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Colleges and Universities A-Z University of Chicago ✅
421

<p>Topic 1: How did you get caught?</p>

<p>Riding on the public transportation in Shanghai, China – one of the most crowded cities in the world – during morning rush hour – one of the most crowded times during the day – you get caught between lots of people (or perhaps mashed or crushed or even smushed between people) and, to be brief, it sucks. There is nothing more annoying than when your personal bubble becomes invaded by others.</p>

<p>Scenario number 1: You get on a subway at the first stop, so there are a bunch of empty seats. Since you all want your own personal space, everyone sits at least one seat away from another person. By the second stop, though, the seats are partially filled, so a guy, let’s call him Adam (yes, despite the fact that we’re in China), sits down on your right. Adam is a big guy, he takes up a lot of his chair… and unfortunately, some of yours, too. So you scoot over to your left, a little uncomfortably, and stick your right hand in your pocket (God forbid if your leg should touch his) and shrug your right shoulder inward. However, what you do not realize is that the seat to your left is quite possibly the last unoccupied seat on the entire subway. Thus, at the next stop, two other men, let’s call them Bob and Charlie, both make a mad dash for aforementioned seat, with Charlie winning, just barely, by partially sitting on you and completely cutting off circulation to your foot. You cough, scoot yourself millimeter by millimeter to the center of your chair, make the left half of the body mirror the right, and emulate a tetromino . You sit as rigidly as possible while the subway accelerates and decelerates, attempting to defy the law of inertia. When your stop finally arrives, as fate would have it, you all attempt to get up at the same time, resulting in Adam and Charlie both using your body as leverage to facilitate the action. Thus, you get off the subway, restarting the blood flow in your left leg and wondering if you broke your coccyx.</p>

<p>Scenario number 2: You get on a subway at the first stop, and this time, you sit next to a man of about 25, we’ll call him Dan. Dan, thankfully, fits into his own seat just fine, and you smile as you now have ample arm and leg room to push your sunglasses up your nose. At the next stop, a man who we’ll name Ethan gets on the subway, and sits on your other side. Unbeknownst to you (for approximately the next 28 nanoseconds), Dan and Ethan were former high school buddies (or at least something to that effect – your Chinese isn’t all that great to begin with, and the fact that both ears are going slightly deaf from exclamations by Dan and Ethan do nothing to help). The two proceed to recount their life stories, with their faces so close to yours that you could theoretically get a variation of the French two-cheek kiss if you weren’t attempting to defy the law of you-can’t-go-through-things-that-are-solid. However, what makes this scenario even more annoying is the fact that the two are reminiscing upon stories that, frankly, you could have lived without. Your virgin ears wilt as the two elaborate, in pornographic detail, upon story after story after story. You wonder why they seem not to notice that you are sitting between them, learning about the number of hotel rooms they have checked into, when you realize that you are wearing your Illinois High School Association T-shirt and reading The Joy Luck Club. However, as you stand up at your stop, you dislocate both shoulders as you hit both Dan and Ethan’s chins, resulting in your kneejerk reaction: “不好意思.” There is one awkward moment of silence before their [bruised] chins drop and both men gawk at your ability to say “sorry” in Chinese. If it weren’t for your throbbing shoulders, this could have been a potentially hilarious moment. As it stands, however, you get off the subway, not feeling one whit of remorse for the two men.</p>

<p>Scenario number 3: You get on a subway, but now you are learned and wise. You decide to stand, instead of sitting. You get a few weird looks from people when they enter the subway to find you standing amid a myriad of empty seats, but as your coccyx and shoulders attest, this is definitely a safer way to go. The subway fills up quite rapidly, but you hum to yourself in a satisfied way since you are neither in danger of being crushed nor of extracurricular learning. However, your ditty quickly turns into a dirge as a pair of screaming teenagers rush onto the subway and decide to stand on either side of you as they shout a stream of profanities at one another (or at least, what sound like profanities, since it is not something you ever learned in Chinese school). Being from the States, you know what the stereotypical teenager acts like, but you always assumed it was an American stereotype – obviously, you were wrong because these two are putting their American counterparts to shame. Oh wait, I forgot to give them names; they’ll be rechristened Fannie and Ginnie. Fannie is on your left, screaming like an air raid siren, while Ginnie is on your right, spittle flying from her lips like a machine gun. You, being the unlucky individual you are, become caught in the crossfire, becoming deaf on the left side and getting a nice washing behind the ears on the right. You sigh internally as both try to outshout each other, and despite getting the full blast of each girl’s loquacious argument, they both seem to boil down to “you’re an ugly crack-whore” (with some artistic license). As you get off the subway, you vow to never get back on again, thus terminating your final session of getting caught between two people.</p>

