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Colleges and Universities A-Z University of Chicago ✅
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<p>Haha, not sure how I got accepted with this. Let me know what you think (made my own topic here):</p>

<p>Essay Option 5: Mourn the loss of something which never lived.</p>

<p>We are gathered here today to celebrate the life and mourn the death of a dear friend, an integral member of our family for over a decade. We could only sit back as a body of four-wheel-drive persistence, steel-cage integrity, and leather-upholstered class took us to new heights. Anywhere on the map was fair game. Stephen A. Brennan once said that “Our goals can only be reached through a vehicle of a plan, in which we must fervently believe, and upon which we must vigorously act. There is no other route to success.” I believe in and miss you, and you are the only vehicle I would choose to successfully lead me on a route. Rest in peace, navy blue 1998 Volvo V70 Cross Country.
I knew no other which had such a capacity for both understanding and 18 gallons of fuel. I never knew of one so blessed with the Optional Luxury Package to toss away vanity and be so accepting of less-than-desirable passengers on its voyage through life. It accommodated dogs who dripped drool down its doors and welcomed massive Destination Imagination backdrops of lattice fencing through its trunk; it would even yield and fold its rear row for room. Whenever I took a seat, I was always reassured by an orthopedic support of acceptance.
I must admit, I was at first embarrassed to be associated with the automobile. My friends were all graced with jock-suiting, junkyard jalopies, while I was stuck with a square, safe station wagon! I might as well have strapped on a helmet and nametag reading “life-valuing”. But over time, I developed a soft spot for the headlamp wipers, the traction control, and, eventually, the entire (optional) Winter Package. I eventually valued our blossoming relationship. I could stand faithfully by my ride, point at it and exclaim: “Give me a jumpsuit and call me ‘soccer mom’, I’m with sensibility!”
One instance sticks out in my mind that absolutely rolled me with respect for the Cross Country. On a normal drive home one night, a deer appeared in the Volvo’s path. Though surprised and disheveled, the car still managed to plow through the quizzical quadruped with an unmatched grace. I give my automobile credit for keeping its cool. My Swedish steed kept me safe, and I came out unscarred. It gave its hood and right headlight for me, and I still thank it for that noble sacrifice.
It was soon clear that the final park in the garage was driving near. I don’t know whether it was the fading of the console’s illumination, the failure of the power steering, or being launched into curbs, but something ominous was in the air. It wasn’t that skunk the Civic ahead of me had hit. Yes, that day came. There I was, haggling with Progressive, and up there it was, chasing animals on the Autobahn in the sky. May it rest in pieces, and, regardless of that time they decided to turn off and attract an officer, may its headlight forever light its path through the highways of heaven. As for that deer, another time, another eulogy.</p>

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<p>dude toastmaster, i just laughed my ass off at you essay. awesome</p>

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<p>Here's my favorites essay. I decided to keep it short and sweet.</p>

<p>My superpower, as I call it, is that I have always been a very fast reader. But I don’t just plow through literature. I devour it. It is my passion for reading that has carried me through both the most intensive courses and the most dragging days of summer. My absolute favorite books are The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, and Freakonomics by Stephen Dubner and the University of Chicago’s own Steven Levitt. I enjoy the works of Oscar Wilde, Bill Bryson, Ayn Rand, and David Sedaris. I also collect antique books that I find at local book sales. My best finds are a 1913 edition of Speeches by William Jennings Bryan and a 1914 edition of Poems by Ovid entirely in Latin (which I can’t even begin to read). I don’t just love books; I love the idea of books. The way they feel in your hand, the sound of a turning page, even the combined aroma of ink, paper and paste. I’m sure there are plenty of others like me at the University of Chicago. The rest of the world may give in to the pressure of technology, but I want to go somewhere where Kindles will never catch on.</p>

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<p>Is it really that funny, lazydog?</p>

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<p>KMAD: How much do you want for the Jennings Bryan collection?</p>

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<p>Anyway, here's my optional essay. I'll post the others at some point:</p>

<p>Confession: I’m a film nerd in my spare time—and truly, my Netflix account is a prized possession for expanding my tastes. Here are the top five films of which I simply never tire: </p>

