest, despite her handicaps.

But, one day, she turned to face my voice as we sat on the bench, interrupting my description of a young neighbor’s paper airplane floating lazily across the street.
</code></pre>

<p>“Pat.” she said, hesitantly. “Pat. Listen for a second.”
A pause.</p>

<p>”It breaks my heart to hear about the things I can never experience myself.”
She paused again, searching delicately for stronger words. </p>

<p>“You can’t bring back what’s gone, Pat. I know you try, and I appreciate that, but you just can’t.”
She looked at me, as if somehow able to see my eyes welling.
“Please, Pat. Let me go.” </p>

<p>And yes I said yes I will Yes.</p>

<pre><code>When she finally lost her ability to hear, I said nothing. I watched the birds pass over the sky, and held her hand in mine on that bench, on the porch, by the front door of our house. I said nothing. She seemed to understand. Her hair rose and fell with the wind, my beard grew and grew and grew, and we were at peace.
Finally.
</code></pre>

214

<p>Loved your essay, enderkin.</p>

<p>Your four items were: Number 2 pencils, a paper airplane, "And yes I said yes I will Yes", and a transformation - am I right? :) (I was thinking the 4th item could be "a shoe" but you mentioned "shoes", plural. Hahaha.)</p>

215

<p>Beautiful essay! :)</p>

216

<p>Enderkin, I have to say that is probably the best essay I have read in this thread. Good work.</p>

217

<p>enderkin!!!!! yours is so beautiful!!</p>

<p>I did the Picture essay... I got in EA. I feel really shy sharing it, but I remember last year when I was inspired by the essays here and I hope my essay also could help the 2013ers.</p>

<hr>

<p>What do pictures want?</p>

<p>“Perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer,
Rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life”
The Awakening – Kate Chopin</p>

<p>Welcome to my humble abode. I am most humbled, dear madam, most humbled. Pray sit down. Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee? Ah. Of course I knew my dear madam would prefer tea to coffee. It does seem more refined than coffee, does it not? How people drink coffee nowadays. Sugar? Two? One? None! O Madam, what an excellent choice you make. No sugar in tea. That’s how people should drink tea. Corrupting its purity with evil things like sugar….
*
Madam. I see where your eyes are leading me. Your curiosity is too much for me to ignore. I shall then modestly invite you through the door, which you have been avidly staring. Excuse me? You haven’t been staring at the door? You just glanced at it once? No madam, please, you do not have to make excuses. I assure you. I believe curiosity cannot kill the cat. Pray stand. I shall not waste a moment in guiding you through the door, which hides my artworks. I call the room… the Gallery of Destinies actually… I must admit, I am quite proud of my works… quite proud… If you insist Madam…
*
Here are my jewels! Freshly painted portraits. My proudest opuses, all painted today. Look at this one. Do stand back. That is how you appreciate artwork first. Look at her. The little Asian that stands in front of you. Is she not a fine piece of artwork? I used all my aesthetic finesses in designing her. I know exactly what kind of person she is. I am the artist after all. Her name is "(I wrote down my name).” She is a small girl, is she not? Look how I portrayed her bushy, black hair and its individual, visible strands. Look at her eyes. The color. You do not know what I went through to achieve the perfect smoky chestnut. And her smile. Every detail of her lips. The lines of her face. I gave her a pudgy, round nose. Is not the roundness well done? It reflects light perfectly! You will find that I did not miss even the smallest of her freckles. Still, calm, and indifferent. She is a perfect picture, is she not Madam? ... Madam!
*
Let us go out. This room is getting quite stuffy. No? I pray madam; please do not lift the curtain. The door, I regret, is locked. That door you are staring at with your beseeching eyes, I cannot grant you entrance there. Madam, no. You ask too much! Madam!<br>
*
Oh pray close your eyes. An artist does not show his failures. You have just opened the door to my room of disaster. Look at my failures, fallen out from their magnificent frames that cased them. Disobedient pictures! Broken, tattered, in ruins. Paints spilling everywhere, out of their course. I drew and drew. I painted my portraits with utmost detail, utmost care. I know each subject so well, even to the ends of their eyelashes. Yet they escape. What does a picture want? Does it not want itself to be beautiful, to be divine, to be admired? Does it not want itself to be perfect? A perfect portrait? You have seen my most recent pictures. Are they not exquisite beauties, perfection itself? My brush lines, colors, paints, they were all flawless. Yet my subjects! All of them break their frames and run about wildly. They change and alter. What is it? What does a picture want? Why does it run away from my design and from the destinies of admiration I have bestowed upon them and reaped them into life? I have molded each into its perfection. Look at that one lying on the floor. It was perfect. Now look. It seems disgustingly human. It looks grotesquely alive. That strange light in its eyes. Emotion. Passion. Soul! Life!! Things a perfect picture should never possess. Let us retreat back into the comforts of my recent, faultless beauties… Pictures are beautiful when they are just pictures…
*</p>