<p>EA-accepted.</p>

422

<p>That’s a very interesting take on “how did you get caught.” Kudos.</p>

423

<p>I guess I’ll post my “How did you get caught”</p>

<p>How did you get caught? (Or not caught, as the case may be.)</p>

<p>Sprinting down the field, I could feel the cool wind rushing past me. At the other end, a net awaited, just begging me to put the ball into it. Our team was losing by one, and we desperately needed a goal to tie this game. From the corner of the field, I saw my teammate cross the ball to me. No defenders were guarding me! I was in the clear! It seemed everything was slowing down. I looked at the goaltender, and watched him ready his stance. The entire crowd was watching me. This was it… and I kicked the ball to my other teammate, who was quickly checked by the opposing defender and lost the ball. I looked at the ball in disbelief. How could I have choked, have let this opportunity slip away from me? The whistle sounded, the game had ended. I glanced at my coach, who looked at me with disbelief. Our team had been eliminated from the playoffs. From the other side of the field, I heard the celebrations, but in my heart, I felt only numbness. During the drive home, I continued to ask myself, “Why did you pass the ball? Why?” I knew the answer, but I could not face it. I was caught up in the fear of insults and abuse.</p>

<pre><code>I remember playing soccer with my dad and my brother during my childhood. It was no big deal if I kicked the ball away by accident or if my dad stole the ball from me. It was only a game, and I remember the joyous times I spent with my father and brother kicking the ball, trying to score. In elementary school, I remember eagerly joining soccer and basketball games. I was not the best, but I tried very hard, and my peers loved me for it. I remember taking the shots at the hoop, or running down the field with a soccer ball, with adrenaline rushing through my blood. The games between the grade four and grade five teams were fast-paced, and to defend the honor of their team and grade, no one wanted to lose. Yet no one cared if a teammate made a mistake; we were there to have fun, and while we were competitive, we never insulted a player for missing the net or giving away the ball. Without the fear of being insulted for my faults, I played my hardest and took risks, knowing that my teammates would be there to comfort me if my risk turned into a mistake.
</code></pre>

<p>However, when I entered middle school, the entire scene changed. Suddenly, I was shunned as an outcast from the “popular” crowd because I did not dress or act like them. The guys and girls were interested in clothes and each other; I was interested in school and in what happened around the world. I remember trying to talk about world events such as the war in Iraq or the crisis in Palestine, and would often receive blank stares and even laughter from my peers. Eventually, they began to insult the clothes and shoes I wore and criticized me in every way possible. These attacks left me traumatized and made me feel like a social outcast. Soon I began to do everything to minimize interactions with my peers. To minimize the insults that I faced, I began to reduce my role in everything. I no longer took risks when it meant possibly letting the team, or group down. During soccer games, I chose not to shoot the ball, but instead, chose to pass the ball whenever I could. I remember being in projects, and doing everything I could to follow my partners so as to please them and not be criticized. This fear would continue throughout middle school and through to the beginning of high school.</p>

<pre><code>It was because I was caught up in this fear that I was conditioned to take the role as a side player. I realized that it was because of these events that I chose not to shoot the ball at that critical point in the playoff game; I did not want to open myself to further abuse from my teammates if I had missed. I did not want the task of being responsible for the fate of the game. I became conscious of the fact that in the process of staying in my own comfort zone, I had unknowingly transformed into a coward. While in the past, I was a free spirit, pleasing my own wild curiosity and taking risks, now I was a prisoner of my own inner demons, trapped in this “safe” zone. If I even imagined taking a step out of my cage, my inner demons would whisper malicious scenarios of attacks and abuses. I shockingly realized that I needed to break free of this prison, for the good of my intellectual and mental well-being.

After this epiphany, I refused to be caught up in the fear of abuse and insults any longer; I began to come out of the protective shell that had both comforted and imprisoned me. I began to take risks that I would never have taken had I still been under the power of those fears. During my junior year, I began to join clubs, to seek out interaction with my peers that I had so craved, but had been denied in my middle school years. I still recall my first attempt to start a club, the SAT Prep Club, but when I arrived at at the empty scheduled classroom, my nerves failed me, my face turned red with shame and embarrassment, and I started sweating as if I had stumbled out onto a stage without any pants on, in front of an audience. I quickly ran out of the classroom, and went home. It was only the next day when my sponsor teacher scolded me for leaving, as it turned out, there were some students who had shown up but were confused why the club organizer wasn’t there.
</code></pre>

