<p>^ Mine was two paragraphs. As long as it’s good, I don’t think length will matter. Not when it’s meant to be a pretty short essay.</p>
<p>dillybilly, don’t worry, my son’s Why Chicago essay was not very long and he got in and they even mentioned it in the holiday card he received.</p>
<p>i once read an essay that began with me feeling like crap and at the end of it i felt elated and like i had read the most amazing six paragraphs of my life. unfortunately, mine aren’t that great. but here they are:</p>
<p>why chicago:</p>
<p>Finding a college is like shopping for Barbies. As you walk into the air-conditioned toy store (Common Application), you take a deep breath and take in the glorious smell: “Ah…plastic!” Or college…whatever. Slowly and cautiously, you walk nonchalantly to the row that everyone knows will have those beautifully carved plastic blonde models (the top 25 best college list in the US News and World Report). Although you feign disinterest, your entire brainpower is concentrated in their seductive curves and the flowing hair.<br>
Anyone who knows anything will know that there are always the Barbies that that one guy (Pablo, or was it Ken?) always likes to take—with the blonde hair and the deceptive curves, the smooth, pink skin. These are the colleges everyone knows and everyone loves, or thinks they love—the ivy league and the best of the liberal arts. There are also other colleges—the run-of-the-mill university or liberal arts college. As I glance over them, I say to myself, “don’t all of these Barbies seem kind of fake, and vapid?”. Aldous Huxley’s army of happy, soma-driven clones? Perhaps not, but we do know that there are many, many of these Barbies (or colleges). And there’s thousands of college, I mean, Christmas lists full of them. Precariously, I resist the tug from the more frivolous seductresses, as one Barbie in particular draws my attention.
Standing inconspicuously at the end of the shelf, she stands resolutely, but humbly. Her dark, suave body draws my eyes away from the other mistresses. When I look closer, there’s something that stands out even more than the typical hot hips that could turn wax into steam in an instant. As I stoop over the metal shelf to take a closer look, her eyes suck me in like a leaf into a wind tunnel. They seem to say, “come with me, and we’ll discuss original texts and write scholarly journals.” Her eyes say it all—a strikingly beautiful woman, full of an intellectual passion and a depth of character that is astounding. Then there is her smile; although her face holds a deep passion and intellect, her brilliant smile expresses the inner playfulness present in all her actions. Her is character so deep, that I have to visit her twice, and wonder about her constantly, to understand her in all her glory.
Now almost drooling at the thought of the Barbie (i.e the University of Chicago), I gracefully pick her up and carry her to the counter as though she’s made of the finest china. Yet as I make my way to the check out counter, I begin to realize that my fantasies might never come true: the store might not accept my Indian Rupees. </p>
<p>–i got mixed reviews on this one. some people loved it, others hated it.</p>
<p>how did you get caught (or not caught, as the case may be)?</p>
<pre><code>When I moved to the United States from Mexico, I thought being from a third-world country was embarrassing. I convinced many of my classmates in fifth grade that I was from Europe—I didn’t want to be caught in the third world. Now, I realize that it’s inevitable; the third world is part of who I am. I was, and am, caught in the third world. Most of my life has been spent in two third world countries—India and Mexico. I was also caught in a paradox; I was saddened by the suffering of many people in these countries who are so often neglected, exploited, and sometimes blatantly oppressed by others while. Yet I’m caught in awe for how these people manage to remain loving and optimistic. In developed countries, there is copious help available for the poor and oppressed—from welfare to good public education and support services. These things don’t exist in the third world. I am now caught in angst because I don’t know how I can redress the countless wrongs done to those people in third-world countries who have given so much, but received so little.
When I was small, I was fortunate enough to know one of these people. Her name is Coco, and, if there are angels on earth, she must be one of them. She was my nurse in Mexico from the time I was born until I was nine. I didn’t know much about Coco when I was little. I just knew that she was loving and caring, and that I worshiped the ground she walked on. When I was about two, I would wait for Coco to come to our house every morning. As soon as I spotted her walking on the sidewalk, I ran to the hall closet where her apron was kept. When she walked in the door, I was waiting for her with a big smile, apron in hand.
