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Colleges and Universities A-Z University of Chicago ✅
521

<p>these are unbelievably good.</p>

<p>unfortunately for me, i never had a lot of time for my essays.</p>

<p>i wrote about my absolute desire for knowledge, both rational and “not-so rational”, but not necessarily irrational, and how they came about as a result of read Crime and Punishment. (new computer, so i cant post it. it wasnt good enough to get accepted though, only waitlisted)</p>

<p>it was scary though. i talked about social isolation and the inability to express my thoughts, but looking forward to a community and life of mind where ideas can converge like UChicago. it was probably bad because 1) im talking about being socially isolated and 2) i can never express my ideas well. even if it writing about how im inept at expressing my ideas, the medium in which i am doing is through writing, so it will turn out poorly regardless.</p>

522

<p>When I was twelve, I looked at the flagpole in front of my elementary school and stared
in pride. I saw her. She was bold in her colors: a dark, rich red; a midnight blue; a warm,
pristine white. She was alive. But now, when I look at her, she has changed. She looks
sick. She is now faded in her colors: a tattered, pale red; a cold, frosty blue; a dinged,
blood-stained white. I look up—and flinch. What happened to Old Glory?
I love my country. This I do. But I prefer to love the people in my country more. That’s
why it pains me to hear of the atrocities that my country has committed under the name
of God, Freedom, and Safety. They have sucked the life out of Old Glory, and now she
suffers.
Our country’s system allows health insurance companies to renege their services to sons
and daughters suffering from cancer while their fathers are forced to see their children
slowly die in front of their eyes. Yet, they can do nothing but file for bankruptcy from
the medical bills and die in a street lined by their tears of loss and indigence. Is this how
we treat our own people? We leave the unfortunate to fend for themselves, giving them
the excuse of individualism. This is injustice. Old Glory weeps.
There even seems to be a loss of bravery and boldness that has defined the American
spirit. Theodore Roosevelt would have never tolerated the abandonment of human rights
and civility in times of war or times of terror. But now, what have we stooped to?
Torture? Waterboarding? Roosevelt indicted a U.S. soldier who waterboarded
Philippine civilians during his presidency—and even went after the commanding
General. He found it distasteful, horrid, abusive, wrong—un-American. But, with a
weak and cowardly leader, we simply substitute the term “torture” with “enhanced
interrogation techniques” and all of a sudden it’s right? Justifiable? American? Not for
me. And not for her: Old Glory has lost the bold bravery that animated her stripes.
I am ashamed of the billions of dollars we spend to prepare for wars, buying guns, and
bombs. We spend money to kill with no remorse. Yet, when we spend money to help
pay for the costs of medical insurance and social security, there are groans and ululations
of Socialism, Communism, Hitler, and Cost. This is not pride. This is shame. If this is
our city on a hill, this city does not shine. It is in ruin and reeks of decay. Our soldiers
know what I’m talking about: they know all about decaying buildings—especially
hospital buildings—decaying contracts, and decaying bodies.
It’s depressing. I do, however, know of what I can be proud of: Medicare and Social
Security for our elderly, who have worked for a lifetime and deserve some peace;
Medicaid and food stamps for the shockingly poor, who with a little help can go farther
with each subsequent generation; America’s contribution of billions to help the destitute
worldwide, especially in Africa. I am also aware of the volunteers that work in soup
kitchens and foodbanks. They are the only reasons why Old Glory still stands. But this
does not mean all is nice and cheeky, by any means. There is always something left to do.</p>

<p>That this country is the best, I believed then; that this country can be the best, I know
now. And I just cannot sit idly, allowing these atrocities to take place. It is upon me to
answer the call of social responsibility and do something. I have to help re-suture all the
tatters in Old Glory, clean the stains from her stripes, and dye her colors with pride and
boldness to restore her vigor.
Until that day, when all Americans can say that we have finally buried the fist of war,
greed, arrogance—and have extended the hand of peace, acceptance, and respect—I
know how Old Glory suffers today*. And I know how she can convalesce tomorrow and
reclaim this title: The best. I look forward to working towards that day when I look up at
that flagpole and smile.
*The expression of the fist of war and hand of peace is derived from a speech in the
Warner Bros. series, “Jack and Bobby.”</p>

523

<p>Extended Essay - Prompt 5
Prompt: Everyone’s heard the phrase “You are what you eat.” Leaving all dietary interpretations aside, write about what it means to you.
Yuk-gae-jang: A pound of beef brisket, fifteen cups of water, twelve green onions, five cups of bean sprouts, fernbrake, one celery stalk, dried hot pepper flakes, sesame oil, vegetable oil, soy sauce, and black pepper. All of this is combined and boiled to make a traditional Korean spicy beef soup. Serve the soup while still boiling in a large stone bowl. </p>

<p>Set the table with a bowl of rice, a few varieties of kimchi, and add whatever banchan, or side dishes, one likes. Lay out a pair of chopsticks and a spoon over a napkin. </p>

