Post Your essay

<p>Status: Accepted
Comments: I really liked my setup for the essay. I don’t like the essay as much now, but I like the style. (& I hate that I noticed the spelling errors! UGH.)</p>

<p>& Don’t even think about stealing this (if you’d even want to bother) ;)</p>

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

<p>A boy and his mother had gone to the supermarket, and were now waiting in the queue. A boy, at the tender age of four, had been fidgeting with a horoscope, something entirely new to him, when suddenly the mother whisked him out of the store in a hurry. They rushed towards the car, and started to drive off in a desperate need to go home.</p>

<p>“As I adjusted to the sudden calm after the storm, I had then realized as we were driving that I still held the horoscope in my palm.”</p>

<p>The boy grew deathly pale, as his hands began to sweat. How could he have taken it? Stolen it? The boy became increasingly worried, as if something dark and dreary had been haunting him. The frantic mother, however, paid no attention, as the little boy squirmed, now a criminal.</p>

<p>As they were finally (finally) outside of their home, the mother dashed out of the car, worried about something apocalyptic, as the boy wondered what he should do. He looked down at the horoscope: a little bound scroll with a meager price tag of forty-three cents, which was embedded with the words ‘What is your horoscope?’ The boy was distraught; he had stolen a ‘horoscope’ (whatever that was), and he could not return it now. He thought of all the prisoners he had seen in films, who were forced to wear orange jumpers, remain in dirty penitentiaries and where criminals had to share rooms with (gulp) another criminals. “I’m a criminal!” the poor boy thought, a victim of somewhat ridiculous circumstance.</p>

<p>“I realize now that this is not as serious a crime: surely, an unintentional stealing cannot be heavily reprimanded?”</p>

<p>The little boy was afraid of his punishment: from his parents, from the law, from God. He remembered the movies he had seen: “I’m innocent I tell you!” They would never believe this little boy. The boy decided:</p>

<p>“I’ll hide it.”</p>

<p>The boy quickly walked to his room, shut the door behind him as he found a place to put the horoscope, then still bound. He had a few toy boxes under his bed and briskly grabbed one from the back. He quickly dug to the bottom of the box as if he were digging a hole, toys spewed around the floor as if dirt. He finally reached the bottom, and reached for the ‘horoscope’. Here goes nothing. He put it at the base of the box, and felt relieved – for a moment. </p>

<p>Night came. The fortuitous prize of theft had proved venomous as the boy writhed in torment in his bed. He felt the presence of the horoscope as if it were alive, taunting him right below his body. He heard something. Was it a ghost? He felt the wrath of God might fall upon him soon: ‘thou shalt not steal,’ droned in his head. Oh, no! He began to pray:</p>

<p>“Oh loving God, please have mercy on me. I did not mean to steal! I do not want to go to jail! I do not want to go to Hell!”</p>

<p>He no longer heard the noise, and little by little he fell asleep. Suddenly, there came a BANG!’ as his window clattered against the wall. He awoke suddenly, terrified by the abrupt and deafening noise. He looked at the source of the noise. Before him stood a ghost, garbed in the attire of the ‘Christmas Carol’ final ghost, a film the boy had recently seen. He cringed; he was horrified! The ghost approached him, and grabbed him by his foot. “No! No! I did not mean to!” The ghost said nothing, as he dragged the boy and floated out the window. The boy remained silence as the ghost lifted him higher up into the air. The boy, now upside-down, looked at his local community; he saw buildings, cars, and people as small as ants. The boy then saw a local clock tower, which then struck midnight. He felt the ghost’s grip loosen as he fell down from the sky. “Ah!” the boy shouted. As he almost reached the ground, he shot up from his bed: A nightmare. He rushed out of bed:
“Mama! Mama!”</p>

<p>She answered his cries and came rushing in. He told her everything. He told her about the horoscope, the noise, and the dream. The little boy could not live with the guilt any longer. She believed him: he was not to blame. His mother told him that they would return it the next day.</p>

<p>I think about this little boy, someone vaguely resembling me from thirteen years ago, and how he had truly felt the consequences of his action. Of course, I was the boy, although a younger version of what I am now. I was reminded the importance of honesty. But what intrigues me most about my reaction now is the warped image of justice and morality. How had I likened my incidental theft to that of a severe criminal? I perceived my actions as morally wrong, without considering the inadvertent nature of the crime. I now think of morality and the law, and this has led me to appreciate and realize something: that I must to look at the whole truth. Whenever I hear a rumor now or I read an article blasting someone, I stop. What if someone did not believe me and proclaimed that I was not innocent? Through the afterthought of this strange day, I have realized the importance of giving people the benefit of the doubt, because they might actually be innocent.</p>

<p>“So essentially I wasn’t caught by my parents, or the law, or God:
but by my mind and by my conscience.”</p>

<p>I want this essay scanned onto my tombstone. By far, the best I’ve ever written and, despite my substandard grades, I got accepted so I guess it might have at least a little objective merit as well. </p>

<p>**Option 1: “How did you get caught?” **</p>

<pre><code> The beast’s nostrils twitched with uncontrolled bloodlust. His beady eyes avariciously located his helpless prey – she stood mere feet away. On his hind legs, motionlessly tasting the crisp fall air, the flavor of his quarry finally drove the fiend into action. With the speed of Hermes and the intent of Jaws, the monster charged across the hardwood kitchen floor. Just in time, I saw him coming.
</code></pre>