I loved staying the night at her house, even though it was far smaller and humbler than mine. When my twin brother and I stayed with her, she would often ask us, “Quieren ir a comer una picsa?” “Do you want to go eat pizza?” (Coco always called it “picsa”). She was never partial—and would treat us equally, despite my exuberance and my brother’s apparent passiveness at her presence. It is an understatement to say that Coco is the most kindhearted, loving person I have ever met. She even looked the part—from her toothy smile, to her twinkling eyes and her tall, strong build—everything about her was loving and happy
As I grew older, however, my mother told me stories of Coco’s past—and I found that, behind Coco’s happy countenance is immense suffering. When she was sixteen, Coco’s brother left her in charge of his four children. The oldest was twelve years old, the youngest eighteen months. With a strong back and a stronger will, Coco raised her brother’s children single-handedly. She took a part-time job as a maid and later worked as a nurse and a teacher’s assistant to support them. Then, after raising the children for over ten years, the real mother came back and took away the youngest, who was then twelve. His mother took him to the US, where, without Coco’s loving care, he turned to gangs and drugs. His brothers went to visit him in Texas, where he now lives, but they say things are different now—no one is the same once he’s been in and out of prison. The other three brothers all attended college, were married, and became professionals and now make a comfortable living. Like her brother, Coco’s other siblings were equally selfish. Although they promised to help their parents as they grew older, when the time came, Coco was left with the burden. No matter what Coco did, she was never bitter or angry—she loved everyone, including her siblings, her sullen father and especially her students and patients.
Even though Coco was rarely thanked for the selfless love she gave to everyone, she was always optimistic and never sullen. In her work as a nurse, as a teacher’s assistant, as well as in her personal life, Coco always filled everything and everyone she touched with love.
Although Coco’s story is unique, her burden is not. It is the burden of having no one to lean upon, of having suffered so much, and receiving nothing in return. It is the burden of a struggle against oppression and inequality that I see in the tired backs of the campesinos in Diego Rivera’s paintings, in the weary faces of the Indian koolies1, and in the worn hands of poor workers in developing countries across the world. I see this suffering behind the cheerful eyes of the rickshaw walas2, street vendors, and aayas3 in India. Yet, it seems like these people don’t lose their ability to love and be happy, despite their troubles.
Once, while volunteering for Habitat for Humanity in a Delhi slum, I stopped to have a cup of chai in a local woman’s house. As we sat talking, I asked in my broken Hindi, “Do you have any dreams?” Through a translator, she answered, “I do…I hope to one day leave the slum and find a better living” When I asked her if she was happy, however, I got an unexpected answer: “Well…I have my family, and my friends. And I have a home. So yes, I would say I am happy. Satisfied? Not really. But happy? Yes.” I could hardly believe this; this woman lived in a small brick house built by Habitat for Humanity. She had no running water, no sewage system, no husband, three children to feed, and no help from the government. But she was happy.
When I met Sister Helen Prejean, the author of Dead Man Walking, she said, “to remain silent is the same as consent.” I can’t stand silently by watching these people’s plight. When I came to school in India, I volunteered for Habitat for Humanity in Delhi slums for two years in a row, and later established the Music Outreach Program at my school, a program that takes high school musicians out into local villages and orphanages to bring classical music to those who would never experience it otherwise. Still, these are only tiny steps to help people who deserve much more. I’m caught in my awe, my love, and my frustration for the overlooked people in the third world. I hope to one day be caught struggling side by side with these people for what they deserve. And when that day comes, I hope that I will never be not caught.
</code></pre>
<p>i’m mainly posting these becuase i live in fear that i won’t be accepted into chicago, my DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM school. so please, any critique is welcome!</p>
<p>oh, btw, the little 3s and 1s and 2s on my last essay are footnotes–they don’t appear on here.<br>
1Koolie is the Hindi word for the porters that carry heavy trunks in train stations and, where I live, up and down the foothills of the Himalayas. Their typical load includes refrigerators, gallons of milk, tin trunks full of heavy luggage, and, occasionally, pianos.</p>
<p>2A Wala is the Hindi word for a worker of something. A rickshaw wala is a rickshaw driver.</p>
<p>3Aaya is the Hindi word for maid.</p>
<p>hope you liked them!</p>
<p>^That’s quite a curious username you have there…</p>
<p>Your Barbie one was humorous, to say the least. The parentheses, however, detracted from the quality. The second one was eh…but then again, I’m not one to talk. 