<p>Fast forward to the present, I am now embarking on one of my biggest risks yet: applying to the University of Chicago. I have heard many opinions about my plans, from other students and teachers, ranging from, “I say, go for it, you have a decent shot,” to “Dude, do you know how much universities in America cost?” to “You’re competing with people internationally, who have been drilled to get the highest marks possible. Get real, you can’t compete with them.” Sometimes, I still hear the echoes of my old fears rising within me, “You’re just a small fish in the middle of the wide sea. Hopeless.” Nevertheless, I realize that I have no one to disappoint other than myself, if I fail to gain admission. I realize life is a constant process of learning from one’s mistakes and taking risks. If one does not take risks, how can one go through the process of fulfilling a rich and exciting life? As I sit here, during my Christmas break, at my local university, typing this essay, I know that I am running a risk of wasting my time if I get rejected, and feeling rejected yet again. But by writing this essay, and reflecting on the root of my fears, I realize that I am fulfilling my own life, through taking my own risks, by outlining my fears on this paper, and coming out to someone. That in itself, I believe, is a huge accomplishment for me</p>

424

<p>**Why Chicago<a href=“pretty%20short%20eh?”>/B</a></p>

<p>*I think I might just
be a question
mark. *</p>

<p>???. </p>

<p>Why? After all, the comma is trite. The period is pass</p>

425

<p>Essay Option 5</p>

<p>Question: Where are we?</p>

<p>Now I am sitting in front of the computer, legs crossed, hair cursorily tied-up. Layers upon layers of paper pile like autumn leaves on the floor, a mulch of my busy school life (aesthetically unpleasing, yes, but entropically favourable). I am in the study, in an apartment in xxxxxxx of Sydney, Australia. You, on the other hand, are most likely in or near Chicago – about 14 900 kilometres away from here. </p>

<p>Zoom, zoom, zoom out. </p>

<p>Here is our extraterrestrial address:
EARTH, Solar System, Orion Arm, Milky Way, Local Group, Virgo Supercluster…
Universe? Multiverse?</p>

<p>(indent: 2 x tab) “Voilà. An artist’s impression of the multiverse theory.”</p>

<p>(indent: 2 x tab) Blue bubbles, orange bubbles, purple bubbles – all universes. </p>

<p>(indent: 2 x tab) That lecture slide was an epiphany. I hardly know why. I didn’t even understand everything the professor said – I don’t take physics. Yet my two weeks as a scholar at xxx.science.camp.xxx flipped me around…</p>

<p>Just imagine universes beyond our own – this really takes thinking bigto its extremes. </p>

<p>(indent: 2 x tab) xxx.science.camp.xxx was a welcome break from high school science. By Year 11 (junior year), I was tired of the prescriptive curriculum at school. Science merely involved textbook memorisation and mundane experiments. Even the ‘fun science shows’ were expectable – there are only so many liquid nitrogen experiments one can watch until it becomes oh-so-pointless. </p>

<p>(indent: 1 x tab) Multiverse theory is unsettling new territory (even Microsoft Spellcheck does not yet recognise the word ‘multiverse’). However, isn’t science – or human progress in general, for that matter – about probing the unknown? It’s essentially ignorance that drives us to discovery and innovation. </p>

<p>It’s the same as saying where we are. We can draw up a map of the observable universe, and tentatively place an arrow pointing down to our less-than-a-pinprick Earth. In our world, filled with myriad issues to think about, what can we be sure about? We know we are ‘here’, we know we are ‘somewhere’, but even this ‘somewhere’ is being constantly re-defined with ongoing scientific research. Our convictions are challenged, picked apart. Our theories are on shaky ground. The ever-changing nature of science, however, is also its greatest beauty – and our sense of wonder our greatest asset.</p>

<p>In terms of time, I am in the month of December, 2009. I have no idea where you are. On a displacement-time graph, I cannot know what my y-coordinate will be when x=2010 A.D. Where are we? I hardly know anymore. Yet ignorance inspires us to wonder, and our wonderings and wanderings are the essence of human curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat, but as Arnold Edinborough phrased it, I can only say that the cat died nobly.</p>

<p>Word count: 441</p>

426

<p>Okay! Might as well post my essays. (Deferred EA… so I guess I was in the ballpark?)</p>

<p>How did you get caught?</p>

<p>Time dissolves into the ethereal calm of the North. The mountain stands silhouetted against the dark blue sky, attuned with the silence of the dusk. For six months I have been here alone, staring at this mountain, my vision piercing its shadows and gazing intently into the sun beyond. Several miles above me the first beams of light cross the edges of the mountain, parting the air to impact a horizon that is out of my reach. But here, now, there are simply the year-long shadows.
I am a thousand miles from civilization, at the base of the single mountain that stands out from the patch of others. I journeyed here from Houston in hope of reclusion, but the wilderness has prevented my return. I miss my parents, my brothers, my friends. The world lurks behind the veil of freedom while I sit here in stalemate at the mercy of nature. Reclusion has become a continuous stare into the eyes of the Eternal.
There is no escape from this reality. Predators are the norm; survival is the ultimate goal. The present does not scare me because I know I am not alone: the stars guide me in my journey toward an answer. They console me, telling me of the time when time was at its infancy, and when everything was one. They were alone then, and now they are not. They humble me, telling me of stories to which mine cannot compare. They tell me: We are the past. You are the future.
This is why I know my time will come; one day, my escape will arrive. That day, as I begin my ascent into the skies, and above that silhouetted mountain, I will bathe in the warmth of the sun once more. For now, however, I linger at the helm of my journey. I can only wait. My moment will arrive.</p>