<p>Yes, I was the horrific beast’s prey. With a bloodcurdling screech, I leapt up onto a nearby kitchen chair. He frantically circled my high refuge, leaving me irrefutably caught. Trapped and desperate, I closed my eyes and wailed, “MOMMM! Help me! Save meeee!” Tears cascaded down my scrunched-up cheeks as I implored Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints in the large Catholic retinue for succor. Help was arriving too slowly. I scolded myself for binging on the Discovery Channel’s “Shark Week” as the beast leapt at me, mouth wide open like a famished Australian Great White. </p>

<p>Just as I deemed my time on earth over, my mother arrived in the doorway. She took one look at me, dissolved in uncontrollable spasms of mirth, and gasped out, “Relax, Kelsey, it’s a baby BUNNY.”</p>

<pre><code>In the days afterward, I contemplated how I ended up trapped on that chair. Although my parochial school teachers would “brava!” that I remembered St. Willibald in my desperate cries, the whole incident smacked of “pathetic.” Searching for an explanation, I replayed the fateful day in my mind:
</code></pre>

<p>** Midnight, Day of Incident:** Pacing back and forth, with awkward little dance steps thrown in, I read my AP European History textbook out loud. I’ve told my bewildered family that I’m researching information-retention methods for an article I’m writing for my school’s newspaper. While this is true, I secretly just enjoy the musical flow of Bishop Jacques-Benigne Bossuet and assonance of “Gustavus Adolphus.” </p>

<p>2 AM: Once finished with my AP European History homework, I move on to a final read-through of my AP Composition essay that’s due the next day. The seven-page analysis of contemporary media seemed daunting in the daylight; in the night, with caffeine surging through my veins, I am unstoppable. I linger over my favorite line: “In a marriage of convenience, this lust for amusement wed the American tradition of unscrupulous wealth-chasing, of whose unholy union sprang reality television.” I triumphantly hit “Save” and “Print,” before falling asleep. </p>

<p>5:30 AM: My alarm clock usually sounds like the mythical Greek Furies’ cacophonous shrieks. After a mere three hours of sleep, my alarm clock sounds more like the mid-dismemberment screams of the Furies’ poor victims. </p>

<p>7:00 AM: Although many Seattleites scoff at our prestigious reputation as Rain Capital of the Universe, the sleeting rain blurs everything as I cautiously drive to school. The 45-minute commute to Bellarmine Preparatory School necessitates leaving my house before many of my classmates even trudge downstairs for their Cheerios. Spending nearly two hours a day driving back-and-forth is a small price to pay for receiving the best possible education though, so I try not to complain. Neither of my parents came from money; their socioeconomic rise is directly attributable to sacrificing for their educations. While my family is ethnically French-Irish Catholic, the importance of knowledge is the most devout sentiment my parents have ever expressed. </p>

<p>12:30 PM: I drop off the 150 cardstock flyer/meeting schedule hybrids that I designed for the literary & art magazine’s Club Fair booth with my co-Editor-in-Chief. The candies taped to the hybrids are only part of my devious marketing scheme: printed on brightly-colored cardstock, the tasteful ads are also perfectly-sized bookmarks. From experience, I know that the type of people we want to recruit can always use another bookmark. After I get everything settled there, I quickly set up the behemoth tri-fold I created for the Nativity House booth. As Co-Director of Bellarmine involvement with the local homeless shelter, Nativity House, I settle in to answer any interested students’ questions. By the end of lunch, I have two completely filled sign-up sheets and an utterly empty stomach. </p>

<p>3:00 PM: I am most alive during those precious seconds after I dive into King Aquatic Center’s frigid eight-lane competition pool for daily swim team practice. The unparalleled sleekness of powerfully gliding through the water fades with each lap, as muscle fatigue replaces the initial wonder. Today, our head coach gleefully assigns us distance. Since it is a Wednesday, we don’t have a meet against another team, and he can tire us out to his heart’s content. No matter, I like the challenge. Swimming is the thinking girl’s sport: the mental calculations needed to pass other swimmers absorb any time spent actually contemplating the fact that you’re swimming. </p>

<p>5:00 PM: Ravenous, exhausted, and in serious need of a shower, I descend upon my kitchen with the mindless ferocity of a Biblical plague of locusts. I absently say hello to the cage that houses our current foster bunny – at just four months old, he is a frenetic ball of adolescent energy that bites. Since we brought him home from the Humane Society, the as-yet-unnamed baby bunny reacts to my presence by wildly running around me in circles, followed by a sudden ankle assault. As such, I generally clomp around the house in my rubber rain boots. My story begins when I, in a tired haze, enter the bunny’s fenced-off domain wearing only a swimsuit and flip-flops. Maestro, cue the “Jaws” theme music, please. </p>

<pre><code>After reviewing that day, I no longer view my bunny-induced hysteria as pathetic. I love my fast-paced, high-stress, academically-inclined lifestyle. I’m passionate about my classes, my clubs, and my principles: the way I live reflects this zest. Although I value many things in this world (the density of ankle-covering rubber boots being chief among them), nothing surpasses the value of living life to the fullest. You could say I wasn’t caught so much by a bunny, but by my own commitments. My response to this suggestion? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
</code></pre>

<p>I wrote both of these essays at the last minute, hated them since their respective conceptions, and sent them on their way with zero expectations.
I was accepted.</p>

<p>Why Chicago?</p>

<p>“He’s murdering the time! Off with his head!”</p>

<p>Ever since I read Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, I have wanted to become a writer. Following in the footsteps of my favorite authors – Mark Twain and Evelyn Waugh – I want to produce works that provoke both laughter and reflection.</p>

<p>At the University of Chicago, not only will I be embellishing my cerebrum, I will also be collecting writing material. Yes, I have heard of this school’s reputation as a humorist’s paradise; I also know that UChicago produces one of the finest minds in the world. To me, the learning environment at the University of Chicago presents the perfect blend of intellectualism and laughter.</p>