</p>
<p>I don’t really know why I’m saying this, since the apps are all submitted already and nothing can be done about it, but whatever. It’s all in good fun. :D</p>
<p>haha well you kind of make me hate my life, but thanks anyways. hopefully the u chicago admissions officers will think otherwise (i hope…) ehhhhh</p>
<p>I’ll offer an opinion (only cause you asked, I’m not in the business of putting people down). I feel like the second one is mostly like those “came from a third world country…” essays; not really your personality but more of a story about suffering and how you think suffering is “bad.”</p>
<p>On the Barbie one, this is what I am confused about (in general, not your’s in particular): Why do people write stories or make metaphors that don’t “truly” relate to UChicago in the Why Chicago essay? I always feel like I’m reading another “essay story” insead of “why do you want to go to this school?” For example, based on what I thought, I wrote only about the department I am interested in and why, others choose to make Barbie metpahors/etc…does this really explain “why you want to go to this school” or just “how you came about liking/finding this school.”</p>
<p>This isn’t intended to offend by any means. I’m simply interested on the thought process because I have been reading more and more essays that don’t seem to convey a practical/logical reasoning for choosing a college, more about how the person came to like/choose the college. If that makes any sense?</p>
<p>well, about the barbie one, I started out have a narrative like, ‘oh, i love the life of the mind and i visited the school twice and i love this and i adore that professor.’ but then this barbie idea came to me, and i thought it would tell more about what finding Uchicago was for me and what i liked about it. plus it would show it in a more creative light, rather than ‘i like this adn that and blahblahblah.’</p>
<p>and the other one:
sorry if it’s cliche, but i think that kids from the third world do have a much better grasp about suffering in their lives and the world around them. and it truly is a part of me, or of us? idk, but it’s something that many kids from the third-world have seen and have experienced as they grow up. it is part of them and its something that they want to change…i think that saying that ‘i think suffering is “bad”’ oversimplifies the idea. everyone knows that its bad, but not everyone gives enough to do anything about it
plus most of my other essays were pretty light-hearted so i thought i would make one that is more serious and, although somewhat cliche, more about what i believe</p>
<p>not trying to be argumentative/angry or trying to excuse my essays…i realize they’re not that great haha but whatever…we’ll see what happens in april</p>
<p>Sorry if I came off kind of a d-bag. Ya, I came from a third-world middle eastern country, my parents are from the collapsed USSR and I’ve lived in Europe for a year and a half. The first essay I wrote was for the Common App about these experiences and pretty much told a story of various different people I knew who lived in poverty and suffered from having a limited education and no work. Everyone (teachers, a college English professor, and friends) told me it was just another “third world” essay that centered around a theme of “to me suffering is sad.” Maybe I’ve been brain-washed by this sort of thinking. </p>
<p>Still stressing over UChicago (it’s also my top choice) until March/April. Best of luck!</p>
<p>I’m going to assume these won’t be stolen since Chicago doesn’t re-use essay prompts?</p>
<p>And everyone’s extended essay is so freaking long.</p>
<p>Anyway, here’s mine.
Prompt #4 (games). Applied RD.</p>
<p>“Gamer.” The word conjures up a variety of images and connotations that obscure what the term really means. What are games? Mankind has played games since the dawn of civilization. Up until the eighteenth century, fencing and pistol dueling were popular games to determine one’s superiority and defend one’s honor. Today’s games still share some of these original intents, but the vast array of complex rules that has evolved for each game has caused games as a whole to evolve and become more. </p>
<p>Games are an avenue for artistic expression, and a gamer is an artist who navigates this road. Just as a musician paints with notes, a mathematician paints with ideas, and a painter paints with, well, paint, a gamer paints with actions. His canvas is the world around him, or perhaps a virtual world somewhere else, created within the real world. His final masterpiece is a series of strategies and tactics, seamlessly transitioning from one to another and deftly designed to maximize each one’s effectiveness, that utterly overwhelms his opponent. </p>
<p>Art manipulates individual elements with an abstract goal of appealing to human emotions. The pieces individually have no aesthetic value whatsoever, but through arranging them in recognizable patterns, the concept of art arises through emergence. Games as a whole have a more concrete goal in that the object of any game is to win, but this is comprised of many subgoals designed to lead to that objective. The subgoals can be identified as the individual elements that are arranged to achieve victory. If we think of subgoals as strategies involved, then there is another tier beneath it where short-term tactics are combined and arranged to perform each strategy. In this sense, the strategies themselves are an art too, and can have intrinsic aesthetic value. The game itself is then actually two layerings of art, which accounts for the complexity that has evolved in games.</p>
<p>One of the greatest distinguishing features of art is style. The presence of style signifies the uniqueness of approach of each individual artist. Style creates a sense of identity in that each artist can distinguish his work from that of another and a sense of competition in that each artist strives to morph and demonstrate his superior style. This idea of style is very much evident in games. While physical limitations and strengths can influence style, the biggest influence is the personality of the gamer. Unlike in the real world, in games there are no social or political influences on one’s actions. Every choice is made purely as a result of one’s personality. Even a painter cannot paint radically controversial paintings or a writer cannot write radically controversial literature without finding his work tabooed and worthless. In this sense, games are truly the purest form of artistic self-expression.</p>
<p>The Starcraft scene in Korea is perhaps the greatest manifestation of games as a form of art. Starcraft naturally lends itself to the development of highly unique and complex styles because it is extremely momentum-oriented; the consequences of one decision can last the entire game and affect everything after it. Each player has his own way of gaining an advantage and riding it through to a victory. Of these, Canata’s and Fantasy’s valkonic style is probably the most beautiful. The style culminates in one massive all-in timing attack that kills the opponent. The aesthetic pleasure from this final strategy is derived from the tactics of positioning, sieging, and micromanaging as the massive ball of death rolls across the map, crushing everything in its path. But this is just one of the many strategies involved. Each strategy builds upon holes created by the previous move by deceiving the opponent and controlling his actions, and the holes gradually grow larger and larger. When viewed in this context, that one elegant attack is also a beautiful finishing touch on a larger masterful work of art. </p>
<p>Why do we play games? Equivalently, what is the purpose of art? Why do we even enjoy them? These questions have remained unanswered after millenniums of creating arts and games. In some ways, both are separate realms from reality. Music can spur emotions beyond what is present, and video games can create separate realities to dwell in. In other ways, both are a part of this world, integrated into the way of how we see the world. According to some controversial theories of evolutionary psychology, the purpose of everything we humans do is for giving ourselves a reproductive advantage. But perhaps the elegance is that it doesn’t matter. Some questions don’t have answers; we think about them only to enjoy thinking about them. Art is transcendental.</p>
<p>Why Chicago?</p>
<p>I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with my education, with my teachers, and with my school.</p>
<p>On one hand, I’m a model student. I pay attention to lectures, I do my work, and I ace the class.