<p>Would you please tell us about a few of your favorite books, poems, authors, films, plays, pieces of music, musicians, performers, paintings, artists, magazines, or newspapers? Feel free to touch on one, some, or all of the categories listed, or add a category of your own.</p>

<p>The fires of objection consume the monk, as he sits in the lotus position, yieldingly. It is an act of fierce rebellion; the supreme sacrifice. No more than a year ago I came across this image in my history class, and instantly I was captured by its intensity. To this day I remain haunted by its context; I often wonder on the psychological and historical incentives that pushed this man – Thich Quang Duc – to the brink of insanity, to the center of the world’s attention.
I immediately researched the context of the phenomenon because I knew if I did not, my conscience would be forever scarred. (It was a futile attempt, however, because my mind remains inflicted.) For several decades there had been religious tension between the Buddhists and the corrupt Ngo Diem government: in May, the Diem government prohibited the displaying of Buddhist flags; in July, Vietnamese police poured toxic chemicals on praying protesters. Finally, on the morning of the 11th of June, Thich Quang Duc arrived at the Cambodian embassy in Saigon, Vietnam, and set himself alight.
At the moment the upheaval was a month ripened. He wrote to Ngo Diem and several major newspapers shortly before his self-immolation: “Before closing my eyes and moving towards the vision of the Buddha, I respectfully plead to President Ngo Dinh Diem to take a mind of compassion towards the people of the nation and implement religious equality to maintain the strength of the homeland eternally.” He was a remarkable martyr, and willing to go to any humane lengths to achieve religious equality. The final letter itself had no momentum without his ultimate sacrifice, but the dual-force of his plea and his parting paved the way for the coup d’état of the violent ruler under whose reign this demonstration proceeded. The ensuing media coverage extended across the seas to every country of the globe.
This picture made Malcolm Browne’s career, but the moral and emotional ramifications of this extraordinary picture easily eclipse any career gains. The demonstration by Quang Duc was an extraordinary spectacle that showcased the torrents of humanity washing away into the seas of hostility. At first glance, I was astonished by the brazen resolve displayed on the monk’s face. But as I looked beyond the face and the flames, I discovered not resolve but a blend of apprehension and hope: fear that this action would not end the audacious massacres extolled by the corrupt Ngo Din Diem government; and an unyielding hope, as ravenous as the fires in which he was dying, that peace would come. I entered his world, thinking his last thoughts, breathing his last breaths.
Indeed, this image has affected me far more than any other I have previously encountered. It has questioned my assumptions. It has revamped my perspective. Malcolm Browne’s picture was nothing short of sheer reality captured brutally within the framework of a split-second. Raw emotion transferred from one man to millions.
In my history class last year, I have learned that violence often perpetuates more violence. Malcolm Browne’s image, however, took me one step further by bestowing upon me a powerful revelation: it is not violence but precedence that sets the course for change. It is indisputable that Thich Quang Duc, with his utmost intention, had set the course of precedence. Yet Browne himself achieved a marvelous feat by extending the Buddhist Crisis beyond Vietnam for a world to witness, interpret, and respond to. It was he who unleashed Quang Duc from the obscured tomb of history.
As an artist, I have often come across abstract art or impressionist paintings that have impacted me in profound ways. Each of them has left an indelible mark in my memory. They have fed my hunger for expression and creativity. But my perception of art had its limitations. On that crisp, fateful day I encountered an image that deeply changed my perception of art. Previously, I considered art to be a medium by which the holes of expression, deprived by reality, may be filled. But finally I understood. Art is not reality but interpretation. It is anything that unveils emotion. It is anything that releases the soul.</p>

427

<p>Hey guys. How do I edit a post I’ve already posted? All it says is Report Problem Post and Reply. But it’s my post, and I just want to change something written?</p>

428

<p>^ there is a time limit on editing posts. You can only edit them within the first 20 minutes they are posted.</p>