<p>As a die-hard AP student, I am always looking to find ways to improve upon my weaknesses. For this reason, I anticipate the Core curriculum with glee. Furthermore, focus on primary resources over textbooks is something I look for in every college. I appreciate the chance to read texts written by the original authors – I do not mind bland summaries, but I much prefer drawing out the main ideas myself. Finally, as a writer, I like to cover a wide variety of subjects; an opportunity to do so in a world-class college setting is more than I could ever hope for. </p>

<p>How I Got Caught</p>

<p>I was ten years old, and I could not be caught. I was lucky that way – life breezed past for me without causing any problems, and for my part, I made minimal effort. I did not have to work hard to maintain my popularity or grades; the very stars looked favorably upon me.</p>

<p>Thus when my fifth grade teacher asked if I would be able to handle skipping the sixth grade, I doubted I would have any problems. I plowed right ahead to seventh grade.</p>

<p>The full reality of what I had done did not hit until the first day of high school. From the moment I stepped into the enormous building with its labyrinthine hallways and giant upperclassmen, I felt overwhelmed – from 7:00 to 7:30 AM I hid out in a bathroom stall. Bunched up on top of the toilet seat, I was finally forced to face my destiny when the bell rang for homeroom. I gingerly stepped off my high pedestal, unlocked the door, and began my new life as a high school student. </p>

<p>The honors and AP classes I had so confidently signed up for in eighth grade came as a shock. I had never taken any kind of accelerated classes before high school, and the sheer amount of work expected clashed sharply with my long-cultivated habit of indolence. The written assignments did not help. In middle and grade school, my teachers had at least appeared to appreciate my long, convoluted Dickensian sentences with their plethora of dashes and foggy general statements, and even encouraged my efforts to sound as pompous and obsolete as possible. Here, the mantra was “clear and concise.” </p>

<p>Driven on by my infernal pride, I willed myself to stay up late into the night, often well into morning, trying to make masterpieces out of assignments that should have taken less than thirty minutes. It was not long before I contracted a severe case of premature senioritis. My grades dropped, and I stopped speaking in class, or even out of class. I could feel myself turning into an invisible fixture at the back of the class – the student who performs decently but never distinguishes herself.</p>

<p>Toward the middle of my sophomore year, I finally began to step forward, through the muck and grime of my own insecurities. I learned to ignore the whiny voice in the back of my head that droned, “Wouldn’t you rather be in bed right now?” and focus on more important things. Accordingly, I quit drifting off during lectures, and started doing all my homework, at home. Even better, I began opening up to my classmates. If I was too cross or tired to respond to a greeting year ago, now I try to initiate conversations. Every day I try to become more involved in my community, to positively affect my life and those of others. </p>

<p>Despite the stress and difficulties caused, I cannot say I regret getting “caught.” Mainly it taught me three things: time management, responsibility, and how to maintain a positive attitude. Had I stayed in my proper grade, I am not sure if I would have achieved any more than I did, two years accelerated. I know many students more talented than I whose potential goes to waste because they are not sufficiently challenged. With time they turn into procrastinators, and come to value talent but not hard work. Throughout my first three years of high school and the beginning of my senior year I have been consistently challenged, not only in academics but in my own personal life. With the extra difficulty I have come to appreciate the importance of dedication and effort.</p>

<p>I love datasharing! So while I’m hesitant to post these, I really don’t think it’s fair how much I lurk on here without contributing at all.</p>

<p>I don’t really think my essays are all that great (I mean, they’re decent, sure), but apparently they were good enough to get me merit aid (because I really don’t qualify in any way shape or form on any other count, I don’t think). They are, I think, completely typical, boring responses to atypical, interesting questions.</p>

<p>In response to the “something you’ve grown out of and what has come to take its place, if anything” prompt:</p>

<p>Option 2: Outgrowing</p>

<p>It’s funny how when you really grow to appreciate something, it is finally time to let it go. That’s how our lives are organized – endless repetitions of the Hero’s Journey, so that we may constantly grow as individuals with new circumstances, challenges, and dreams. Thoroughly Modern Millie was one such dream.</p>

<p>The play came to a peak last March, of my junior year – Thoroughly Modern Millie. I was Millie Dillmount, featured in all but about three scenes. I went to elite dinner parties, drank in illegal speakeasies, and worked as a stenographer at an insurance company. Millie was brash, bold, and absolutely baffling to me.</p>

<p>I’d gotten the part in what was considered to be an upset of natural order – I’d only done the play once before, and then I’d been a nun with three lines. Yet now I was the lead, standing on the darkened stage four minutes before the curtain was to open to an almost full house. I wasn’t scared at all – I’d prepared for hours a day, every day, for three months to this purpose. I’d practiced so much that my sister Sara even knew the lines. We’d be shopping, and one of us would begin a scene. I had this down.</p>

<p>“Katie, you’ve got this. You are Millie – you were Millie the day you walked into auditions.” The pep talk was flattering, yet unnecessary. I didn’t believe a word of it. I smiled anyway. The curtain opened.</p>

<p>I flowed through that show as Millie Dillmount in a way I hadn’t before. The familiar faces in the audience didn’t change anything. Opening night, I didn’t hit a false note, didn’t drop a single line, didn’t forget a single tap sequence. But acting is more than just not making mistakes – it’s about being someone. And I didn’t feel like Millie Dillmount.</p>