<p>After Hours (1985, Martin Scorsese) – Scorsese jokingly calls The Departed his first film with a plot. It’s a cute line, but I’d make the case for this surreal—and criminally underappreciated—pitch black comedy. An uptight office worker just wants an enjoyable night out; instead, he becomes ensnared in an endless, interwoven cosmic joke of absurdity, violence, and irony—until it all comes full circle. Gripping, hilarious, and quite bizarre, the film encapsulates—twists? nightmarishly distorts?—the eccentric Lower Manhattan that I know and love. </p>

<p>L</p>

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<p>Ha, you don't want it. It was very well loved by a high school library. And it doesn't even have the Cross of Gold speech! Plus I love it. :D</p>

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<p>Here is my Why Chicago. Is long and syrupy and, once upon a time, meticulously formatted.</p>

<p>Rainwalk Song</p>

<p>//When I turn I hear the passing of an empty train, does it know, does it know there's no one waiting?// </p>

<p>It had been less than a day, and already I was homesick. </p>

<p>I trudged down East 59th with my camera in hand, dragging leaden feet over rain-slick pavement. The sky hung low and dark and drizzling, and a fingertip of fallen water brushed my cheek. I cupped my camera with a protective hand and turned into Wieboldt Hall, where there were lacy trees and groined Alhambra windows to ensnare its glassy gaze—and my thoughts. Nostalgia was a sad song plinked on a ghostly piano in my mind.</p>

<p>//And up north they're breaking open all the virgin ground, do they know, do they know there's nothing waiting?//</p>

<p>Home wasn’t Texas, where I lived two hundred days of summer on golden desiccated plains, a land of longhorns and drum corps and Friday night lights. For the past six weeks it had been Ann Arbor, where through the Telluride Association Summer Program I had found so many things—seminar readings and three a.m. chats, red bean bubble tea and trashy Europop, my own voice and some of the truest friendships I knew. Yesterday the dream had ended and we’d crashed awake to find that there was a world outside our Telluridean bubble, that we had family besides each other. We’d traded gruff hugs and teary smiles and swapped our belongings by befuddled mistake. And then I’d taken a car southwest, stopping a thousand miles short of Texas so I could see the University of Chicago. But there I stood, in the fragrant rainy quiet of a long-cherished wish, wishing now only to roll the miles northeast, the minutes back. Thinking not Crescat scientia, but Val</p>

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<p>Oh, you're from Texas too? Whereabouts?</p>

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<p>PROMPT:The short film Powers of Ten begins with an aerial shot of a couple picnicking in a Chicago park. The camera zooms out ten meters. It then zooms out again, but the degree of the zoom has increased by a power of ten; the camera is now 100 meters away. It continues to 1,000 meters, then 10,000, and so on, traveling through the solar system, the galaxy, and eventually to the edge of the known universe. Here the camera rests, allowing us to examine the vast nothingness of the universe, black void punctuated sparsely by galaxies so far away they appear as small stars. The narrator comments, "This emptiness is normal. The richness of our own neighborhood is the exception." Then the camera reverses its journey, zooming in to the picnic, and - in negative powers of ten - to the man's hand, the cells in his hand, the molecules of DNA within, their atoms, and then the nucleus both "so massive and so small" in the "vast inner space" of the atom. Zoom in and out on a person, place, event, or subject of interest. What becomes clear from far away that you can't see up close? What intricate structures appear when you move closer? How is the big view related to the small, the emptiness to the richness?</p>

<p>ESSAY:
At this moment we all sit with gum wrappers stuck to our foreheads. I had said that if you lick the wrapper of a Big Red stick of gum and stick it to your forehead, it will burn. So, naturally, we all lick our wrappers and apply them to our foreheads. We will see who can keep it on the longest. After a few seconds my youngest brother, Joey, wails in pain. Victoria laughs at him, and Moroni and I yell at them to be quiet. Dad simply sits on the couch, amused by the spectacle. Since we are in the lower floor of the MS&T library, we are interrupted by a librarian, who scolds us for our racket. We nod seriously as she explains that the sound travels up the elevator shaft to the 2nd and 3rd floors. She explains how our noise is disrupting students who are trying to study. We apologize and promise to be quiet. No one removes their wrappers.</p>