On the other hand, thats never enough for me. I question my teachers. I make my own curriculum. I take the class where I want it to go, not where it ought to go.</p>
<p>I love learning. I just hate the coddling and constraints that neuter it.</p>
<p>On one hand, I’m a model student. I uplift my peers, I take pride in traditions, and I respect my scholastic community.
On the other hand, thats never enough for me. I challenge authority. I break rules that I find distasteful. I never let school be just school, but always an intellectual experience.</p>
<p>I love education. I just hate the rules and regulations that castrate it.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>I’m looking for a love-love relationship. Im looking for a school that will not only challenge me academically and intellectually, but is also willing to constantly challenge itself and its mission. Im looking for a school that never, ever, ever sits on its laurels.</p>
<p>Im looking for a school of insurrection, a school that will stare down mainstream thought, spit in its eye, and beat it at its own game, a school that never shies away from controversy but rather relishes it.</p>
<p>Yet Im also looking for a school that never finds itself arrogant or smug, a school that never stops moving, evolving, improving.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>In fewer words, Im looking for the University of Chicago, for the Chicago School. </p>
<p>Im looking for the school that would take in Friedrich Von Hayek at the height of the Keynesian Revolution, over the massed objections of its own economics department.</p>
<p>Im looking for the school that would play host to Oscar Lange and the Cowles Commission and voluntarily ignite a decade-long internal firefight of words and ideas.</p>
<p>Im looking for, and I found, the school of Frank Knight.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>I suppose Im kind of a rebel. But then again, so is the University.</p>
<p>Very nice essay Rny2 :).</p>
<p>I was accepted EA with these essays and not-particularly-outstanding stats. Enjoy, and, if you are so inclined, leave feedback :)</p>
<p>This is how you write a college essay: you talk about yourself. You hope that you come across well on paper. You share your experiences, you share what makes you you and you pray to the deity of your choice that it makes sense and that the ADCOM at the other end likes you enough. You dont talk about the unpleasant things. You dont talk about how you sacrificed all you had for a sport that never gave back, how your vision narrowed to digitally displayed numbers on a scale, how you wished more than anything in the world that their magnitude would be safely low. How you woke up at 0400h every day of the week so that you could burn 600-700 kcal and maybe have a bit of oatmeal for breakfast. You dont talk about that. You dont talk about things like putting off biology reading and then doing it at 0200h the morning before the test, half conscious, hopeless and fatigued and desperate, committing to memory proteins and nucleotides and enzyme-substrate pairs. You dont talk about how you wrote and rewrote and rewrote just to tear it all up and start again, how you didnt even want to start writing because every word written loses its meaning a hopelessly concrete representation of an idea that can only be ethereal. No. Those things are dangerous, unsavory, taboo. Colleges dont accept students that talk about those things.</p>
<p>You talk about the nice things. You talk about the solidarity you felt in the Negev Desert with 50 other teenagers. How you learned what it means to connect to other people when youre downtrodden, how even though theres some real stink in human drama, it creates the genuine beauty of empathy the substance of human connection. You talk about the first time you read Walden and how it opened your world to an entirely new and meaningful method of interpretation, how it helped you truly feel like you arent a blindly struggling speck in a vast and unknowable universe. How analysis and valuation of your life make it finally worth living for worth working for. And how that philosophical struggle somehow led to helping a shifty-eyed and anxiety-ridden friend consider that he might want to stay around for a bit longer. You talk about how waking up at 0400h and wrestling sevendaysaweek and never stopping got you to the top of the podium, and how it gave you that feeling that maybe everything was really truly all it was cracked up to be. You talk about how that pathetically procrastinated biology study gives you a secret look into what nature keeps hidden, and how you can envision the very systems inside of the organisms that you view while walking outside. And you talk about how even though you wrote and wrote and wrote and it wasnt even close to what you really wanted it to turn out like, it just might give the ADCOM a peek into your disorganized and unclear and genuine and honest thoughts, and maybe even inspire them to assign you a number whose magnitude isnt unfortunately not good enough. Because in any case of absolute evaluation, the benefit of the doubt should absolutely be evaluated to the benefit of the vulnerable.</p>
<p>The Game Prompt:
Often, it is said that all life is just a game. While this may be true, life is the most complex and vexing and wildly unfair, unpredictable, and uncontrollable game ever created. Presumably due to dissatisfactions within this status quo, some have created games as little alternate realities in which we can be more fairly/predictably/controllably dissatisfied. Playing a game, in many ways, is like living in another reality. In its essence, playing a game is working within alternative constraints that are numbered and concrete rather than the infinite and indeterminate orders of life.</p>
<p>It is easy to dismiss sports like football as nostalgic remembrances of our savage past, just as it is easy to reject board games like chess as insular and elitist hobbies of the aristocratic posh (or even as gasp! trivial). Yet, both of these characterizations overlook something unique about games: the way they change people. The way they force you to struggle against your boundaries toward something that, if ever reached, would ruin the fun of the game. The way they make you exert yourself more than you ever thought was possible just so that you can maybe possibly reach a goal that is nothing more than abstract. The way they so elegantly elaborate upon Newtons Third Law in its application to life: the idea that the more you put into something, the more you get out of it.</p>
<p>The emphasis that society places upon games is undoubtedly a product of this transformative power. When looking at exorbitant salaries of professional athletes, critics may point to games as a simply profit based venture, a business in the business of entertainment, profiting off the dreams of a million all-star arm-chair athletes. While this criticism may not be entirely misplaced, the business of games is not what interests me. Rather, I am intrigued by the uniquely human ideal of self improvement that is the reason for their interest in competition. Humans are innately interested in all the things we can push ourselves to do. I am not particularly compelled by the sight of a pole-vaulter inching over 20 feet. However, I am deeply and truly in awe of the sheer talent, practice, and determination that contributed to this accomplishment.</p>
<p>Games move us to look towards self improvement and give us the means to do so in a reality that is distinctly disconnected from our own. When we see other people who are made of the same molecules, fibers, muscles, and organs as ourselves perform feats that are truly awe-inspiring, an instinctive desire overcomes us. Games inspire within all of us not only the wish to push ourselves to the outer limits of our imaginations, but also a deep yearning for the success that galvanizes our energy and motivates us to constantly aspire towards perfection.</p>
<p>Why Chicago?
As is to be expected, there has recently been a good deal of discussion among my friends about the sort of role the college experience should play in our lives. Should college represent a sort of vacation, lasting for four years, that sits between secondary school and the real world? Should college be something that prepares me for a specific vocation, an eminently practical institution that serves a primarily pragmatic purpose? Or should college be an institution devoted completely to academic scholarship, one that expects all of its undergraduates to be able to think proficiently and critically in every field?</p>
<p>Also, as is expected, this discussion about merits and disadvantages of certain types of colleges has devolved into an either/or proposition, where the options are weighed in terms of their extremes either you can go to a party school, a vocational school, or a liberal arts school. In the midst of this polarization, I tend to take a more daring viewpoint: that perhaps a school can be an intellectually stimulating preparation for life after college while still not entirely being devoid of fun. My interest in the University of Chicago has developed from this idea.</p>
<p>In order to be a functioning member of society and in my mind, live a meaningful life one must be able not only to commit facts to memory, but also understand the context in which information should shape decisions and actions. I feel that the Common Core at the University of Chicago exemplifies my pursuit toward knowledge through critical analysis. This approach is ideal in several aspects as it fosters intellectual curiosity, develops critical thinking skills, and provides its participants with a concrete understanding of a given subject matter. In a rapidly evolving world, the most valuable commodity is the ability to absorb, interpret, and act effectively with constantly changing information.</p>
<p>During my high school career, both in class and out, I have been lucky enough to be surrounded by individuals who are similarly interested in cultivating their world views. Our conversations often concern philosophical stipulations and complex policy initiatives rather than popular T.V. shows and sports. I feel that the community of scholars at the University of Chicago is similar to the small community in which I participated during high school. The housing system, in particular, presents a unique opportunity to explore scholastic topics through debate and discussion with a multitude of similarly interested individuals with diverse backgrounds. And even though the schools unofficial motto suggests the opposite, I truly feel that Chicagos community of scholars create a rigorously unpretentious and lively environment in which to pursue knowledge.</p>