<p>All the work I’d done culminated in one weekend of two shows. I waltzed through those two shows. Afterward, as I was falling asleep, I cried. No longer would I be working towards this ultimate goal, no longer would my every evening be seized for some greater purpose. No longer would my feelings be inextricably tied to those of one Millie Dillmount.</p>

<p>That was when I realized that I am Millie Dillmount. When I auditioned, when I asked to be considered for her part, I had no reason to think that this desire would be fulfilled. I walked in with a dream, the same way Millie wandered into New York with dreams of high society. I walked out with one of my many dreams fulfilled, just like her. There’s a Millie Dillmount in everyone, but I really miss that singular opportunity to be her.</p>

<p>This year, I was again cast as the lead, Rose Alvarez in Bye Bye Birdie. In a way, this will be my first real acting experience – Rose Alvarez and I have little in common. She’s “Latina spit-fire,” I’m a reserved Caucasian. Even so, I’m already finding aspects of her character that I can relate to, already memorizing her lines.</p>

<p>Every once in a while, I watch the DVD of our production of Thoroughly Modern Millie. I cringe at my acting in some parts, but it forces me to think about high school dreams. Millie was the first time I recognized that I have fulfilled a dream that I had previously thought out of my realm – since the age of seven, I’d dreamt of singing in front of an audience. But when I began to analyze my dreams, I began to realize how many of them I’d fulfilled, almost unknowingly.</p>

<p>I finished my IB diploma, something that I’d worried about and waited for since fifth grade when I first heard about it. Our marching band won second at championships – something I’d really considered impossible. This year I was section leader of the mellophones – something I never thought I’d get the opportunity to be, but a gift of fate when a more senior member of my section transferred to baritone. I’ve made friends – not acquaintances, but friends – with people from all walks of life, from all backgrounds. I can speak French almost fluently, with classroom instruction alone. I’ve proven myself to myself again and again, and I can finally say with absolute certainty that I don’t need external validation in order to appreciate myself as a person.</p>

<p>Millie was like a sign; the whole experience was like some metaphor for high school that I didn’t grasp until the show was done. High school has given me what it has to give, and I’ve been an open recipient. It’s funny to me that I had all these dreams (dreams that I dismissed), and when I least expected it one of them – several of them – came true. I’ve grown from the girl that would never audition for fear of judgement (yet who stared enviously at the singers on stage from the pit orchestra), into one who knows and values the proper measure of herself and who wants to share that with others. In the end, it’s really all about showing up for the audition.</p>

<p>High school is almost over. I’m going to miss it, but no matter what, something will rise to take its place. I’m hoping that some form of higher education will – not just as a continuation of education, but with a community.</p>

<p>I’m ready for a new school, new dreams, new goals, and the newest version of me. I’m really hoping that The University of Chicago will be willing to provide me with all of that – a new pair of shoes, first to grow into, then to grown out of with equal poise and greater knowledge.</p>

<p>Why Chicago:</p>

<pre><code>I am an International Baccalaureate kid. Perhaps it isn’t smart to boil myself down to one specific academic stereotype, but academics are my love, and the pursuit of knowledge characterizes and plots my life in a way that little else has. The IB has been a major part of my personal development, guiding me through years of incredibly hard work with a light – a diploma – at the end of the tunnel.
</code></pre>

<p>Yet I thrived in that tunnel. Having finished my diploma last year, I recognize in retrospect that I loved every moment of the struggle, I loved the mass and quality of work I was able to produce if I just stayed up later, got up earlier, worked as I ate, thought as I walked. The more work I did, the more I learned – the more I realized my own ignorance, the more I thirsted for more knowledge, the more I saw that I had only grasped the edges of an education. IB forced me to think, to connect the dots, to write essays where other classes required bubble-sheets. It showed me that I couldn’t ever know everything, but if I knew enough, then I could extrapolate more of that massive web of all knowledge. IB taught me how to learn.</p>

<pre><code>My college search began early – freshman year of high school – simply because I was scared: I didn’t know what I wanted to learn or be. I never really figured it all out. An acceptance of the fact that I don’t want to pick a single thread of that web of knowledge to follow for the rest of my life has guided me in my search. Far from being more sure of what I want, I am less so – and I am very sure of that. I never want to specialize to the point that I am ignorant of anything outside of my field. The University of Chicago is not forcing me to limit my vision. Its Core Curriculum is a reflection of what I myself am searching to know and be.
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<p>The University of Chicago is a smaller school, but it carries all the academic offerings I’d ever want. Chicago is an awe-inspiring city. And, most importantly, the University of Chicago and I share an educational philosophy – and in light of that philosophy, all other criteria fall away as unimportant and insignificant.</p>

<p>The University of Chicago epitomizes the type of education that I dream of. I may have tasted such an education with IB, but I know there’s more out there (there always is), and I know that The University of Chicago has it.</p>

<p>And finally, the most stupid, insane, pointless essay I wrote for UChicago: Favorite Thing(s)</p>

<pre><code>Thoroughly Modern Millie is the cutest musical I’ve ever seen. I love the carefree sentiment of the 1920s. Rap really isn’t my thing, but Empire State of Mind and Boom Boom Pow are guilty pleasures. Something about Botticelli’s Birth of Venus gets me every time I look at it, and Catullus 51 and 85 are easily my favorite Latin poems. Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels and Sympathy for the Devil by the Rolling Stones can always make me smile.
Even so, the one “favorite” that’s really sticking in my mind (probably because I just re-watched half the first season of it last night) is the TV show Chuck. Chuck, the protagonist, wakes up one morning to an email from a so-called friend who got him kicked out of Stanford. He opens the email, and thousands of government secrets are downloaded into his brain. I’m not a huge TV fan. Chuck, however, adds a whole new dimension to the concept of a TV show. It’s more like a 35-hour movie that grows week by week. Thus, amazing features such as character growth, plot development, a great soundtrack, and cinematic technique make regular appearances. It combines humor, action, and character in the perfect blend.
</code></pre>