429

<p>How Did You Get Caught?</p>

<p>Getting caught was as natural a process as any. At a certain age, I began to have a greater understanding of the future, of consequence, so I behaved with a focus on the aftermath rather than the present. In some respects, this is good; delayed gratification is a hallmark of maturity, but its extreme has become the norm in our society, and extremes are rarely good. In some larger sense, I have forgotten the present. Even as I write this, I could be swinging at the park, running about in the lawn, napping, and so on. I could be doing a variety of activities I enjoy, but I chose to sublimate those desires and focus on the future.
I do not intend to instruct people, or even myself, to drastically change their lives. I consider it sanctimonious to state that living our modern lives as we do, we have become statistics, that anyone who lives the average lifestyle has become an automaton. Constantly speaking of how one notes the so-called little things, the beauty of nature, the interconnectedness of humanity worldwide, and so on, is tantamount to calling others shallow. I enjoy my life, caught or not, and would suppose that the average caught person is at the very least, satisfied.
Nonetheless, there is something to be said for the wonder of neophytes to life. It is okay to be caught. I would even go so far as to state that it is fine to realize one’s cage and continue one’s life as is, to not attempt escape. All of that is acceptable; one should live one’s life as one will, not judged by others, or, if judged, unconcerned by others’ opinions. This is permissible for me as long as I take some time, perhaps a few moments each day, maybe less, maybe more, to be overawed, to effect a semi-, or mental, escape rather than one full-fledged, or physical, to continue the metaphor of an actual cage. Euclid cannot be alone in looking on beauty bare, and in the moments where I note the elegance of this planet- its verdant forests, changing to varicolored in the fall, its rolling hills, enfolding sweetly shaded valleys and rising, at times, into the sharpest of peaks; in the times where I remark on the softness of a snow-covered morning- with the contradictions of the mix of danger and amusement, of the cold that nonetheless seems warm in its embracing this small curve of our global sphere, and of knowing the weather is only local but feeling a seemingly universal expansion of heart, an esprit de corps, upon sight; in the periods where I acknowledge the humanity in each person seen- realizing that each person is just that, a self with his or her own worries, loves, fears, secrets, promises, goals, and joys, and not merely a background character, a redshirt, in my saga; in the intervals where I see the grandeur of the heavens- trying to count the innumerable stars, and thus realizing what an exiguous bit of the universe the whole six billion of us are, I join him. At those points, I glance through the bars of my cage, of my caught life, still comfortable inside it, and free myself a bit.</p>

<p>I still can’t believe I wrote a sentence that long.</p>

430

<p>Why Chicago?</p>

<p>Since the age of 13, Hands had suffered from a condition known as Raynaud’s disease; he was extremely susceptible to the cold. It was luckily a mild case, but nonetheless a great annoyance. Once the temperature had dropped below 45˚ Fahrenheit, he would feel like a block of ice. Nicki’s friends were repulsed when he curled himself up and the knuckles on his back would turn bone-white, contrasting his otherwise red skin. It was this condition that was the subject of his argument with Brain. </p>

<p>“The Chicago winters will not agree with me,” Hands shot at Brain. They were in front of a computer, loaded with the Common Application homepage. “We’ve been there before and I can hardly stand it, even with gloves on. The numbers may not be much different from home, but the lake effect combined with the wind makes it a thousand times worse.” </p>

<p>“Don’t act like it’ll be four years of vacation for me. Those University of Chicago midterms will be killer,” replied Brain. “‘The place where fun goes to die.’”</p>

<p>“Oh, don’t even try that! I know that you love being challenged, that’s precisely why you want to go there.” Brain blushed; it was true, the promise of classmates and professors who would stimulate her was irresistible. Hands continued. “I refuse to press the submit button of the application. Taking notes, writing endless papers, the cold… It would all kill me, literally.”</p>

<p>“Stop being such a wimp,” grunted Feet, who had just entered the room after one of his daily walks with Mouth. “You say you’re going to die of frostbite every single winter, and frankly, it’s getting quite old.” Hands muttered something about how Raynaud’s gets worse with age, but Feet plowed right on. “If you don’t like the cold then buck up and put on a few more layers of gloves. The Raynaud’s affects me as well, but you don’t see me harping about it all day long.”</p>

<p>“Besides,” Mouth piped up, “you’re the only one who doesn’t want to go. I can hardly wait to get an opportunity to talk to all of the dedicated professors–” </p>

<p>“Professors who I’ll get to learn from!” inserted Brain.</p>

<p>“–politicians, people with brilliant new ideas, upcoming authors, and the quirky students who have endless insights.” </p>

<p>Brain bobbed with absolute excitement; the minds of Nicki’s potential future classmates were most definitely plump with concepts, opinions, and passions that would be exchanged all around campus. Minds which would press Brain for her own thoughts about class readings, music, civilization, science, art, government, and anything that sparks inspiration. The nonstop conversations would be both serious and whimsical, told only for the enjoyment of learning. Four years of this, coupled with the guidance of professors, would revolutionize the way Brain worked.</p>

<p>But before Brain could articulate any of this, one more body part entered the area: Heart. “What are you guys talking about?”</p>

<p>“Hands is complaining about the Chicago winters,” responded Feet. “Refuses to press that damn submit button.”</p>

<p>“Again?” Heart sighed. He turned to his fingered friend. “You know, this is really about choosing a new home. University of Chicago is filled with the kind of people–students and professors alike–who will easily become family. Even temperatures approaching absolute zero can’t change its perfection for us.”</p>