<p>As we expand on this moment the significance is diluted. To the librarian who scolds us, we are just stupid kids, loud and disrespectful. Further from us are the students in the building. They may have heard us and been somewhat distracted. Outside the library, no one is aware of our laughing and carrying on. As for the rest of the world, our activity is one of 6 billion miscellaneous, silly activities. On a grander scale this moment is nothing. Meaningless.</p>

<p>The moment, as it seems, is worth almost nothing. The moment, as it is, is worth only slightly more. The fact of the situation is that we are sitting next to the vending machines in the lower floor of the library, with gum wrappers stuck to our faces. But, if the moment is explored as it is meant to be, the complex meanings are revealed.</p>

<p>This moment is a family activity. Our family walks the two miles to the library at least once a week to enjoy each other’s company. The Abbotts are a large family, and we may not always get along. But in this moment we are harmonious. Competition is very important to our family. This moment is another contest and the winner will get to brag all the way home. To each member of the family this contest is a test of endurance. Each person grits their teeth at the pain with an unwillingness to give in. Joey’s face screws up. He won’t take it off, but can’t bear to keep it on. An emotional conflict rages within. The cinamic acid reacts with the skin molecules, oblivious of its role in this lesson of human achievement. </p>

<p>This moment is merely one moment in a series of millions of moments in the vast history and geography of the earth. Who would pick this moment over countless others for any reason? </p>

<p>This moment is a series of chemical reactions, with no goal or motive.</p>

<p>This moment is Disruption to university students and Irritation to a librarian. This moment is Honor and Fortitude. </p>

<p>How is this moment best defined? Is it another random action in a sea of human bustle, or is it a test of the heart? Either way, I won.</p>

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<p>Lol, that essay is beautiful, iabbott. well done. i wrote on that prompt, too... but mine fell short of everything i wanted it to be. it looks to me as though you nailed it, though. well done.</p>

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<p>Your essay is awesome iabbott!</p>

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<p>Wow... my essay really sucks compared to these.
iabbott, you wrote a really good essay, despite the weird prompt (which turned me away)
I'll post my Why chicago + optional essays (which I see are very weak)</p>

<p>Why Chicago
Search for University of Chicago: A journey</p>

<pre><code>I have never been to the University’s campus. I have never been to the city of Chicago. I have never been to the state of Illinois. Thousands of miles away in the Caribbean, I was busy searching for an American institution to settle down. I opened a new computer window and searched for ‘top schools for economics’. An array of schools appeared. Among them, there was the ‘University of Chicago’. “Never heard of it” I thought. I clicked it nonetheless. The admissions homepage appeared, highlighting the University’s strengths, including its numerous affiliations with Nobel laureates, its top notch economics program and faculty, including the famous Steven Levitt (admittedly, I dream of brushing shoulders with him). Mildly interested, I decided to further research the university in Wikipedia. The result “[…]the University of Chicago is often jokingly referred to as the school "where fun comes to die."” I was now engaged.

“Where fun comes to die.” I chuckle whenever I think of it since the quote itself is a paradox. Paired with UChicago’s other unofficial motto, “Life of the mind”, “Where fun comes to die” has a different meaning than what meets the eye. “Where fun comes to die” does not mean that “fun comes to die” per se, but that the conventional means of entertainment are set aside in the face of a much more entertaining task; ‘Living’ the mind.

My last two summers were spent ‘living’ in my mind. I didn’t have a job (few, if any, job opportunities in the Dominican Republic), and I didn’t go to expensive summer camps. I spent my time in a much more decorated manner; I debated and had numerous conversations with brilliant minds. I read books. Happiness and “fun” from reading books cannot be expressed into mere words. For me, UChicago is “Where the mind comes to live.”
</code></pre>