<p>Pick up the chopsticks and take that first sesame leaf. Wrap it around a ball of rice and carefully place a small piece of kimchi in the center, then pop that first bite into your mouth. Swallow it. Messily spoon some yuk-gae-jang into your rice, breathing in the pungent steam rising from the soup as you take it into your mouth. Delicious.
I have a lot in common with a yuk-gae-jang meal.
Life, like Korean cuisine, is all about balance. Carl Gustav Jung’s theory of individuation has a lot to do with reconciling all opposite aspects of a being. There are the anima and the animus, the Persona, or the mask all people put on in front of others, and the Shadow, or the characteristics in oneself that are suppressed from the world but readily points out in others. In order to complete the process, a person must open themselves to the various dichotomies of the archetypes of the collective unconscious and balance themselves. Through individuation, one becomes a fully integrated person. One must address all of the different parts of the Self.
The bland white rice is paired with the spicy yuk-gae-jang and sharp-tasting kimchi. Every bite combines two opposite poles of the taste spectrum, and yet, they blend in an almost musical, contrapuntal harmony. Rice alone would be incredibly dull, and yuk-gae-jang or kimchi without rice would be overpowering. Throw in some banchan, and the Korean meal is complete.
My mother does everything she can to shield me from the Shadow. After giving birth to my older sister, who was fathered by a man who left my mother upon learning she was pregnant, my mother decided to marry an American man she didn’t love just to guarantee a comfortable life for her daughter. That man was my father. Fifteen years, three affairs, and a seemingly infinite number of violent arguments later, my parents decided to divorce. My mother never once let me see her cry. Her Persona was rather convincing. I was seven years old, and my path had already been chosen for me. I was to forget every fight that had ever happened between my parents. I was to forget about how my father would hit my older sister after she came home from school, how I had seen him in the park with a blonde, and how he would curse loudly in the house right in front of me.
I would live in ignorance of the darker elements of life until I discovered them for myself – the prejudice against children of mixed race, the selfishness of humankind, anger, even my own shortcomings. I lived in the world of order and discipline, a world that established the routine of going to church every Wednesday and Sunday, a world that demanded good grades and the adoption of the lessons of fables, a world that was separate from the world of impulses and instincts and self-recognition. I knew only what was bright and clean.
Wash the rice carefully in a large bowl. Then drain the water and pour the wet grains into the bowl of the rice cooker. Pour some water into the bowl so that the rice can cook. Careful, not too much; there’s a difference between a fine bowl of rice and a bowl of porridge. There. Now insert the bowl into the rice cooker, close the lid, and press down the lever so that it points to “Cook.” Good. Exactly like that. When the rice is done cooking, take a spatula and stir it. It’ll be about fifteen minutes.
I’ll be honest with you. A lot of what I learned about the other world came from the strongest proponent of the spread of American culture in history. That’s right. TV shows. Sex education, I can assure you, did not come from my mother. She never wanted to get into that subject at all. My mother’s favorite English-language show when I was little was Days of Our Lives. She missed the Korean dramas that she couldn’t get in Lima, Ohio, and daytime soap operas were the next best thing. On one occasion, when I asked her what two characters were doing in a certain scene, she looked at me wide-eyed and said in Korean that I didn’t have to know. I accepted it for a while, but in health class when I was in fifth grade, I caused an eruption of laughter when I inquired whether or not what the teacher was talking about was related to what Sheridan and Luis did on Passions. I started watching music videos on TRL and PG-13 movies with my older sister, and Oprah Winfrey became one of the most eye-opening figures for me. The portrayals of human weaknesses – pride, impulsiveness, jealousy, lying, cheating, every vice imaginable (or at least all of the ones available for viewing before my bedtime) - became crucial to my knowledge of the Shadow. The Shadow was new and fascinating.
Entering high school did everything Oprah Winfrey did on television for me but threw it off of the television screen and thrust it into a live stage. Suddenly, that thing Luis and Sheridan did became something I knew acquaintances were doing, and they talked about it rather openly. Note to parents all over the world: the back of the bus will indubitably cause a culture shock to a little girl who doesn’t really understand the world around her. It’s like moving from books about bears missing buttons like Corduroy and primitive descriptions of socialism from sea animals who want pretty scales like Rainbow Fish to Portnoy’s far stranger monologue to Dr. Spielvogel in a Philip Roth novel. The small peephole into the Shadow world had expanded into a wide doorway.
We might as well get started on the soup while the rice is steaming. Add beef brisket and half an onion into that big pot of water, and let it boil for forty minutes. Cut the green onions, celery, and fernbrake into small pieces and add them into the broth. Prepare the chili pepper oil for the yuk-gae-jang by mixing the hot pepper flakes, sesame oil, vegetable oil, soy sauce, and black pepper in a bowl. Yes, I know it’ll be spicy, but don’t worry; it’ll taste good with the rice. After the brisket is fully cooked, remove it from the broth and mix in the vegetables and chili pepper oil. Boil this for another half hour. Then slice the brisket and add it to the top of the soup, cooking for another five to ten minutes. Excellent. There’s the yuk-gae-jang, the intensely flavorful soup. Wait; don’t eat any of it yet! It’s still much too hot.
As an official second semester senior in high school, I feel that I’ve accomplished something of a favorable balance between the innocent order of my mother’s world – the Persona that I had adopted since early childhood – and the very unpredictable and somewhat intriguing Shadow world. As I’m only now entering adulthood, I cannot rightfully claim that I have successfully completed the process of individuation as Jung theorized it, but I think I’m getting there. I’ll be there eventually. At times there is too much chili pepper oil in my yuk-gae-jang. Sometimes the kimchi is a bit too sour. Maybe I didn’t make enough rice. It might be too watery or too dry. Perhaps I’ve made too much rice without sufficient banchan. I’m by no means a five-star chef. I can only hope to prepare my yuk-gae-jang meal to my personal satisfaction, establishing that delicate balance between too spicy and too bland, the recognition and reconciliation of the Persona and the Shadow. </p>