<p>This is probably why it doesn’t have the vast numbers of followers that other shows do – it’s difficult to pick up if you haven’t seen earlier episodes. The plot is at least a third continuation, the characters aren’t nearly as enjoyable if you don’t know their histories or why they act the way they do, and the show itself creates its own inside jokes. You’ve got to start at the beginning; I guess I got lucky. It says a lot, though, that when Chuck was slated to be cut, fans amassed a colossal response – letters to sundry important people, marches on Subway (a key advertiser), that sort of thing. I guess that makes it kind of a cult following – honestly, if Chuck were showing at midnight in a theater near me, I’d be there. That’s the mark of a cult classic.</p>

<p>machiavellismile- I really liked your Why Chicago. I think it’s one of the more “down to earth,” practical, personal essays rather than the grandiose over-dramatic-philosophical ones that are so common on here.</p>

<p>I am a rejected international student. I post my essays as follows. I would appreciate it if anyone gives me some advice.</p>

<p>How did you get caught? (or not caught, as the case may be.)
Inspired by Kelly Kennedy, a fourth-year in the College.</p>

<p>“How many stewed pork balls did you eat?” asked my mother.
“I didn’t count when I ate. Probably two I think…” I said.
“Let me count…Here’s one…” mother dug the cabbage leaves for meatballs with chopsticks.
“You lied…I cooked four and now they remain there.” she said. “If you do not want to die, you should eat them.”
I was caught. I had to eat the meatballs. In fact, they tasted good. I, too, have natural desires, just like most people.
“How can you stay healthy without taking in meat?”
“I can live for up to 120 years or longer.” I said. Meat is not necessary, I thought.
Yes, I can control my desire. I can live like an ascetic, I thought. I suppress my appetite by recalling the Holocaust.
“For as long as man massacre animals, they will kill each other. Indeed, he who sows the seed of murder and pain cannot reap joy and love.” said Pythagoras.
“Some animals are born to be food.” said my mother, who always pushes meat on me.
I pity for all suffering animals: pigs confined in damp and gloomy sties and calves separated from their mothers.
I am informed of politics and society. People in Afghanistan and Iraq who face daily random murders and African children afflicted by diseases and starvation remind me of a world full of sorrow and misfortune. If the world is to attain peace, we must widen our circle of compassion, I thought.
Chinese people, even Buddhists eat meat while I show antipathy to meat so openly.
“Why are you so unconventional?” asked my mother.
I am unconventional sometimes. I eat vegan diets; I write meticulously for I like neat handwriting; I refuse to join the Communist Youth League.
“Wir Mathematiker sind alle eine bißchen meschugge.” Edmund Landau said. That much is true, I thought. In China, where people seek jobs that combine a considerable amount of money and prestige, pure math seems heresy. Many of my peers, who I considered to be math genii, have converted to biology or chemistry while I still love pure math.
My mother doesn’t understand my ingrained unconventional manners. “Fools study math.” she says. And she always worries about me. I am often caught by her for my quirks.</p>

<p>Why Chicago?</p>

<p>Liyang Sun has made strides in cello techniques during her one-year study in Chicago while she remains a quiet and erudite girl, well read in literature, as her English name Sophie implies. Both of us apply to the University of Chicago.
“I am not quite sure what to major in…” said Sophie.
“You can study math. I will study math anyway.” I told her.
Math, which is precise and profound, is my passion. I hold a belief that numbers are pure and true.
“The University of Chicago is a collective group of intellectuals from all over the world who believe in the intense pursuit of knowledge.” wrote Sophie.
In the University of Chicago, where rigorous math education benefits fledging mathematicians, I can cultivate solid basis in mathematics through hard work. Math is difficult. I often get stuck or ask dumb questions when I learn math. Yet, bearing a problem in my mind all day long just gives me so much pleasure.
“This was a new type of freedom for me. And how exhilarating it is to meld the critical thinking with the discussion of original texts, which the University of Chicago is distinctive for!” wrote Sophie.
In the University of Chicago, where creative thoughts are inspired, I can keep my brain open. I embrace democracy while I live in a country where powers-that-be suppress independent thoughts. I once skipped Marxism Politics homework to save more time to learn math, which angered my teacher. My teacher started to tease and belittle me. She said I didn’t have any talent for math and asked me to sit beside a rubbish bin as punishment. I know a course full of sermon and cliche like Marxism Politics will only deprive me of creativity, which is cherished by a mathematician.
“In my interview when I asked Ms. Isabel what she felt was the most important part of the University of Chicago experience, her response was, the people!” wrote Sophie.
In the University of Chicago, I can share my love of math with math-lovers from all over the world. And I would like to learn from math masters in the University of Chicago, like Professor László Babai, who contributes to discrete math, a field that I have some feeling about.
“Mathematics, more than any other art or science, is a young man’s game.” wrote Hardy; I wish I could do something in math before I become too old to think about math problems. The University of Chicago is just where I can get started.</p>

<p>Favourite books, music…etc?</p>

<p>My favourate books: An Introduction to the Theory of Numbers, by G.H.Hardy and E.M.Wright; Modern Graph Theory, by Béla Bollobás; My Name is Red, by Orhan Pamuk.
My favorite musicians: Bach, Schubert and Aram Khachaturian.
My favorite films: Slumdog Millionaire, The Motorcycle Diaries, Prisoner of the Mountains.
My favorite artist: Mir Ali Tabrizi (Persian calligrapher) and Hashim Muhammad Albaghdadi (Iraqi calligrapher)</p>