<p>Optional essay
The path of acquiring of knowledge through academic studies is entertaining, but is also an arduous one. Reading is always a good break in such journeys. If I had to name my favorite, most enjoyable read, I would answer “Harry Potter” in a heartbeat. If I had to name the best book, it’d be Niccolo Machiavelli’s infamous work, The Prince.
I was first attracted to Machiavelli’s political treatise because of multiple references from Chris Matthews’ Hardball. My parents didn’t like the idea of me reading such an infamous book. But the more they opposed, the more curious I became.
Though Machiavelli’s book by and itself is a must-read book to understand how politicians act, it was the foreword that I found interesting. “The Prince still has a bad reputation, partly because of tradition, partly because it is more often cited than read…” I could relate to this since the demonization of Machiavelli is but another stereotype that is often ignorant of the chaotic era in which Machiavelli wrote the book. Machiavelli was only guilty of trying to save his nation from the hands of incompetent rulers; an act that at any rate should be praised.</p>

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<p>crocrop: I love your Why Chicago essay. I think it is better than any of the others that have been posted. Both of my kids were admitted to UofC, and one attended. Their essays were more like yours, straightforward and actually readable.</p>

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<p>Oh wow. My essay lacks relative "deep-meaning"-ness. It's simply a story that rambles quite a bit. I kind of took liberty to interpret "the question" referenced by Rilke. SOMEBOYD, anybody, give me genuine, hard critiques on my Chicago essay.. pweeze.</p>

<p>"At present you need to live the question." - Rainer Maria Rilke, translated from the German by Joan M. Burnham.
At the end of my life, I will proceed down to hell’s fiery abysses to be consumed in the raging inferno in Hades’ realm for all eternity.
When I was little, this statement that I believed to be true warped my brain for hours upon hours. When other kids worried about whose Red Rover team they were going to play on at recess, I dwelled on the comments made with cruelty only elementary children can exact: “So wait… you don’t believe in God?” Each “yes” I said back in defiance left a bad aftertaste in my mouth. After coming home, a lonely little atheist girl lost in the rumble of holy schoolchildren, I was aghast and even angry that my parents had made me into a non-believing outcast. My parents grew up in China where atheism is enforced and subsequently raised me in their non-religious example. Not being in on this grand thing Religion was like missing out on an integral part of the human experience. I understandably feared that religion had eluded me, and that it had been my parents’ fault that we were all going to hell. I would torturously ponder in my sleep, “Am I going to hell? Am I going to hell? Am I going to hell?”
I asked myself this question constantly up until high school. It wasn’t because I doubted my atheist identity; it was more so because I was always under a perpetual deluge of attacks, enduring a “godless heathen” reputation ever since I was young. In elementary school, upon my assertion that humans evolved from monkeys, classmate Mary told me that I alone came from monkey ancestors; everyone else came from Adam and Eve. A boy on the bus condemned me to hell because I wasn’t Christian. In junior high, kids taunted that I’d find myself drinking tea with Satan if I didn’t save myself soon. Though they were obvious condemnations, I couldn’t help but wonder… should I be worried? Are they concerned for my afterlife because I am royally Damned?
My seduction came in freshmen biology class. Yes, religion seduced me in a science class. We were learning about evolution, and several students started some chaos about being force-fed “garbage” about magically transforming animals. It had been many years since I was a god-fearing girl—in fact, many people knew me as an outspoken critic of the conservatively religious at school. But I still held personal reservations about questioning my peers who so faithfully believed in their religion. I was drawn to all those fantastic explanations for the very unexplainable found in religion. It was then that I decided to stop by the school’s Bible Study. I said to the group of eight that I wanted them to give me the Dummies Guide to my fate. What was religion’s solution to these questions of mine? Was I going to hell? Is there a heaven for good people? What was their explanation for the beginning of life? Needless to say, their answers were a bit negative (Yes there is a hell. I could quite possibly be going there. I must convert in order to go to heaven. Not to worry, all good people eventually find Jesus). I consequently learned that while religion holds perfect answers for its adherents, helps followers through difficult times, provides a moral framework to follow, and offers an intrinsic support system, I only need basic human morals to live a good life. I did not need to involve myself with questions of fate for I finally realized my fate was not dictated by a religion I had no belief in—my life is mine to control, mine to steer down a path of righteousness or immorality. Me. I do not care if I go to hell anymore—because now I know the answer to my own question.
In the end I have come a long way from the child who believed the fear-mongering kids on the playground telling me of a hellish fate. It has been a slow process though—hindered by occasional self-doubt and questioning. But I have found my drive to move forward, cease the fights of “who is wrong, who is right” about religion, and answer life’s more burning mysteries. Eventually I have realized that I have been living my own question of “am I going to hell?” It is not possible; it is countered by the way I have lived a good life to the best of my ability. I don’t need a book written by men 2000 years ago to dictate what is just and what is immoral. It is empowering to exist unfettered by a book, but it is even more empowering to know that I have lived all along following the morals that the Bible coincidentally promotes. I am fine with the uncertainty of not having religion’s perfect replies to all my greatest questions. I now know my desire to know and live is natural to all human beings, and not due to the existence of a God. It is my own free will that asks questions. I find beauty in that simple, empowering sentence. Though I have years to go before I can tackle questions about things much larger than I am—the economy, the universe, and fate—I have finally realized that asking continual inquiries about God, the heavens, and the stars (although good for friendly banter and cerebral stimulation) is useless if I am in the search for answers. I now know that the person I freely am and the person I will clearly become is now the answer to my question.</p>