<p>Why Chicago?
I first realized I wanted to go to the University of Chicago when I became involved with quiz bowl. As captain of the Chattahoochee Academic Team, I devote quite a bit of my time to my improvement as a literature player, and my passion for the game has grown so much that I cannot give it up after my senior year. Quiz bowl isn’t only a game; it is a huge community through which I have found some of my closest friends. How does this apply to UChicago? Chicago has historically been one of the absolute strongest schools for quiz bowl. Some of Chicago’s students have become legends in the quiz bowl world: <strong><em>, </em></strong><em>, and perhaps most notably Chicago alum </em>_, to name a few. That legacy of academia applies not only to quiz bowl; it encompasses everything at Chicago. Who else can boast so many Nobel laureates and bestselling authors? I want to be in that number.
Aside from the clear academic merits, I also love Chicago for its strong base in the arts. Voices in Your Head’s recording of Ben Folds’s “Magic” is perhaps the most chilling rendition of a song I have ever heard. It’s ethereal. When I first heard that recording, I knew I wanted to be in that specific group. If that wasn’t enough to convince me, I also love the entire city of Chicago. I love having all of East Asia on Bryn Mawr, Kimball, and Lawrence. I love the fact that at one minute, I could be perusing a Korean supermarket, and at the next, I could be enjoying some ribs and fries in the center of all things Americana. I love everything that can be seen and experienced with a quick trip on the “L.” I belong here. I belong at UChicago.</p>

<p>Favorite Things
“Our possible truth must be an invention, that is to say, scripture literature, picture, sculpture, agriculture, pisciculture, all the tures in this world. Values, tures, sainthood, a ture, society, a ture, love, pure ture, beauty, a ture of tures.” – Hopscotch by Julio Cortázar
My favorite work of literature that I have read so far in my eighteen years is definitely Cortázar’s Hopscotch. It is altogether unconventional and exciting. The author provides the reader with two ways to read the book – one in which the reader reads straight through as he or she would any other novel, stopping after reading chapter 56, and one in which the reader follows Cortázar’s chapter sequence, playing “hopscotch” throughout the novel and following the narrator’s frantic search for his disappeared lover La Maga.
Horacio Oliveira, the protagonist, is an Argentine intellectual living in Paris and a member of ‘The Serpent Club’, a group that meets to discuss literature and philosophy. La Maga is the least well-versed member of the Club; Oliveira is often annoyed at having to explain things to her, but many of the thoughts Oliveira expresses revolve around her. La Maga, while not as loquacious or philosophical in everyday thought, becomes Oliveira’s muse and his inspiration to examine himself and Parisian society more thoroughly. What happens to Oliveira is ambiguous if one chooses not to follow through with Cortázar’s sequence. I love Hopscotch not only for its innovative and unconventional structure but also for the many thoughts of Horacio Oliveira that caused me to really examine the way I think. “Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity,” Oliveira expresses early in the novel. How am I living? Am I just floating along with the “infinite absurdity” of the world? Oliveira’s reexamination of himself causes me to similarly reexamine myself.</p>

524

<p>Ohmygoodness La Maga I was going to write on the exact same prompt as you, except with sushi!</p>

525

<p>I was lazy and copied my Cornell essay.</p>

<p>I have decided to make this essay INTERACTIVE. That’s right reader; you get to actively take part in discovering my academic interests. Are you ready?
Once upon a time, I brought… oh, let’s say I brought a cookie, home from school. After complimenting how much weight my mother had just lost, I told her I carried a present home from school, a present just for her. I hold up the delicious turtle-toffee cookie. She stared at it lovingly before asking, quite politely, “Is that it?”
Now, read that question aloud. If you are an American, and a native speaker of English, you may notice the intonation of your voice rise with the last word of the question. Why? Why does it do that? Why has our language evolved that way?
Reader, if you’ll be so kind as to exercise your imagination once more. I want you to pretend that my mother is half as polite as she really is, and I want you to imagine that instead of a turtle-toffee cookie, I brought her a sweaty gym-sock. She would most likely stare at it loathingly before asking, quite rudely, “Is that it?”
If you’re a quick learner (which, kind reader, I’m sure you are) you’ll have read that sentence aloud also. The intonation is different. Why is that? Is there any reason for that? I don’t think there is, and it is something I don’t understand, but would like to.
You know, I’ve heard the phrase “humans fear what they do not understand” quite a bit. I guess I’m simply not human, as I don’t fear the different ways my mother may ask “Is that it?” In fact, I am enthralled by the unknown.
And this mystery stretches far beyond simple linguistics. I’ll show you through demonstration. I would like you to slowly and calmly approach the person nearest you, and attempt to remove their pants. If that individual is like most of the people I’ve attempted this experiment on, their face should turn red. Now, why might it do that? I have no idea, and because of this, it fascinates me.
Why are certain songs catchier than others? Why can a certain combination of notes bring people to tears? How can a combination of words be hailed as genius, and how come Perfect Pitch is an ability specific to very few people?
I don’t know. But I would like to. There are just so many mysteries to solve, and too many frontiers to pursue. Lamentably, I can’t get a major in “everything” at the University of Chicago. Tragically, I can’t solve all the world’s mysteries. I can’t make any progress with all these conflicting goals. I need a push in the right direction. I hope the University of Chicago can provide that for me.</p>

526

<p>WOW that was an interesting read!!! ^^^</p>

527

<p>This was the Common App essay.</p>

<p>“That was horrible,” I whispered, sliding shakily into my seat. It was May; I had just finished performing a Chopin piece, and I was pretty sure that somewhere in Paris, the man was rolling in his grave.</p>