<h2>Arrrgh! What happened? Again! The little Asian has defied me too. She has broken out of her frame. Look at the dismal thing, lying on the floor. How can you bear her eyes so rough, so unrefined, without any artistic perfection, shining with that thing called passion? Look at her changing. How distasteful. I cannot bear to see her once perfect eyes, which mirrored nothing, so altered, inflamed with life’s insatiable fires. I pray madam, go. Pictures, pictures, pictures. Why do they destroy their beauty, their destinies of admiration and endeavor for that imperfection that makes them look so … ALIVE?</h2>

<p>I wanted the pictures to represent us, the people. I thought it was sort of reckless, but I guess it was okay with the admissions officers. :) Good luck 2013!! Amazing essays 2012ers!!!!!!!!!!</p>

218

<p>
[quote]
Your four items were: Number 2 pencils, a paper airplane, "And yes I said yes I will Yes", and a transformation - am I right? (I was thinking the 4th item could be "a shoe" but you mentioned "shoes", plural. Hahaha.)

[/quote]
</p>

<p>You've missed one (because the Ulysses quote was mandatory, not one of the things you could've selected)!
Wow, I had forgotten that I had shoes--I was afraid that something else might have become fused with transformation, so I had put that in--so technically there are 5 things in there!</p>

<p>4/5, JTKay. A solid score! Should be easy to guess the last one, hm?</p>

219

<p>I went with the "Borges y yo prompt" since it was the only one I could really find a good way to approach. It's fairly personal, but I think it works. For this thread, I went ahead and censored some of the more personal details.</p>

<p>
[quote]
It’s Friday, 6:45 AM. The sun has yet to rise, but already everyone is working. The stagehands pace frantically around the studio floor, stopping every few seconds to check another piece of equipment yet again. The producer sits in the control booth, tapping his foot impatiently and watching the motions on set through a glass screen. Next to him, the moderator, the only adult present, sits with a laptop quickly re-editing the day’s headlines. In this cramped back room behind a school auditorium, about a dozen people wait anxiously for something, anything, to happen. </p>

<p>Finally, the door opens and two men enter the stage. One of them, a tall, stocky kid with unkempt hair and a wearied face hidden behind an old pair of glasses, sits down behind a news desk. That was I. That was me. That was Matthew ###### of Miami. The other man sits in a chair off-camera, waiting for his cue. Everyone in the room is noticeably calmer now. My producer announces we’re finally ready. I stare ahead into the camera and hear a voice count down, “Three. Two. One. Action!” </p>

<p>My eyes immediately shift from the camera to the small playback monitor next to it. And that’s where I see him. His eyes are wide open, alive. His glasses are clean, professional. His hair is nice, kempt. Everything about him is kempt. He raises his gaze to the screen and smiles confidently. “Good morning, and welcome to another episode of The Matt ###### Show”. That’s him. That’s Matt ###### of ########## High School. “First off, I’d like to explain my absence last week. I decided to support the writer’s strike and take my show off the air until it was settled. As it turns out, the Writer’s Guild doesn’t care about a show that only gets a few hundred viewers every week. Well, at least we still beat out Friday Night Lights.” Everyone in the studio holds back laughter; the cameraman tries to keep his hands from shaking. It’s a typical Matt joke: unexpected, fairly obscure, and completely deadpan. He keeps on going with this monologue, most of it improvised, for a few minutes before introducing his guest for the week, a middle-aged economics teacher, and starting an argument about whether Monopoly or Life is more realistic. </p>