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<p>Essay Option 1. "At present you need to live the question." - Rainer Maria Rilke, translated from the German by Joan M. Burnham.
Inspired by Sarah Marikar, a third-year in the College
A pale green leaf skims the floor and, for a second, is lifted by the short, stagnant breathe of God, and the next, let go, plummeting downward and raking the rough soil with its veins, long since dried, empty, and hollow.
Why does the tree reach upward, clasping only that which is above? Why does the tree branch fragment outward, bearing fruit that so willingly embraces the earth?
Once, before man, in the great absence of all things, except one, or rather two, there existed two seeds. These were no special seeds- round, a rough, despondent, monochromatic brown, unconscious of the world, and, like all seeds, too intrigued with their own pulsating, pure, unperturbed kernel of nothingness. Nonetheless, they were the world, and all that the world could claim, and so the world fed them, from the crack of birth to the hymn of death. However, because there is no meaning after their death, let us begin with their birth.
The rigid walls of the seeds, like canyons, pierced the darkness, valleys, filled from bottom with being, beat with the inklings of existence, the intimation of beginning, and the beginning of end. One crack lined the outside wall of the seeds, moved downward, with slow, unsure footsteps and circled its globe, splinting off once with uncertainty, twice with incredulity, and again and again, until finally, with the lust for autonomy and crags and shards too many to count, the seed relented, and burst open. This was the seeds’ beginning, but still, here, we can find no meaning, no sustenance. So then, let us move to their life, that center point of the bridge. Yes, for surely in life, surely in existence, we can find some meaning.
As wings burst open, cut in half like a dove, flooded with light, the seeds tasted the hellish heaven of the air, of existence, and of beginning. Hunched over, like babes not yet sure of how their own breath, staring only at the brownish-red soil, heavy and rich, clumped in myriad indistinguishable wholes that were in themselves only parts of the world, the bud shaped heads of the trees looked downward. And from there the two seeds, born the same, gave breathe to their first words, together.
“I am.”
At that, from that which was, the world, there blew past the two trees, still nothing but words, and dust, and leaves, up the hooked stem, a gentle breeze, a soft whisper, a sigh of relief- for that moment the trees began true existence. Years past, and the blood red-brown soil nourished the tree, as its bud, opening like a Venus fly trap, grasped and swallowed that above it, its twisted spine straightened and at the same time extended outward and upward, and its roots moved from capillaries to vessels, sucking dry that under it- but, still, not deep and never far, it was content with just the flesh of the soil. When, again, years past, and the trees now had the beginnings of bark, a thin carpet on their trunks, again the seeds spoke, softly, though, and still uncertain.
“We have grown strong,” the first said.
“Yes,” the second said.
“But still, I have grown stronger than you,” the first said.
And at this, the second shrugged, swaying brittle leaves back and forth, up and down.
“Surely you cannot believe such a thing,” said the second.
“But it is true,” said the first.
“Fine, let us test it,” said the second, “race me to the sky.”
“Ha!” haughtily replied the first. “Fine, but know you will lose.”
“We will see,” said the second.
And again, at that, from that which was, the world, there blew past the two trees, still nothing but words, and dust, and leaves, up the straight stem, a gentle breeze, a sickly whisper, an abject sigh of stupor- for at that moment, as a means to measure themselves against the other, the trees grew that they may touch to sky.<br>
For immemorial years, countless, the trees grew and stretched outward, leaped forward, that they may cradle the clouds. And when, again, years past, their trunks, grew a heavy bark, brittle, each layer thinner than the next, their leaves, once a crisp green, were refined to the point of degeneracy and grew thin, given only the sparsest water, and their roots disintegrated to capillaries, just enough to fund their practice. And so, they existed, until finally, as an answer to all things, the world’s answer to all things, death was born into the world, and the first seed died- never having touched the sky, never having swallowed the sun.
Now the second seed, still alive, no longer had any purpose to reach the sky. And having no meaning in the pursuit, sat idle, still, and was surrounded by decay. And again the years past, and the young, tall tree grew old, his trunk descending downward like a question mark, and having found no meaning chasing clouds, concentrated his attentions and found meaning on that below, the world. His roots descended deep, past the flesh-deep troughs into unknown chasms beneath, unspoken gorges below. And his branches now, having, before, deteriorated to the very clouds he sought, grew outward, farther, as an extension of the inner, bearing the most beautiful fruit of the sweetest nectar. But the tree was still dying, hunched and crooked, surrounded and filled with decay. And so, under the weight of his own reality, he, too, evaporated from life. And in this way he died, bent and broken, hunched and abject-alive and kissing the edge of the sky.
And so, you sit there, questioning how you must “live the question”, asking which pursuit was the better- the second seed stressing the imminent or the first searching and praising the transcendent. The processes of life are bitter and cruel, but subtle and significant. The lives that we create for ourselves have an unlimited possibility of truths and an infinite number of meanings, but in the end, by “living” the question, by “existing,” we inevitably develop our own answers. There exists no way of measuring which among our meanings, what among our answers, was the right choice, but that we have the ability to “live it” and decide for ourselves is why this life is so beautiful.</p>