<p>“I thought you were fine,” she said. I ignored her: what did she know about music? Besides, she was my mother. I was the pianist here, and that performance had been completely awful. From the beginning, everything had gone wrong. My hands had stubbornly refused to cooperate, messing up trills, playing wrong notes left and right, and–a few times–almost falling off the rails entirely. The end couldn’t have come too soon.</p>

<p>It was all my fault, really. I’d screwed up again, just like I always did. I should have worked harder. I should have practiced more–I’d known, even before I sat down at the bench, that I hadn’t prepared enough. Over the past few weeks, frustrated at my inability to get the difficult passages right, I’d spent as much time avoiding my piano as playing it. But what kind of an excuse was that?</p>

<p>Sometimes I wondered why I even bothered playing.</p>

<p>After the recital was over, I made a beeline for the refreshments, burying my nose in raspberry sorbet and trying not to look anyone in the eye. That didn’t stop people from coming up to me, however. “You played beautifully,” said one man, going on and on about how he loved that song. I nodded and smiled politely, wondering privately whether he was tone deaf.</p>

<p>My piano teacher found me a little after that. “You held it together,” she observed. At least she hadn’t tried to tell me I’d played well. “You kept on going, and that’s the most important part. Perfect performances almost never happen–you just have to carry the piece through with confidence, no matter what.”</p>

<p>“Thanks,” I muttered, privately thinking that there was a significant difference between “imperfect” and “cat dying on keyboard.”</p>

<p>But she was having none of it: she looked me in the eye right then and said something I will never forget. “It wasn’t as bad as you thought it was,” she said, and I thought, oh.</p>

<p>I understood then. It wasn’t that I’d played wonderfully, or that I was wrong to be dissatisfied with my performance. But I had been wrong to assume that anyone who did like it had to be deaf: I’d played that piece so long that I knew it intimately, and I felt every single mistake I made, no matter how small. The people in the audience didn’t, and that had freed them to look at the piece as a whole–to see the larger musical ideas that I had forgotten in my obsession over notes and pauses.</p>

<p>I’ve never been the most controlled pianist, but I am an expressive one. I knew that, or I’d known that once.</p>

<p>The past year had been a hard one for me. Everywhere I went, whatever I did, I kept bumping up against my flaws, and they became the only thing I could see. It was like looking into a distorted mirror: all the good things other people saw in me either didn’t matter or weren’t really there. I saw only the ways I didn’t measure up, not all the ways I did. The mistakes, but not the triumphs. The sorrow, not the joy.</p>

<p>It was never as bad as I thought it was. When you inhabit something from the inside out, you feel all its imperfections from the inside out, too.</p>

<p>I left the recital feeling better. I knew that even though I wasn’t perfect, even though I’d played badly, things didn’t have to stay that way. I could go home and practice. It would be okay.</p>

528

<p>[C8H10N4O2] </p>

<p>I learned very early on in my college searching days that the University of Chicago is like no other college in America. How did I know this? The first piece of mail I received from them (or you guys) was a postcard with a huge coffee stain on it. As I begun to look over the postcard I realized that the unsightly stain was deliberate. “Was this some new type of reverse psychological recruiting technique?" Later on, I’d receive mail from many different colleges and what I noticed was that all of them had illuminating pictures of either beautiful architecture or students reading beneath trees. It just didn’t seem, natural. Were the next four years of my life going to be filled gothic architecture and constant sub-arboreal reading? But the post card from the University of Chicago always stuck out in my mind. It didn’t show me idealized images of college life, but a bit of the nitty gritty, a bit of hardships of college and above all, it made me laugh. </p>

<p>I’m a traditionalist in the idea that learning should be fun. And everything about the University of Chicago gives me the impression of a serious academic community with wonderful sense of humor, and tons of creativity, from it’s website down to it’s essay prompts. I’m almost certain that not only can I receive an excellent education at the University of Chicago, but I’ll be surrounded by people who know how to think outside the box. I intend to major in a study that requires creative solutions to major problems in an international setting. With the peppered diversity at the University of Chicago I’ll be exposed all different types of people from extremely different backgrounds. Studying at such a multicultural university would be an ideal starting point in which to apply my passions in the real world. I wish to attend the University of Chicago to not only gain an education, but an experience, and possibly some coffee from Cobb’s.</p>

<p>Waitlisted. D: I never noticed the correlation between my essay and my screen name on CC. Hmm. Funny.</p>

529

<p>Got in EA!</p>

<p>Here’s my common app essay. </p>

<p>I’m not artistic with words but I like my essay a lot.</p>

<p>“Sa-shay, step leap, step leap, step leap,” I called out to the actors behind me, as I led them leaping, tripping and laughing. I turned to look back at them and was nearly run over by a car. I jumped to the sidewalk, noticing that the soles of my feet had turned black from the asphalt. Then I headed out into the street again. </p>

<p>Another day of rehearsal for my production. It was late September and we had only two weeks left before we performed at the grand opening of my school’s brand new Performing Arts Center. Even though I had no funding and no rehearsals on the actual stage, I was determined to make my piece spectacular. </p>

<p>The whole endeavor had been born back in January when I went to see Mary Zimmerman’s Arabian Nights. It was unlike any show I had ever seen, acted in, or directed. For weeks afterward, I kept thinking of the way she told the story, starting with a bare stage, and seamlessly integrating music, dialogue, and movements. I read the program cover to cover. I found every review of Zimmerman’s work in the New York Times.</p>