<p>@diakazisia - I liked the idea behind your caught essay, but I felt like you tried to fit it into the caught prompt too much. Additionally, I think you branched out too much at the end - I would have stuck with food, a single topic; I think there’s a better way to get your passion for math across than just the caught essay. I like the way it never felt critical, though… a lot of times, people espousing their views just come across as intolerant, and I didn’t see that. Also, I felt that you could have characterized your mother more for the pivotal role she plays in catching you. The german line was a problem, too… I don’t think the admissions committee all speaks German. All in all, though, I liked the general premise and what you did was pretty well done. If you expanded it, it could be really great.</p>

<p>Why chicago - I think you didn’t understand UChicago’s spirit, and that’s why you were rejected. You discuss your love for math, and your disdain for “practical” math (chem, etc) or other subjects like Marxist Politics. Chicago is great at math - but that’s not what they’re ABOUT. They’re about the core, they want everyone to hear everything, they want to broaden horizons. So while this essay is, I think, good, to Chicago it probably put up a little red flag as something they explicitly DON’T want.</p>

<p>Favorites - If you were going to make a short list without any surprises, then you probably shouldn’t have submitted anything for this essay. This didn’t contribute anything about you; if anything it just made you seem like a one-dimensional math geek, which we know you’re not from your caught essay.</p>

<p>These are just my thoughts. Take them with a grain of salt. :-)</p>

<p>@machiavellismile: “I think you didn’t understand UChicago’s spirit, and that’s why you were rejected.” Yes, it makes sense. I have to say I misunderstood UChicago’s spirit and that’s why I am rejected.
Thank you for reading my essays and giving me valuable advice. You really take them seriously! And I agree with you. Thank you so much!</p>

<p>Oh god… I can’t bear to read this for more than 3 sec haha. Don’t be like me and try to hurriedly write an essay during Christmas break along with supplements for 18 other colleges. (too bad that I write better now too) But I got in with it, so all is good.</p>

<p>I think I did an odd blend of 2 or 3 prompts… with a veiled pop culture reference at the end? Enjoy, if you like:</p>

<hr>

<p>Re: where r u??! u never call m3…<br>
From: Pencil
To: Hand</p>

<p>Ah, pencil. You were my first love, you know. Oh, I cherished you, especially when you dressed up as that darker, edgier mechanical pencil; you were the epitome of cleanliness. Sharp, straight, perfect, 0.5mm lines. But over time, I slowly found myself with growing resentment: at the brittleness of your overpriced lead that had to be replaced so often; the slow, grating screechy squeal that seems unique to you (except for chalk, perhaps, but let’s not discuss her); the delicateness of your lines, once so graceful, now seemed so thin and difficult to see and read without bending close. You agreed to turn over a new leaf, and I accepted; I welcomed that other, more traditional side of you into my folds. Solid, substantial wood instead of that flimsy plastic hollowness. Smooth, long, hexagonal planes. And lo behold… a stronger, bolder tip! Now I could write with confidence, make forceful, brave marks on my paper, none of this piddly breaking-in-the-middle-of-a-sentence nonsense. For a while we had a strong, reciprocative relationship, and what a blessed one it was. I maintained you by sharpening it every now and then; you gave back with strong, dependable performance and less breakage. Alas, our love affair with ended after constant betrayal. Too many algebra notes and fervent essay brainstorms melted into a smudged, shiny mess of graphite after just a week of jostling in a backpack, rendered sadly illegible by the combination of smearing and my own chaotic handwriting. I was heartbroken; I put so much care and effort into my handwriting, you know, even if it doesn’t look that way, but you didn’t seem to care. I wanted to talk to you, but you were frustratingly oblivious to your own faults; after a tearful argument and heated exchange of words (written, of course) we parted. I moved far, far, away; I thought we were done forever.
The next months were one long blur (for you, smear). The ballpoint pen was my next suitor. Long the cheap logo-emblazoned staple of hotels and drug reps, we rekindled a small flame in each other’s hearts. He promised he would stay with me forever. And when we danced the dance of writing together, he did not smudge, and he did not fade. I could compose my essays with all the passion I craved without the interruption of sharpening or fiddling with tiny strands of lead. I found confidence, too, in drawing without an eraser, sketching without the temptation to self-consciously obliterate it if it started poorly; often they turned out freer, looser, more creative than my pencil sketches. It was a star-studded romance at first, but I grew bored. Ballpoint could be too pale sometimes and skipped constantly, making it hard to see a word again, and that sticky tackiness of the ink I loved at first for its lovely handfeel quickly grew tiring when the ink refused to flow. No, my final and true love was the liquid ink pen, the rollerball pen. Writing with her was like writing with a cloud. There was no pressure in our relationship and I needed to apply none; the ink flowed without coaxing. My words came quickly, fluidly, in full, beautifully dark relief against the paper. The pen is mightier than the sword, but what about the pencil? I felt invincible with rollerball, her sophistication, her dependability. I still love her to this day.
I know this must pain you to hear, but it’s time for you to know the truth. You’ve shown up in the past few weeks, and I still see your heated gazes and winks toward me when you walk by, when I must fill a Scantron test and you’re the only one that I can fallback to. Why are you here, anyway? Are you following me? But I’ve moved on, and you should too. Why did our relationship never work out in the end, you ask? Truthfully, rollerball is a little upset with me now too; she says I take, take, take, but never give back. Am I really just too demanding and needy? You just left me feeling so lonely and betrayed so many nights, all I asked was for you to clean up your act a little. But now that rollerball has proved her worth with her markmaking and stability as you never did, I just can’t turn back.
But… if you promise to keep it secret… I’ll wink when you pass too, and we’ll look into each other’s eyes… and I’ll think of you too, and remember our shared joys, and start dreaming of the relationship that could have been.</p>