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<p>I read this opening in a Los Angeles Times op-ed this week and instantly though of the "zoom in/zoom out" essay topic. Could have worked well:</p>

<p>Reporting from Jerusalem — The images from the fighting in Gaza are harrowing but ultimately deceptive. They portray a mighty invading army, one equipped with F-16 jets that have bombed a civilian population defended by a few thousand fighters armed with primitive rockets. </p>

<p>But widen the lens and the true nature of this conflict emerges. Hamas, like Hezb ollah in Lebanon, is a proxy for the real enemy Israel is confronting: Iran. And Israel's current operation against Hamas represents a unique chance to deal a strategic blow to Iranian expansionism . . .</p>

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<p>521985
your essay was not bad, but I felt that your essay was a bit risky (I got the impression you were attacking religion, whether you meant to or not). Also, I can't clearly see how you answered the prompt of 'live the question'. It's easy to fall into slow paced writing when you write about such a topic (which, btw is the reason I chose another prompt).
But hey, take my critique with a grain of salt. I'm no adcom... who knows what they really want?</p>

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<p>crocop-- thank you for the feedback! I got the impression myself that the essay was a bit frenzied and rambly, but .. you know if it's not bad then I'm relieved. And I really wasn't trying to attack religion.. Oops. Adcoms are usually liberal, understanding humans correct? Heh.</p>

<p>My question was.. I guess.. kind of "will i go to hell" but more like, am I bad person because I don't believe in God? By living, I have answered the question myself (I try my best to live good)... Is it too "read-between-the-lines?" Sigh.</p>

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<p>I didn't think at all that you were bashing religion (more of just thoroughly questioning yourself if you were religious), the one thing i would agree with was that the end seemed to ramble a bit and that I wasn't sure you made it clear you answered the question (though that isn't required in the prompt).
I think it's also easy to overanalyze an essay that the adcoms will think is perfectly fine right now because we're anxious waiting. good luck everybody.</p>