<p>The same routine has been playing out every week this year, making Matt a minor celebrity with name recognition and not one but two fan clubs on Facebook. But he’s not a new invention. He’s been around for years, just never this free. Matt’s always been the more noticeable of us: the one who can make anyone laugh given enough time, who never loses his cool, who seems more like a sitcom character than a real person. People would be disappointed if I showed up when they were expecting him. I am quiet, oblivious to superficialities, and not much for conversation. </p>

<p>You might say Matt was born of fear, or the desire to be accepted. Whatever it was, he’s gone far beyond it by now. But that’s not to say we’re enemies. I chose to have him here. There’s a gentleman’s agreement between us. I write lines; he delivers them. I read stories; he tells them. I meet girls; he goes out with them. We both profit. More than that, we have a lot in common. We both obsess over the modern-day relevance of Don Quixote, Israeli-Irish relations (alphabetically, their representatives always sit next to each other), and whether the opposite of zero is one, negative one, or infinity. </p>

<p>But this year Matt seems to be breaking the equilibrium. With his show, people who I’ve never met now mistake me for him constantly. It’s getting harder and harder to tell which of us is more real. And our differences are getting bigger. Matt is now considered white, “very Jewish”, and only speaks English (but better than most). However, Matthew is Hispanic, non-practicing Catholic, and speaks Spanish, Russian, and Esperanto (on the rare occasions where he speaks). I wish it were simpler; I wish there was only one of us instead of two. And in the end, there might be: nobody will know either of us after high school. It’ll be a fresh start in a way most people never truly experience. When that time comes, we might just end up as a single comedian-philosopher Megazord-like hybrid. I hope this page was written by him.

[/quote]
</p>

<p>I applied RD, and was accepted RD.</p>

220

<p>Rejected RD, (I was proud of it, but I know I was rejected for other reasons... :)
Table essay:</p>

<p>Introspection</p>

<p>"All right everyone; let's eat!" caring “my name” exclaimed.
"Eating is so lame," apathetic “my name” dejectedly said.
"Eating is a vital necessity to one's mind being at optimal performance," intellectual “my name” quickly retorted.
"“my name” weighs 140lbs; he needs to eat, or else we'll all wither away," caring “my name” adds. </p>