<p>As Henry David Thoreau explained, Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after. I feel that the University of Chicago will not only give me the opportunity to gain a quality education, but that it will also give me the means necessary to continue pursuing knowledge and a more complete worldview.</p>
<p>Optional Essay - Tell us about the authors etc. that you like</p>
<p>Dead Poets Society and Walden</p>
<p>Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. John Keating When I first watched the movie Dead Poets Society, I was inspired by the notions of freedom and romance that are so espoused in the movie. After reading Walden and other works written by the transcendentalist greats, I have found my perspective to be distinctly altered and my demeanor definitively inspired to live a life that is uniquely my own. Thoreaus prose has particularly struck me, as it has helped me realize how wealthy I am in regards to the things I can leave alone. Thoreau and Keating have shown me the value of fulfilling my personal aspirations and living with purpose and deliberation.</p>
<p>Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace</p>
<p>For most high school students, a 1079 page book with over 100 pages of endnotes does not sound like a particularly compelling read. However, for me, the labyrinthine qualities of Infinite Jest are what make it so fascinating. In the novel, Wallace explores characters that are as varied as Québécois separatist group members and students of elite tennis boarding academies. His main theme, the idea that entertainment is a ruthlessly erosive force, resounds deeply to me. While reading, I get the distinct impression that I am trespassing upon anothers deepest thoughts, as Wallaces writing style is characterized by his commanding use of the English language and his ability to shape the medium to conform to his thoughts rather than the other way around. This postmodern technique so excellently displayed by Wallace has had a profound impact upon my style of writing, giving me the confidence to express more fully my ideas without having to conform to pedantic literary regulations when they hinder my expression.</p>
<p>Hope you’ve enjoyed my wall of text, and best of luck with your applications and aspirations!</p>
<p>MimesAreAnnoying: Wow–I actually wrote my optional Chicago essay on Infinite Jest as well. May I ask if your personal statement was inspired by Infinite Jest? Reading it, I was immediately reminded of the section that begins, “Here is how…” that Hal narrates about tennis. In any case, I really enjoyed your writing style.</p>
<p>MimesAreAnnoying, I did indeed enjoy your wall of text 
nice read.</p>
<p>but your “not-particularly-outstanding stats” are pretty outstanding :[
don’t be modest!</p>
<p>MimesAreAnnoying, what were those first two paragraphs you wrote? Was that an essay, or was that just for fun? It was very well-written.</p>
<p>verdricity: Spot on! I was thinking of exactly the same section when I wrote that, but it wasn’t really intentionally done. To give you some context, it was probably the 12th college essay that I had written, and I absolutely loathed every single one before it, so I was a bit disillusioned with the process. I just sat down with the intent to write out all of my frustrations and I ended up with that essay.</p>
<p>insertAlias: Thank you so much! It really is wonderful to get positive feedback. And I guess pretty much everyone here feels like their stats are not-particularly-outstanding in the context of CC.</p>
<p>freakchild12: It is essentially my personal statement. I didn’t label it that way because I don’t want anyone to randomly search for it and then subsequently use it. Not that it would really work for anyone else anyway.</p>
<p>Here is my optional essay. I’m RD 2014 btw:</p>
<p>"Loved ones, loved ones visit the building; take the highway, park and come up and see me. I’ll be working, working, but if you come visit I’ll put down what I’m doing, my friends are important. I wouldn’t worry ‘bout me. Don’t you worry about me.”</p>
<pre><code>This is a lyric of the Talking Heads’ “Don’t Worry about the Government,” one of my favorite songs. It has a cheerful, poppy melody and lyrics that are happy on the surface. An everyday man is describing his living situation and the state of his nation in the most explicit and realistic terms. He expresses little feeling beyond phrases like “I’m a lucky guy to live in my building” and “Some Civil Servants are just like my loved ones.” Without grand language or romance, the speaker describes his exceedingly normal and repetitive world: a stripped-down vision of existence. It is a little depressing, but the speaker urges us not to worry about him. It is this that means the most to me: the song views the world as cold and strips it of all meaning, and yet it makes me and others who listen to it feel happy. This speaks to the power of music, but it also shows the power of acceptance, positive thinking, and a sense of humor. Many listeners would see the speaker’s life as empty: he drives the highway to his building, works, and thinks about politics with little feeling or “soul.” But the speaker doesn’t see it that way: he “sees the pinecones that fall by the highway,” he “picks the building that [he] wants to live in,” and he’s “a lucky guy.”