<p>“Well,” declared Hands, defiantly, “I am still the one who has the duty of pressing the submit button. The decision of whether or not we apply is entirely up to me.”</p>

<p>“Please, Hands,” pleaded Heart, “think about what it means to the rest of us.” Hands grumbled; Heart always tried to play to other’s emotional sides, and it oftentimes worked. Hands thought of Brain excitedly flipping through numerous view books, Mouth dispensing daily Chicago trivia onto anyone who would listen, and Feet walking along Michigan Avenue while imagining what it would be like as local. Despite his complaints, Hands had slightly enjoyed watching their excitement. Maybe it had rubbed off a little. </p>

<p>Sighing, Hands gripped the mouse and looked at his friends. “You each owe me a pair of gloves.” Click.</p>

431

<p>I must say bigmouth…I enjoyed reading your essay :D.</p>

432

<p>^ditto. Bigmouth, that was a great essay. Bravo!</p>

433

<p>Thank you! It was really amusing to write, hehheh</p>

434

<p>Man, this thread’s still going on? I posted mine on the first page. GOD DAMN TIME FLYING BY.</p>

435

<p>Chicago Optional Essay:</p>

<p>I like the Indian author Chetan Bhagat’s books.
I didn’t want to admit this, but it’s true: I love his manufactured, wildly popular, mass-oriented, sloppily written, sop-opera style McNovels with cheese.
I wasn’t always like this. “I read literature, mom and dad,” I would sniff disdainfully, when my parents picked up his latest bestseller at the bookstore, while I stocked up on Wodehouses and the newest Khaled Hosseini. “Now this is a real book,” I would sigh, putting down The Day Guernica Died, looking at my mom, who would roll her eyes over Bhagat’s Five Point Someone. “Even good old Chetan Bhagat could write a better plot,” I would complain, after walking out of a particularly bad movie.
One boring winter afternoon, however, when I was all alone at home, lounging in the living room drinking cappuccino, I noticed it there. Sitting brazenly on the coffee table beside me, with its garish red cover, sat Bhagat’s ‘Two States: The story of my marriage’. “What are you looking at?” I murmured grumpily, glaring at it. It stared back blankly at me, with all the innocence in the world.
“Yeah,” I snorted, “I’m not bored enough to be lured into reading you.”
It kept staring.
“I know I have nothing else to do,” I explained, beginning to feel a bit sorry for it, “But you see, I’m an intellectual. I read Les Miserables and articles on the Spanish Civil war for fun. I see European football so I can statistically analyse it with my father later. In my list of favourite movies is the six hour Italian art epic, La Meglio Gioventu. I have hour long phone calls with my friends analyzing the moral dilemmas of characters in the holy book, the Mahabharta. My top choice college is the University of Chicago. It’s not you, book, it’s me.”
It continued to give me that infuriatingly empty stare.
I shifted uncomfortably. “One page couldn’t hurt, I suppose,” I conceded, more out of pity than anything. I looked apprehensively around the empty house, than reluctantly picked it up.
Five and a half hours later, I was laying on that couch, surrounded by three dog eared Chetan Bhagats and a silly, content smile on my face. “They’re like drugs,” I slurred, when my mom walked into the house and raised an eyebrow. “There’s a lesson to be learnt in this,” she had said, shaking her head.
And I suppose there was. It was probably not don’t judge a book by its cover, because the books were as devoid of literary merit as I had anticipated. Perhaps it was that there were different forms of intelligence and merit— his novels brought out Indian stereotypes and households and the lives of Indian students vividly, with a remarkable spark I admired and enjoyed. Perhaps it was that I could have fun going out of my comfort zone of heavy words and lofty thoughts. Perhaps it was simply that there was a different kind of value in everything: movies that made you think or books that just made you feel good, and if you’re too judgemental, you might just deny yourself a five and hour exhilarating experience of just enjoying the greasy taste of a good McNovel with cheese.</p>

436

<p>Okay guys…some of these essays are just awesome.
I did the game one for chicago. </p>

<p>My seventh grade science teacher was really boring. He kept the classroom at freezing temperatures and gave lectures on abstruse scientific concepts with innocuous Powerpoints and a monotone voice. Since falling asleep in class would get us detentions, my classmates and I used to play a game to help us fight falling asleep. On the 18-inch television screen in the room, there was a screensaver with a purple cube bouncing around. Though the cube would provide us with the illusion of hitting one of the sharp corners of the television screen, it would always miss the corner by a matter of inches. After the first few weeks, the class split between two teams: the optimists and the naysayers. I was the one the optimists, always hoping that the cube would hit one of the corners. Every class period, I clung onto an infinitesimal hope for a miracle—to see the cube hit a corner. By the time everyone had forgotten about this little cube, I was still watching it, anticipating it to hit the corner, and being disheartened when it missed. One day, the cube hit the top-left corner of the screen. Unable to repress my excitement, I jumped up and celebrated this momentous event in the history of my 7th grade science class by yelling “YES” and “I TOLD YOU, SO” in front of the class. The glory was mine. </p>