<p>My table consists of all my personalities: intellectual, caring, funny, and apathetic. We have an equilaterally triangular table with a circular opening circumscribed within the triangle. The area in the middle of the triangle is only large enough for one chair. Every personality rotates a seat in the middle, or "the big chair." One might inquire, "Where is the food placed?" A solution was derived for this problem approximately seventeen years ago. Each exterior personality receives his own bowl, and the core personality is required to share with the other three. The person who is in the middle for however long keeps its corresponding viewpoints ahead of everyone else's; however, he also is bombarded with and systematically judges advice received from the three other personalities. We have our paramount discussions at my table. My personalities are secluded from the rest of the world and are able to think unmistakably at the table. My characters are able to derive answers to intricate mathematics, to provide the perfect clever retort to an outsider's lexis, and to toy around with eternally perplexing subjects from the meaning of humanity's existence to the reasoning behind assigning "door" to belittle the significance of a rectangular three-dimensional device that assists in separating one area from another.
The shiest personality is the caring “my name”, and he only calls for the table to be set if something of dire urgency has happened, such as a very close friend in need of assistance. Caring “my name” also sets the table if he feels that I am unhappy. The caring “my name” will also come out if I see immoral or negative actions happening in my presence. The caring “my name” will immediately seek mediation of any problems, and he overwhelms me whenever I feel angry. I am thankful for this personality; without it, I do not think I would be so tranquil.
The funny “my name” conveniently is the most outspoken and eager to set the table. He sets the table whenever he feels that something is needed to be said (something that happens more often than not). The rest of the personalities usually try to beat him to the middle when he calls the table to be set purposefully. Attempting to block his outlandish ideas, they usually succeed. His ideas include, "It'd be funny if we convinced “my name” to try and make the teacher laugh," or, "I just wanted to see if you would come when I would ask for the table to be set." It must be noted, moreover, that the funny “my name” possesses a unique quality of garnering friendship with little difficulty. It is then that the caring, intellectual, or apathetic “my name”s can gather the strength to reveal themselves to the individual. This usually happens during one-on-one conversations. This has led to, moreover, the majority of my friends today.
My least favorite, the apathetic “my name”, usually calls for the table to be set if something does not go “my name”'s way. If “my name” has failed, the apathetic “my name” immediately rushes to set the table to converse with the other three personalities. Apathetic “my name” finds shelter conversing with intellectual “my name” at the table for dilemmas that he cannot solve. The apathetic “my name” sometimes comes out if I feel lethargic and inert. The worst time this happens is during the school year. The apathetic “my name” feels that I am different from many of the individuals at school; however, the funny “my name” usually takes over in social situations.
During the summer of my sophomore year, my favorite personality, the intellectual “my name” was discovered. When I found companionship and my long-desired acceptance in Speech and Debate, my interest in the club swelled. I relayed my interest to hone my skills in debate with another member, and he offered me information about a debate camp he attended: the Stanford National Forensics Institute. I and all my personalities were fascinated by his tales of the grandeur; learning from some of the best debate instructors in the nation sparked my ambition to attend. I decided, thereafter, to sell some not-so-vital organs to fit the expense of attending the institution.
Incredulity enveloped me. I congregated with people far smarter than I had met in my school, and some were even younger than I. I was utterly dejected for the first week; I left friends and family to endure three weeks of study about a level of debate I had never considered to exist. Every day, I was relayed a three hour summary of every major philosopher. As I furiously and hopelessly typed the words the instructor would speak, trying to glean meaning from my notes, I was intimidated and harbored nothing from the lecture. I realized I was wasting my hours with the depressing thoughts of inadequacy, and I needed to take control of the time remaining. The remaining two weeks taught me how to learn at a higher level and how to study harder than I formerly had. Socializing with the other participants at debate camp was an incredibly therapeutic feeling. We all had a mutual appreciation for garnering knowledge, and the exposure to higher academia and intellectual conversation revolutionized my sixteen years of existence and, more likely than not, theirs. It was then that the intellectual “my name” was first discovered and attending Stanford National Forensics Institute was one of the best decisions of my life.
The intellectual “my name” is quite antithetical to the funny “my name” in his colloquialism; however, he is by far the most respected. The thing that is common for intellectual “my name” to say is that “my name” needs to focus harder so that he can be someone who deserves of respect in his life. The other three personalities agree, but it can sometimes be bothersome when dealing with such polar opposites. Intellectual “my name” also looks down on actions that his colleagues make that lack rationalization, and he tries to be the most successful while still maintaining some of the attributes possessed by the other personalities. The intellectual “my name” loves to find universal truths throughout life. He often comes out when discussing theories about existence amongst friends. He has many theories as to the meaning of life, the purpose of social interactions, and the justification behind the ethics of society. The intellectual “my name” hopes that collegiate education will enhance and alter his viewpoints on many of these topics and more. The intellectual “my name” finds great interest in inquiries. Often, he will force me to go to classes after school and ask the teacher questions that pertained to the lectures. I think that his energy has been untapped in my high school years, and I know that Chicago will allow me to tap deeper into them.
Even though “my name” rarely has a say in what goes on at his table, whenever possible he strives for intellectual “my name” to maintain "the big chair." I would argue that my mind's table is usually set, and it merely depends on who has the middle seat. I would also argue that it is a rare feat when all four personalities rotate "the big chair" in need of composing an essay.</p>