Rather than ruminating about meaning he is happy with what he has. He does not concern himself with the why, only the is. I’m not sure if my inquisitive nature would ever let me live like that, but in a way it is something I strive for. I don’t see this as ignorance being bliss; in fact he seems self-aware about the apparent lack of deep meaning in his life. I think of it more as cheerful nihilism: even when the world seems empty, there are still pretty pinecones by the side of highway and convenient buildings to live it. We can see the void and smile, maybe even laugh. This does not mean that we should never seek meaning, but rather that we should be at peace with its occasional absence. We might look for metaphysical meaning in the stars or the heavens, and that is important, but that is not where we live. We live in buildings, we live by highways, we live with “loved ones,” we live in the here and now: the world of is. Maybe sometimes there doesn’t need to be a why, or a reason to worry.
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<p>I just want to say: MimesAreAnnoying, those essays were absolutely amazing. Especially the first one. Wow. </p>
<p>Here is my 2014 RD essay:</p>
<p>Essay Option 5: In evaluating applicants, we at UChicago strive for the full picture.
Tell us what makes you who you are.</p>
<pre><code> Regarding my feet they are merely natures way of ending my legs. In the chill of morning, I slide into my slippers an arrangement of skin slapped on veins slapped on once-fractured metatarsals that remain wary of bowling balls too heavy for small hands. Ten toes provide balance for daily trips between Home and School, but cannot prevent the joyous stumble to Days At The Beach caused when arches curl for freedom. Refusal to take defeat lying down has coated soles in calluses that protest too much standing. The scars and creases and puncture wounds of dermis narrate a childhood spent barefoot.
How Darwin marvels at the flexibility of knees! From their ball joints rises an ability to jump for joy under swirls of snow that for the first time blanket a city in silver or to crouch in fear of booming thunder and then, embarrassed, to quickly straighten. In the breathlessness of victory, they falter; at news of death, they give out. But adaptations have evolved to prevent permanent damage: fluid-sac padding and the elasticity of cartilage enable the process of falling and getting back up.
The stomach: an amalgam of tissue types. From epithelial lining, the gift of stretchiness; chunks of bad news, having been swallowed, take up knotted residence in the gut until reluctantly digested. Muscled walls work in seeming opposition, steeling in the face of snakes and spiders only to falter at the sight of blood. Leaps of faith are guided by peristaltic movement because little surpasses the strength of a gut feeling. Gum from a phase of constant chewing seven years ago may or may not still be lodged in a corner.
Slightly off from anatomical center beats the blood-blue maze of arteries and atria and ventricles. Electric nodes conduct a tri-valve concert to tempos that seem always in flux; the final panic in the instant before debate rounds quickens a normal systole beat to far above 120, and the soothing first words of argument bring a confidence that again calms the musical pitter-patter. Here, caged between ribs, lies the seat of truest freedom; the courage to reach, the vitality to dream. Atrium, bicuspid, ventricle, vena cava.
Crowning the tower of appendages and torso is the masterpiece of biology, father to thought and mother to feeling, ultimate ancestor of millennia of human triumph. Out of tangles of axons and myelin and the electricity of relentless sodium-potassium floods emerges the experience of seventeen years. From this hemisphere flows the love for language; from this lobe, the impulse to do right and stop wrong; from this gray wrinkle, the smile that blooms at the first notes of Elvis. The whole of my distinctly universal soul is contained in the spaces between neurons.
Regarding my being it is merely natures way of showing that nothing is more than the sum of her parts. I am only cells built into tissues built into organs built into humanity.
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<p>Hello all. I am one of the 20 000 2014 applicants (RD)! Comment if you like, I just figured I might as well post mine after all the enjoyment some of the other essays gave me.</p>
<p>Extended Essay: Growing Prompt
In such a fast-paced world interconnected by boundless amounts of technologies, people rarely take the opportunity to look beyond the day-to-day and seek self actualization by pondering the questions philosophers have asked for millennia. Doing this is invaluable as nothing can make lifes challenges feel more meaningless than putting them in the context of the question what is the purpose of life? When evaluating the ever-changing mosaic of fads, interests, and goals that have characterized my being for the past seventeen years, none has caused more spiritual growth than a philosophy course I took in the spring semester of my junior year.
This class made me grow out of the relatively narrow-minded end of the philosophical spectrum that I occupied by shedding my misconceived prejudices and philosophical ignorance. I sat down in the back row of class on the first day of the semester with two beliefs. The first was that as a firm believer in science, God, or any similar entity, did not exist. The latter was that if the class brought up anything that challenged the first, I would dismiss it for nonsense. The course was taught alongside the Jostein Gaarders novel Sophies World, which is a story of a young Norwegian girls journey while taking a philosophy course from a mysterious yet wise, professor. The book quickly progressed through all the major epochs of thought. The Renaissance, Enlightenment, and Romantic periods were studied, and made for excellent segues into the study of modern philosophers, such as Darwin, Marx, and Sartre. After memorizing elements of ideologies for several months, we were encouraged to analyze, refute, and accept the principles we learned about in order to create our own individual philosophies. In this process, although I eventually did come full circle on the topic of God, I came to the same realization for different reasons. After studying the nebulous, captivating, and oddly political history of the Bible, I was also introduced to the uncertainties associated with the origins of science. For, although I do not believe in God, I now understand why people do, and I have a great deal of respect towards those who have faith.