<p>I started small. My Zimmerman-inspired “Herne the Hunter” monologue is now infamous in the Drama department. I pantomimed snow, and then silence; I crept around a tree, and then was the tree. During the summer I decided to direct something in Zimmerman’s style. I pored over the precious few sentences in the program that talked about how she put together these unique shows. I thought about buying one of her scripts, but in the end I decided to take a bold leap and write my own play using Greek myths as a source. </p>

<p>I savored the total freedom of creating something on my own. I had to dig deeper and push myself beyond the first (or the second) idea that popped into my head, until I found better ways to present the story. Nearly every free moment I had, I thought about the show, sketching out new scenes or making lists of things to improve. </p>

<p>The actors learned to roll with and embrace all the unorthodox activities I devised daily. When my lead, Zach, was stiff and closed onstage, I led dance warm-ups. I guided him to open up emotionally and ham it up onstage. When Nina, who was new to theater, was terrified to raise her voice beyond a whisper, we all practiced whinnying like horses for half an hour. We had a Greek Mythology insult-off (“You run like Hephaestus!”) to find just the right putdown for a scene. I spent a four-hour rehearsal teaching the actors across-the-floor exercises for the short closing bows. I tested different poses and experimented with different drum beats, endlessly refining a 15-second sequence where Demeter kills the earth’s flora.
I had directed shows before. At first, my success had been in simply making them happen – finding casts, running rehearsals, and working out sets and venues. With subsequent shows I developed more sophisticated skills. When working with actors, I learned to maintain authority without being strident, to find the right balance between praise and criticism, and to provide actionable guidance instead of judgments. Now I reached for an even higher level of directing – manipulating pacing and mood, crafting powerful blocking, and not just giving actors something to do, but drawing great performances out of them. </p>

<p>When I finally sat down in the plush theater seat, all the tension of the weeks melted away. I forgot about actors infected with swine flu, missing props, and dressing rooms that people attempted to tour while we changed. I turned off my hyper-observant director brain and let the show do what I intended it to – sweep the audience and me away. Actors whirling around became a chaotic jungle. Melody from a flute evoked springtime. Two actors in front of a piano bench, churning their arms, became the sun chariot. They glided, pranced, and twirled seemingly effortlessly around the stage in sequences I had meticulously constructed. Zach was such a riot that he got the loudest whoops and cheers. I cheered along, discovering the magic in giving someone wings and letting them fly.</p>

<p>My vision had transformed the actors, the stage, the lights, and the music into something mesmerizing. I had not merely conquered production logistics; I had become an artist.</p>

<p>So, wadya think?</p>

530

<p>okay so i got wailitsted but I’m posting this anyway despite the fact that they might re review my application because of the wait list and hopefully this doesn’t count against me but I want to post it so here it is
Extended Essay
Option 5:<br>
My own Topic: What does Star Trek mean to you? </p>

<p>Although I live in a society where I can use the phrase, “Beam me up Scotty,” and most people will recognize the Star Trek reference, there is nevertheless a stigma associated with being a Trekkie. I would know, because I am one. Just a glance at the vast collection of Star Trek memorabilia and costumes in my room testifies to my enthusiasm for this show. If there is a Star Trek convention in my city I will not shy away, but I will put on my costume and attend it proudly. It is Star Trek’s metaphorical examination of almost every issue in our society, masked in science fiction setting, which makes the show so powerful and meaningful to me.
I was first introduced to the show in the summer of 2004. I was channel surfing when I stumbled upon a show called, Star Trek: The Next Generation. I had always been intrigued by space and, seeing that that show revolved around space travel, I thought I would give it a try. As the minutes passed, I found myself hooked; the show had everything from intense fight scenes to subliminal messaging about society. There was a marathon of the show for the entire day and so I stayed and watched it all. It seemed almost unfathomable to me how someone was able to create the Star Trek Universe (STU); the number of species and the amount of technology seemed limitless. Despite the amount of imagination put into the STU, I found the sanity that permeated throughout the show refreshing, considering the irrationality of the world today.
In the 1960s, when the first Star Trek episode aired, the world was in political upheaval. People of color were fighting for racial equality, women were struggling to redefine their role in society, and the Cold War raged on against the Soviet Union. In these dangerous times, Star Trek was not afraid; it took these political battles and gave them a science fiction form. It was Star Trek that put an African-American woman and a Russian man in leading roles on television series in the 1960s. It was Star Trek that showed the first televised interracial kiss between an African-American woman and a Caucasian man. This lack of fear, that is a motif throughout the STU, has given me solace and inspiration.
Furthermore, the STU is set far into the future and thus served as a pillar of hope not only for me, but for many people in the world because it showed a brighter future. Although there were wars and antagonists in this future, humanity had, for the most part, achieved internal peace. Race was no longer an issue and every individual was given the opportunity to become everything they could be. Also, money had been eliminated and this action showed a world where people cared about the acquisition of knowledge, not wealth. Star Trek would defend the decision to eliminate wealth by creating a species of greedy creatures known as the Ferengi; it was the goal of every Ferengi to become rich and gather many wives. The STU would show that the Ferengi, symbols of individuals whose only desire is wealth, were bottom feeders. They depended on the generosity of others, were in constant conflict with the other species and were despised by them as well. The Ferengi and their lives exemplify the power of the STU. The STU did not explicitly tell us that we should not revolve our lives around wealth, but it showed us the consequences of such an action. When individuals can actually see that the consequences of their actions will have adverse ramifications, they learn to adjust their behavior. This is the power of Star Trek; it showed and taught us that racism, homophobia, and tyrannical imperialism are wrong. Thus the STU served as inspiration for many, becoming a mold upon which to base our goals. The STU taught me that I should not care about the appearance of a person but upon the quality of their character and that the acquisition of knowledge, not wealth or fame, should be the order of the day.
Technologically the STU inspired many of the advancements we have today. The cell phone was modeled after the communicator and the Star Trek tricorder, a device that analyzes the body for medical purposes, has been turned into reality (modern science has allowed scientists to create a device similar to the tricorder that detects cancer and other ailments). In spite of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, the STU created the transporter, a device that is also in the process of being created today. Finally, the faster-than-light travel that the ships in Star Trek used was ahead of its time. Defying the great Einstein, Gene Rodenberry (Star Trek’s creator) conceived of combining matter and anti-matter in an explosive reaction capable of creating faster than light speeds. The very concept of anti-matter is something that is still being questioned today and for the STU to use it so rationally and easily is something awe inspiring.
The STU’s ability to tackle societal preconceptions and even scientific laws and win, embeds in me a sense of limitless possibility, making me the man I am today. That being said, the STU is not the world of Harry Potter. You will not find people simply gifted with magical powers, or magical creatures that can breathe fire. In the STU you will find a world that is the product of logic and human determination, as exemplified by the aforementioned transporter. Heisenberg stated that it is impossible to locate a single molecule at a given time, thus disproving the possibility of a transporter. Well the STU did not back down and in the essence of the STU’s spirit of nothing is impossible, the people of Star Trek created a device known as the Heisenberg compensator. This device however, was not simply made but was the product of a STU character known as Dr. Emory Erickson, who had dedicated his entire life to making such a device. He was able to create the device because technology had advanced to the point where man could compress himself into a stream of energy and direct this stream at a certain location. The fact that there were limitations to the device, such as not being able to transport through thick mediums or electrical fields adds to the realism of the transporter. It was so simple; Rodenberry wanted a transporter, Heisenberg said it was impossible and so Star Trek created the Heisenberg compensator. In the STU, with knowledge and logic, nothing is impossible.
In a world where we are surrounded by political chaos, the STU allowed me to dream of a peaceful and prosperous future. Discovering Star Trek was like getting slapped in the cold -this hurts more than when its warm- because I woke up and realized that with knowledge and some critical thinking, I could do anything. I learned that just because a law said something was impossible does not mean I cannot challenge it, if anything it means I should. Star Trek allowed me to envision a future where the acquisition of knowledge, my passion, was what mattered most. Today, I look up at the sky and think of what the STU has taught me: to be honest and fair, to challenge inequality, to dream and work for a better world, to never wear a red shirt, to live long and prosper and most importantly, to boldly go where no man has gone before.</p>