<p>Respectfully,
Squidoopiter’s Right Hand</p>

<p>P.S. Can you try to stop writing me so often? Rollerball gets worried, she complains that I still have feelings for you…I’m going to try to not get caught up in this “fingering the line”, I can’t write to you anymore…</p>

<hr>

<p>btw, my writing hand is bisexual</p>

<p>The 5th prompt choice - create your own prompt:</p>

<p>Does God exist?
I’m not a religious person – though I would never tell my mother. She’ll drag me along to the temple every second Saturday of the month, where I sit in the back thinking of the 537 other things I’d rather be doing than giving food and money after throwing water, rice and flower petals at a statue of a half-elephant, half-human deity (and that’s when I know I’m disinterested, because Ganesha was my favorite God when I was younger). I will eat the food she first offers to the gods on every Hindu holiday and I will kowtow before our shrine tucked in the corner of our living-room before every trip or exam. Honestly, I believe that science (and studying) plays a greater role in explaining the world and how it works (and my test scores) than praying for 30 seconds to God.
Though I did chuckle at people like Dr. Dean Hamer and Father Reginald Foster in the movie Religulous, I understand there are extremists in every religion (who usually are the most vocal as well) who often misrepresent the opinion the majority. But I can’t even chastise the level-headed people who also go to a church, a synagogue, a temple, or a mosque to pray every week, everyday, or multiple times a day. According to Kant in his work entitle A Critique of Pure Reason, no one can actually prove the inexistence (or existence) of God. So, who am I to criticize their views when I am equally probable to be in the wrong?
I won’t pull out the stereotypical and pointed questions that attempt to “challenge” the existence of God, such as “If there is a God, why is there suffering?” Instead, I’ll turn to the Dostoevsky’s quote that “If there is no God, everything is permitted” and the character of Sisyphus in Greek mythology. He spends every day rolling a boulder up a hill to only have it roll down the hill during the night. Some may call his efforts futile. I’ll agree with Albert Camus and remark that Sisyphus elevates the human spirit. He acts, as Camus would argue, in terms of his self-created ‘code of life’. He has a focus to push the rock up the hill every day, and he succeeds in that with his determination. Little else matters to Sisyphus, as is in line with his ‘code of life’. Does he need a God to create meaning? Hardly. Does he need a God to find motivation to do something else with his life? No. He is content with the life he has. Sisyphus represents the ideal of elusive but interesting philosophy of many existentialists. He creates a code for his own life that he lives, free of any external or supernatural influence. He runs his own life without the influence of God and his will, and is perfectly content. Camus even calls him an ‘absurd hero’. So, without God to guide him, is “everything permitted”, as Dostoevsky claimed, for Sisyphus? No. He lives with his own code of life and is content with his purpose.
The story of Sisyphus is one that reassures me that there is no God. Though some may interpret his plight as a punishment and endless reign by God, I see it as a lesson that we all have our own virtú in life, as Machiavelli would say. We can all exercise our free will to live life according to our own ‘code’, regardless of the will of God. Regardless, I imagine I am stuck going to temple and praying to God before tests; otherwise, I will incur the wrath of my mother, a being in closer proximity and much less forgiving than God.</p>

<p>The question I pose, which I have often pondered myself is, “Given two paths to reach
the same apparent end, why choose the more challenging of the two?”
I first thought about this question and its consequences when I was talking to a friend of
mine. This friend is a person I consider very intelligent, who, like me, had a high ACT score and
GPA. Also like me, when it came to his college education, he was aiming for the nation’s top
schools. The difference between us became apparent when I discussed my school with him.
The Gatton Academy is a challenging program for high school juniors and seniors where
students take a full time schedule of college classes at Western Kentucky University, focusing on
high level courses in mathematics and science. My friend undoubtedly was intelligent enough to
get accepted into this program as one of sixty in the class of 2010, and intelligent enough to be
successful at the Academy as well. Moreover, he was planning on going into engineering and
had a deep interest in the fields of math and science. And yet, he would not consider applying.
I was dumbfounded. Why would he not even give it a thought? How could he not see
what a wonderful opportunity it is? So I asked him. His response set my mind afire: “Obviously
the Academy is going to be harder than staying at Madison Central, and you won’t have anything
tangible to show for your work. You’ll be applying to colleges in two years, and the only
difference between you and a candidate with the same GPA and test scores is that you worked
much harder to get to the same place.”
This stymied my planned response. I really wasn’t expecting that to be his answer. My
first internal response was indignation, and yet his argument did make sense, but only at the
basest level. My counter to his assertion took some thinking, but in the end, I believe I have an
answer.
His view supposes that the only reward for hard work is that to which you can place a
number, and because of that view, the best way to go about anything is the way that achieves that
same number most easily.
I disagree entirely. A reward can be something much deeper than a tenth of a GPA point,
or a letter on a transcript received as easily as possible. We are enriched by challenge. Choosing
a path of difficulty gives us the tools with which to overcome the challenges that we do not get to
choose or expect. For this reason, difficulty is not something to be avoided, but to be sought out,
and opportunities to overcome challenges should be savored.
When walking through the woods, you may have the choice to walk the trail, or find your
own path. While the untested route may have you leave the woods with a few cuts and bruises, I
assert that you are stronger for having done so and the second time through the same path will be
easier.
So while my friend may have that tenth of a GPA point, and may have all the numbers in
the world pointing in his direction, I know the path that he would take through the woods, and I
am proud of myself that I would take the other.</p>