In the end, it was the Transcendentalist Oversoul that I identified with most. It is this cafeteria-approach to personal philosophy that is completely analogous to Lichtenbergs quote. Life is a growing process, and as you grow, you begin to feel uncomfortable in places that once offered refuge and solace. Thus, the human mind is in a constant state of transformation, only to be replaced by the next idea that strikes it, or the next cause it believes in. Furthermore, humans owe it to their minds to indulge in logical endeavors. It is only when barriers are broken and lessons are learned when growth can take place on the road to progressive thought.</p>
<p>Why Chicago:
The University of Chicago, when spoken, carries as much weight as any other institution of higher learning in the world. I would be lying if I were to say that the high level of prestige at which Chicago finds itself did not immediately attract me to the school. As I have done more and more research, I have found that the University of Chicago has the resources to satisfy my goals, both short and long term. At Chicago, I would be surrounded by a group of peers that have devoted the same amount of energy or more to intellectual endeavors than myself. On top of this, I would be part of a diverse community far different than that of the predominately white Vermont communities I have lived in. These are two things that I have had an extreme desire to attain in my college search. Quite frankly, I have simply had enough of the monotonous Anglo-Saxon make-up of my surroundings. I also believe that it is critical, especially as a young person, to interact with people from different backgrounds in order to increase cultural awareness, as well as eliminate any prejudices one may have. Academically, Chicago offers all the resources a self-proclaimed nerd like myself could dream of. The business school, which is my leading academic interest, has been ranked as high as second by leading business organizations. In economics, which I am also interested in, members of the faculty developed their own school of economic thought. Chicago also is one of the small number of schools in the country that offers courses in Portuguese. This is very important to me because I wish to live in Portugal and reconnect with the rich culture that has been forgotten in the three generations it has been since my ancestors emigrated from there. I find Chicago’s use of the Core to not only be noteworthy, but appealing. Since I have been in high school I have read pieces written by the worlds greatest minds. Machiavelli, Marx, and Plato have all been recorded on my account at the library. Chicagos dedication to perpetuating these works is not only unique, but critical to a better understanding of all disciplines of education. Overall, the University of Chicago is an institution that I can truly see myself at in the coming years. Its undying commitment to the education of its students, vast amount of intellectual resources, and diverse, motivated community makes it the answer to my short term desires, as well as the stepping stone in my quest towards accomplishing my dreams.</p>
<p>Optional Essay:
My great-grandparents emigrated from Portugal in the 1920s and settled in the predominantly Portuguese section of Newark, New Jersey known as the Ironbound. They came to America in order to escape Portugals new government that ended up becoming a authoritarian dictatorship that lasted over fifty years. Their daughter, Isabelle Augusta, married my grandfather, an Italian, and gave birth to four children. Seven years after giving birth to her first child, she lost a long battle with breast cancer. With her death came the death of Portuguese culture in my family. I have grown up knowing that I was Portuguese, but never knew the rich and interesting culture that lie beneath that term. Last spring, I met another Portuguese family through my soccer team. The father, who is from Lisbon, recommended that I listen to Jose Zeca Afonso. Afonso was an outspoken critic of the same government my great-grandparents escaped, and spent time in government prisons because of this. His songs included sweet melodies that incorporated instruments from the far-reaches of Portugals once expansive empire. Although the lyrics were in Portuguese, the strings of my soul were plucked alongside the twelve-stringed Portuguese guitar. I soon understood the pain of a man who had died before I was born, and lived in a world completely different from mine. The first Zeca song I listened to was Balada do Outono. While listening to it I immediately sensed Afonsos feelings of hopelessness as a censored artist in a country ruled by an oppressive government. I learned that Afonso was forced to record in London for most of his career, because no one would a chance on letting him record in Portugal. Because of this, Afonso spent most of his adult life away from the country he loved. When the Portuguese overthrew their government on April 25th, 1974, Afonsos glorious homecoming manifested itself in songs with upbeat melodies. Although Afonso passed away in 1987, his music has rekindled the connection between Portugal and myself. If I had not fallen in love with the soft sounds of the Portuguese guitar that one day last spring, the desire to study Portuguese in college, and one day call Portugal my home may have never existed. I have grown up in an area void of Portuguese culture, and my musical expertise does not extend beyond one year as a drummer in the fourth grade band. Despite this, Zeca Afonso carved out a niche in my soul, and has made me yearn to become integrated in the culture his songs romanticize. The fact that all of this came about in a language I can not understand is a testament to a sense of empathy and understanding existing between all human beings.</p>