<p>I received a detention the next day. But that was neither the first nor the last time I took a game too seriously. I’ve always been a player. Thus, as a player, I wonder: what is it about games that enthrall and captivate us? Is it that games transform us into a distinct reality? Is it that games build friendships with our fellow players? Or could it be that games create a sense of competition that allows us to prove our dominance in a new world with a new set of rules and challenges? Rather, I think it is the harmony of all these forces coming together that simply allow us to have fun. </p>

<p>Though I eventually did outgrow not paying attention to my teachers, I never stopped taking a game seriously. When I was in India, I strived to be like Sachin Tendulkar (one of the best Indian cricketers of all time). Today, I strive to be like Garry Kasparov in my pursuit to become a Grandmaster. Though I don’t possess the skills to surpass any of these great players, taking a game more seriously simply makes it more fun. Taking a game seriously allows the player to truly appreciate the complexities and nuances of the game that go beyond that superficial insight. Taking a game seriously allows the player to look past the preliminary goal of winning and rid his or her fear of losing. It allows the player to strive for perfection and truly value the beauty of the game. Whether it is football, chess, Wii Sports, or even staring at a cube, each of these games has a universal value. Their own unique circumstances and rules allow the players to escape into a world different from reality, create new bonds of friendship and camaraderie, and enthrall but also frustrate us. Moreover, little games that we play are simply a reflection of the game of life—with its own rules (laws of nature), players (people), and competition (Survival of the Fittest).</p>

<p>Right now, I play another game: the Admission game. I play it at the University of Chicago against 15,000 other players. With its own rules and requirements regarding high school Grade Point Averages and SAT scores, this is another game I take seriously, but in this game the stakes are just a bit bigger. The reward, however, is an unparalleled education and a strong foundation for my future.</p>

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<p>Write a short story that reflects a significant moment in your life that was defining and taught you something about the world or which you feel portrays some of your feelings about the world.
Homecoming</p>

<p>Probably for the last time ever, Eduardo looked back upon the place he had come from. Years later, when he thought about this moment, he was sure he had felt a great sense of sadness and nostalgia, but in truth, at that very moment, he did not feel anything. It was a sunny day in the rainy town of Clemente, Chile, and perhaps if Eduardo had been five years younger and had seen less of the world, this would have made him smile. Instead, his face showed no emotion. The house by which he was standing to shelter himself from the sun once was the house of a little boy and a little girl who would run outside as soon as the black rain clods parted and race each other to try to be the first to find a rainbow. Now, the creaking, white door remained the same but the people inside had changed. He could hear the chatter inside and they seemed happy, but one could never tell nowadays.</p>

<p>Ever since Eduardo had left for the city, he had seen dreams of his town in fits of sleeplessness or when it was excessively rainy and he had nothing to do, and had seen in his mind’s eye the winding streets, the beautiful, simple people, the little houses, and had imagined being reunited with his city and his people. He had thought that he would go to the field of poppies with his old friends and they would reminisce about the good old days, just like in the movies he had seen in the expensive yet dirty movie hall in Santiago. When he actually did come back, however, he found that his mind had betrayed him. He realized, although he would never admit to himself many years later, that there was no magic in the air and the town felt just like any other to him now. He went to Filipe’s house, walking down the path he had walked since grade school but which now seemed longer than before, but there he was met only by an almost deaf house keeper who sat in the courtyard mending his shoes and told Eduardo that Filipe had left with his family years ago, he couldn’t remember exactly how many years, and now the house was waiting for a new owner. After that, Eduardo did not have the courage to call on any of his other friends and never did go to the poppy field, although he would still fantasize about it in moments of peace for years to come.</p>

<p>As he turned his back on the town he had come from, Eduardo saw a group of girls and boys coming down the main street into the town. They were wearing silly looking clothes, Eduardo thought, and they were all talking at the same time so that Eduardo could barely make out their excited words, but he was able to hear the phrase “I can’t believe he would ever leave!” just as they passed. The kids were obviously discussing the new movie that had just been released in the movie hall closest to the town and was the talk of the young kids, but Eduardo, who wasn’t young anymore, and had in fact seen and forgotten about the movie some months ago, did not realize this and fastened his pace so as to leave the town, and those kids, behind. Perhaps he felt that the kids somehow knew about and were talking about him, or that some divine coincidence had led him to hear those very words, but he did not dwell on this much as he had learned not to be superstitious, and hurried ahead.</p>

<p>On the train back to Santiago, no body looked at Eduardo. They all had their own problems to think about.</p>