531

<p>Wow a lot of good essays - Il post my three essays plus my waitlist letter after I get a decision from uchicago. I wana keep my anonymity for now lol</p>

532

<p>Essay Option 2: Dog and Cat. Coffee and Tea. Great Gatsby and Catcher in the Rye. Everyone knows there are two types of people in the world. What are they?</p>

<p>Those who indulge in the standard sugar (C12H22O11) and those who partake in artificial sweeteners. </p>

<p>Everyday, at 4:00 PM, my mother and father habitually drink a glass of warm chai, one of the lasting traces of the British Raj on Indian culture. They have created an entirely-unique (and strange) tea ritual that has served them over the past twenty years of marriage. My mother will pour a cup of milk and a cup of water into a silver, metal container. ……At the very end, when two separate cups of the warm, creamy brown liquid has been poured, my mother will tear open a packet of Splenda and stir it in; and looking disparagingly down at the deflated yellow packet, Papa stubbornly opens the sugar container and scoops out three generous spoons of white, granulated sugar.</p>

<p>At this point, they are both far too stubborn and set in their ways to contemplate the other’s side (or taste). My sister has joined my father’s side, not for the natural sweetness he delights in but by default- her summer research project was examining the health problems linked to artificial sweeteners. Perhaps my mother expects me to take her side, although I’m sure my dad would be pleased and triumphant if I should desire to be a warrior for him. </p>

<p>In such a matter, a gray area isn’t a possibility. Artificial or natural? The taste between a packet of artificial and three spoons of regular sugar is miniscule and barely noticeable, but that’s besides the point. The original lines and boundaries my parents drew have been erased and forgotten, but there has yet to be a reconciliation between the two sides. It has become something more than just sugar; it is a problem that spreads in all other divisions of people- colored and white, rich and poor, women and men, dog and cat, coffee and tea. </p>

<p>Of course, that is their planned routine. My parents have become lazy, and so, sometimes, I take it upon myself to pour the sugar in their respective cups of chai. Sometimes, the chai is too hot, sometimes too cold, sometimes there isn’t enough milk, sometimes too little chai powder. But my parents both compliment on my meticulousness on adding the right sweetener to their respective cups; a packet of Splenda for my dad, and three spoons for my mother.</p>

533

<p>@marierose97</p>

<p>I would delete that post/essay since this thread was made to post essays…after the new application season</p>

534

<p>is anyone hear willing to read my “own prompt” essay? or at least to tell me if my prompt is creative enough?</p>

<p>Thank you!</p>

535

<p>Any Accepted EArs willing to post their main essay? :)</p>

536

<p>I wrote the essay about 2 types of people in the world (think it was option 2). I found out I left the t out of Martin Luther right after I submitted it, but apparently was no big deal, as I was admitted today. Here’s the essay:</p>