<p>I hate to be pessimistic but aren’t you guys worried that people will steal your essays? there are some shady people on this site.</p>

<p>and RynoWeiss, were you accepted? just curious</p>

<p>I was, why do you ask?</p>

<p>I’ll post this anyway. I thought it was one of the most… I wouldn’t say clever, but gutsy essays that I wrote for college applications. DO NOT STEAL. It’ll just reflect badly on you anyway if they find out.</p>

<p>

</p>

<pre><code> Fanfiction. A realm of writing usually reserved for Trekkies, furries, and… angsty tweens. I will admit it – for a long, tumultuous year, I dabbled in this forbidden art mocked by many and frowned upon by the literary aristocracy. Contrary to its reputation however, my personal experience with fanfiction enlightened and exhilarated me. It taught me to throw off the shackles of normality and embrace my innate nerdiness.

In the humble town of _______, population 2843, it is hard to find people that appreciate/are obsessed with fanciful books such as Harry Potter. Until a fateful day in August 2007, I was forced to quell my zeal for all things literature in favor of other uninteresting activities (sports) that were more within the social norms of a rural town. A week before my fourteenth birthday however, I watched a movie that acted as a catalyst for my discovery of fanfiction. The movie was 300 and Astinos was the character that sent me on a furious rampage to discover any and all sort of media about him. His unwarranted beheading resounded in my poor 14-year-old’s heart and in my quest I came upon a story on fanfiction.net.

Afterwards, I became utterly enamored with fanfiction and was especially elated at the discovery of a Harry Potter fandom. After two magnificent months of being an avid reader, I decided to venture into the other end of the spectrum and try my hand at writing. I would be lying if I said that my first story was anything more but the inane ramblings of a pitiful fangirl. However, through receiving constructive reviews and reading well-written fanfics created by my peers, my story started to evolve. My prose began to drift from mundane and trite to a tale that gave rise to fleshed-out characters and witty dialogue.

A few months later, I came upon the forum feature of the site and joined a well-respected forum. There I found kindred spirits and it was during this time – a time when I realized that everything I was up to that point was simply a façade – that I was in deepest. I swore to myself that this world was too good for me to ever leave and that I never would. In fact, I remember making a pact with a fellow writer that we would never leave the forum or quit writing fanfiction. I was so proud of myself, so proud of my little apartment in the mammoth skyscraper that is the internet, that I was finally unafraid to tear away from the bland and conventional version of myself that I had portrayed.

Without obsession life is nothing and in that one unforgettable year, my life was nothing without fanfiction. It truthfully rendered an irrevocable change in the very foundation of my soul. (Yes, this is the part of the essay where I show you my meaningful spirit.) The transformation happened gradually, with the plot-bunnies and self-confidence. In the course of writing and reading fanfiction, I learned to read literature analytically and to recognize plot, character development, and good writing. Nathaniel Hawthorne once said, “Easy reading is damn hard writing,” and I can now fully appreciate how hard writers work to make sure that every word in every sentence of a book stirs up an emotion in the reader.

The fondness I hold for fanfiction will never leave me, though I have stopped actively participating in it. I still look back at that year of my life with nostalgia. I miss the camaraderie of the other writers, my elation when I received a review, the sense of achievement I had when I finished a chapter. I would like to say I have found something else to replace fanfiction, but since then I have not yet felt the same euphoric thrill. Many of the words I write now seem like a struggle, not born out of love and torn from me only by a sense of duty. I have not admitted it to myself until now, but I feel that I will not return to fanfiction. That door has closed and I’m still looking for the one that has opened.
</code></pre>

<hr>

<p>I thought that my Why UChicago? essay was the best I wrote for why I wanted to go to a college. A bit succinct and generic, but I think my opening line really conveyed how much I wanted to go to the school.</p>

<p>

</p>

<p>I love the University of Chicago for the same reasons I adore retro geek glasses – for its intrinsic quirkiness and for the symbol of nerdy innovation it stands for. It was the university’s originality, not its academics, that initially attracted me. Besides being noted for its high scholastic standards and Common Core, UChicago is also well-known for its clever, yet creative student body. The idiosyncratic traditions that are practiced at the university – such as O-Week and the Scavenger Hunt – are notorious and I would love to partake in the madness. Another important aspect that I have to address is that UChicago has been voted most like Hogwarts. Now, we all (sadly) know that Hogwarts is a fictional place, but with the university’s beautiful gothic architecture and unique housing system, UChicago is as close as it gets. For a die-hard Harry Potter fan such as myself, that is more than enough.</p>

<p>Overall, UChicago embodies who I am as a person – it is competitive without being cutthroat, intellectual yet sociable, less traditional and more diverse. I want my college experience to be mind-blowing and eye-opening and I feel that, among kindred spirits and brilliant minds, UChicago offers the best environment for that to happen. Most of all, UChicago graduates are people that make the world a better place – as evidenced by its eighty-five Nobel Prize laureates – one geek at a time.</p>

<p>YES! Another fanfic geek… I didn’t think it was risky perse, but it was definitely unique. I don’t think there are going to be that many people out there who write about fanfiction (I certainly wouldn’t have thought about it), and I think that the essay is excellent.</p>

<p>Wow, thank you. I wanted to give the adcoms a laugh, but I guess it got too depressing at the end for them… Haha.</p>

<p>@RynoWeiss: I was just wondering because your essay was very straight forward, opposed to many over the top essays that people have posted.</p>

<p>Essays can be over-the-top or straightforward, and in both instances be great.</p>