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<p>Although all the previous essays will put my garbled, pretentious, bombastic one to shame, I’ll post anyway. Please be kind in your censure. And bear in mind that this was written while I suffered from a dislocated knee sans pain relievers. </p>

<p>Well, here goes nothing.</p>

<p>Human personality is the slave of the soul and the master of the mind. It is the kernel of self-awareness within oneself that triumphantly shouts, “I am!” even after tasting the bitter dregs of defeat from victory’s cup. When we are born, our personality is naught but a seed, and an unnoticed one at that. We do not know of its dormancy when we are infants; our own desire to live fills us to the brim, leaving no room to find this small, slippery seed that would most likely not have flourished if immediately planted. Human personality will eventually find a way to thrust out its first green shoot at one of billions—no, trillions—of infinitesimally small, indefinable points on its carapace of a sphere, with the threat of being maimed or completely destroyed. It will battle through storms of emotion and the winds of worry. Still, it perseveres. </p>

<pre><code>Human personality is endurance, and that is exactly why despair degrades it. Despair chokes the human personality by viciously chopping at the heart of the tender young sapling sprouting within. When man’s conception of his identity is hacked at, when he is told and believes, “You are nothing, and will always remain so,” then he has successfully been degraded. To degrade a man does not only mean to drag him through the muck of shame, for in the humiliation of others lies a tacit acknowledgement that they innately possess a high enough station to be brought down. Such an experience would simply provide more fertilizer for his sprouting seed and give it yet another reason to shout aloud of its—and by extension, his—existence. To degrade a man means to rob him of the belief that he can feel, and more importantly, to rob him of the belief that he can experience life through lenses of his own choice.

Once man is stripped of his belief in his ability to feel, his human personality has been degraded. For all of Nikolay Petrovitch’s weaknesses and ostensibly lily-livered tendencies, he knew, somewhere in his miasmatic and muddled thoughts, that to feel, to absorb, to experience, and to live was to uplift human personality, and that in denying the authority of blind and savage emotion Bazarov was wrong. However, the laws that govern the realm of the sacrosanct and the hidden are rarely, if ever, used in the external world in which we live: here, inversion reigns supreme.

A law is the fruit of the social contract made between the governors and the governed. It is not meant to stand on one leg, and its justification should not lie in one cause alone, even if that cause is one as noble as the uplifting of human personality. Prohibition proved that. While laws can be unjustified on the basis of human personality, they cannot be entirely justified. And yet, any piece of legislation truly drafted to uphold the common weal, like the Clean Water Act in both its 1972 and 1992 renditions, will invariably uplift human personality. By reaffirming that everyone, regardless of background or creed, is to be provided with healthy, clean water, as both Nature and God intended, the Clean Water Act obliquely informed scores of individuals that they were important, and that their well-being mattered.

Justice, like so many of our loftier concepts, eludes definition in its own terms, and thus is only available for definition in terms of what it is not. The American Heritage dictionary makes an attempt to define justice, calling it “the quality of being just; fairness,” but there are many who can attest to the fact that justice is not and never will be fair. After all, how fair can a blind maiden wielding a heavy (not to mention lethal) broadsword be? And God certainly never made any claims to being fair; millions would be willing witnesses, of that I’m sure.

Human personality has sought to mold justice into a tangible personage, so that the ravages human existence wreaks upon its environment can be justified. For us, justice is not the natural outcome of a series of choices or predetermined beliefs; it is the wrath of the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen personified. Pele’s fury was just, it was decided by the Maori, and for that very reason, senseless destruction could not drive them to despair.

Justice is the last line of defense before despair, but from the vantage point of justice, the sun of hope is always on the horizon, and its rays always within reach. Justice provides the stepping stone human personality needs to redeem itself from fraternally inflicted injury, and a rickety crutch to limp on towards a better tomorrow. Justice is the discipliner of human personality, forcing it to recognize the differences between childish desire and natural duty, between pleas for help and the whining cries born out of selfishness, between the impossibilities presented by a Manichean mindset and the realities borne out of a nuanced one, and lastly, between the darkness of half-hearted faith and the brilliance bestowed by enlightened belief.

Justice is, in short, the ideal for which human personality, the eternal endurer, exists.
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<p>While re-reading this, my stomach soured. I advise that you keep a vomit bag on hand, if you haven’t become sick already. :D</p>

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<p>Oh, and the prompt was this:</p>

<p>Essay Prompt #3:</p>

<p>“Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust,” wrote the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., in his “Letter from Birmingham Jail.” What is “human personality?” Is it obvious what uplifts and what degrades it? Can law be justified on the basis of it? We want to hear your thoughts on justice as it relates to this “human personality.”</p>

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<p>oh em gee! i thought the “why chicago” essay could only be one or two paragraphs long! you guys wrote a whole page!!! i’m screwed</p>