<p>Part of human nature is to reify abstract concepts, such as personality, and organize them into specific, recognizable groups. We like to say that one is either this or that and that’s the end of it. Republican or Democrat, Costco or Sam’s: There’s an endless degree of binary categorization that we use to evaluate people. The truth is that we’re all either C-sharps or D-flats. That is, we’re enharmonic. For all intents and purposes we’re the same note, with very minor and specific differences that cause us to insist we’re different from each other.
We all like to think we’re the D-flats. It just feels like the higher note. When it comes down to it, though, society decides who’s the D-flat and who’s the C-sharp. For hundreds of years, we decided that blacks and Jews were the C-sharps of civilized society. We, as whites or gentiles, felt we were fully within our rights to say, “Silly C-sharps. Of course we, the D-flats, are superior. Can’t you see the D?” We ignored their pleading explanations that, in the end, we all made the same sound, and that we really had no right to say our sound was more pure than theirs. After all, they were sharps, and we were flats, so might they not have been the better group?
History has been nothing more than an unceasing shift of who exactly gets to be the D-flat and who is saddled with the C-sharp for reasons beyond their control. For a time, the Romans were undoubtedly the D-flats, the epitome of high society. Even within the history of one religion, let’s say Christianity, the sharps and flats have changed hands constantly. At their beginning, the Christians were the C-sharps. Their founder was ordered executed, and they had to communicate in secret to avoid persecution in the Roman Empire. Over time, even in the very city of Rome, the Christians became the D-flats, as the papacy took control of Western Europe. Even further down the line, Martin Luther and John Calvin decided that it might be time for the Catholics to be the C-sharps for a while. The Catholics, of course, fervently disagreed with this notion, and made every effort to maintain their D, but Protestants did win over in England, and for the most part can consider themselves the D-flats (or perhaps the D-flats within the D-flat that is Christianity) in most of the former British Empire, including the United States.
In contemporary America, we still see the division between C-sharps and D-flats throughout the nation. History indicates that it won’t change anytime soon, as at any given time one group will just decide that they’re the D-flats, and they’ll make some other group their C-sharps, as superiority is almost sustenance to the D-flats. Today’s C-sharps in this country are, most notably, the homosexuals, and to a certain extent the immigrants. There is an argument that it might not be that bad to be a C-sharp. C-sharps always have a certain pride and dignity about them that they get from rising above adversity, and they’re often looked upon with respect by future generations for what they had to go through. Still, though, it’s hard to say that I’d prefer to be a C-sharp in any given scenario.
Even though we have our differences, Americans as a whole seem to have a D-flat complex. That is, almost all of us believe that this is, without question, the greatest place to live in the world, and that might actually be a key factor in this country running as effectively as it has throughout its 234 year history. Overall, though, the D-flat complex is something that has only served to make people look less respectable to their posterity. Looking back through the pages of history books, it seems easy to criticize people for assuming that they were the D-flats and persecuting their C-sharps, but so few people take steps to naturalize the accidentals of their society. Whether sharp or flat, we are all accidentals. No one group is right. No one group is perfect. The sooner society can make that realization, the closer we can all move to becoming D-naturals.</p>

537

<p>Here’s the “Why Chicago” essay:</p>

<pre><code>Chicago- the city itself is so overflowing with vivacity that, when there, it feels like it’s where I should be in the world, where anyone should be. It can seem like the center of the universe, and it feels important to be a part of that, but at the same time, the bright lights and tall buildings evoke such a comfortable sense of smallness. It’s only natural that one of the best institutions of higher learning in the world has centered itself around such a hub of American culture.
A lot of what originally drew me to UChicago back in my sophomore year was its history. I remember doodling a list in my quizbowl notebook of the UChicago alumni that interested me: Saul Bellow, Kurt Vonnegut, Chandrasekhar (who isn’t an alumnus but served on the faculty for almost twenty years), even the first Heisman Trophy winner, Jay Berwanger. UChicago seems to me a good reflection of its city, a burgeoning center of development that consistently changes the world for the better. In conjunction with its notable medical program, the general passion for learning and growing that is at the core of every student at the University of Chicago will provide an excellent college atmosphere.
</code></pre>

<p>and the Optional Essay:</p>

<pre><code>My favorite book is Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. There’s no specific thing I can point to and say that’s why I love it, but I felt connected to every word and every character. My favorite poet is Sylvia Plath, who had the most remarkable control of the English language. She could so accurately convey emotion in her verse that it’s impossible not to hurt for her. “Daddy” and “Lady Lazarus” are among her most famous, but they’re also two of her best and two of my favorite poems ever. Ginsberg’s “Howl” is probably my favorite individual poem, though.
</code></pre>

<p>Music would take more than two paragraphs just to list artists. Radiohead and Arcade Fire were the two bands that jumped into my head first (assuming that The Beatles don’t need to be mentioned since they’re The Beatles), so I’ll go with those two, bearing in mind that I’m leaving out a ton. “Fake Plastic Trees” and “Hoppipolla” are two of the songs that I most enjoy, for the pure musical genius that bursts through each note. I also love Dvorak’s “From the New World” Symphony. My favorite visual artist is definitely Constantin Brancusi. I saw an entire exhibit room full of Brancusi sculptures at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and I’m surprised I ever left that room. I like a great deal of 20th century art in addition to Brancusi: most of the surrealists (especially Magritte), Pollock, and Warhol are all people whose work I find either aesthetically or symbolically intriguing. I also enjoy Neoclassicism, and my favorite painting is “Death of Marat.”</p>

<p>sorry for doing this so late, guys. I was reading stuff with my mom and talking to friends about UChicago pretty much all night.</p>

538

<p>my extended essay was that everyone knows there are two types of people, who are they.</p>

<p>i would say that my writing isn’t that great so i took a risk by saying that everyone is wrong, because there is only one type: the flawed type.</p>

<p>and then i went on about how we all make mistakes but spend too much time thinking about them rather than embracing them and making us stronger.</p>

539

<p>“May you live in interesting times” This ancient Chinese greeting comes to mind when I think of finding x. After all, what is a good life other than finding your niche and making it better when you leave it. The niche is a function of a constant y and a variable entity x. How unique x is will depend on both your own decision and what interesting times you encounter. No matter what x you decide to explore, you need to remind yourself all the time of your true constant y position. Otherwise, you lose yourself in the Cartesian world of doing things for your own self.
Coming back to Earth, I understand that the University of Chicago will allow me to explore fields that I would not have been otherwise exposed to. Areas such as anthropology, geophysical sciences, and psychology are areas that will enhance my interest in international business. The past decade has shown how much psychology and mass behavior affect the business cycle. We have heard initially that the Internet age will be immune to the business cycle. We were told that having actual stores are a thing of the past. Don’t be a fool and hop in for the ride. After all, even your barber is making a lot of money in stocks. That turned out to be not entirely true. It was a bubble where people chased x without knowing where their y is.
We were then told that having a solid object like a house is a source of financial security. A house became a source of unlimited cash for the homeowner. It became a source of fixed income need for the investor. It was a source of risk free investment. It always increases in value so don’t be a fool and hop in for the ride. It was a bubble where we got lost in a nonCartesian x without a y.
In addition to discovering new academic passions, The University of Chicago’s Career Advising and Planning Services will allow me to participate in several internships. These experiences will allow me to have first-hand experiences in dealing with the type of work I want to engage in the future. I believe that I can contribute to the academic and social life of the University. I have been known to be tenacious, and unconventional in thinking. I have a suspicion that my dad asks me about things just to see how it looks from my end.
Finding x is not always simple but definitely fun. In fact, I may even discover that I would like to combine different fields. A major in both business and public health would be an interesting x. A curious x would be a major in business, theology and ethics. A cut and dry x would be a major in business, sociology and political science. Of course, y will always be my enthusiasm, tenaciousness and accumulated skills. Together with finding careers I would like to pursue, I believe that finding x incorporates finding one’s passions outside of educational and career pursuits. For many years, my interests have revolved around classical music, outdoor recreational activity, and food. I expect to continue and contribute these passions at The University of Chicago.
Finding x sometimes happen much later in life. I am hoping I don’t have to wait that long. I am hoping I can do it in the first swing. Maybe one day I will meet Archimedes in a bathhouse and find my true x. This aha moment will be glorious. The first thing I will ask is :Where is the y?<br>
If everybody finds their x with their y then imagine how many pixels we will have. The picture formed would be awesome!</p>

<p>My dad is a genius for giving me this essay idea!!</p>

540

<p>(My essay was choc-full of puns…I REGRET NOTHING! :stuck_out_tongue: Sometimes I feel like it was a bit whiny, but I tried to show that I was aware of my self-pitying attitude and eventually overcame it.)</p>

<p>It’s not easy being x.</p>

<p>I was an isolated variable for most of my childhood. While a, b and c were talking about the latest quadratic function or out getting their cubic roots touched up, there I would be, lonely little x, sitting alone on the corner of the paper and wondering if this was all life had to offer.</p>

<p>Some things are universal in this world. Throughout our lives, we all have flashes of indescribably passionate emotions that make us think, *Yes, perhaps man does have a soul after all. * We can experience the awe of looking out at the endless ocean under a setting sun or the hesitant joy of discovering we can fall in love twice. However, there is one emotion, less intense, that is at once both the most unifying and the most alienating: loneliness. </p>

<p>I was just that. Lonely. Fellow variables came and went with the seasons, giving me the warmth of friendship briefly but never for long. A sensitive young thing, I became introspective to try and find the solution I was looking for. Was it simply my fate to be so distant from my peers? Was there something wrong with me, or instead with those around me? There were plenty of questions, but no answers to help solve my equation. Time marched on.</p>

<p>One particularly mathematical day, as I was busy wallowing in the self-pity I’d become so acquainted with, my elder cousin y came over for a chat. He was the worldly sort, the kind who’s been to every function and seen every formula there is to see. We spoke at length, and the more I revealed about my feelings towards the world, the more he seemed to understand. As he was leaving to board the number line home later that day, he turned to me and smiled.</p>

<p>“You need to stop overthinking things. Be happy.” </p>

<p>I guess you could call it trite, yes. Maybe it had been said simply to put an end to my moping before it engulfed me entirely. Nonetheless, for a reason I’ve never been able to identify, the words stuck with me. I resolved to give living a shot. </p>

<p>I decided to stop agonizing over how others perceived me. It was difficult at the beginning, but variables are surprisingly…well, variable. We’re fickle, but we’re adaptive, and there are very few things we can’t master if we keep at it long enough. With time, communication became easier. It became natural. </p>

<p>Nowadays, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone that would call me “isolated.” The remnants of shyness remain, but I’m out in the world, meeting new variables, creating my own formulas, and making mistakes with a smile on my face. No longer do I sit in the margins and dream wistfully about what my perfect world would be like. I’m busy experiencing the one I’m already lucky enough to be a part of.</p>

<p>I know that solving my equation will come with time…because really, no one needs to find x.</p>

<p>I’ve found myself.</p>