ESSAYS ON
APPLYING TO
COLLEGE
Charles W. Applegate
College: Ohio Wesleyan University
Here I sit, my pen vying for equal time in my hand as some Connecticut School of Broadcasting flunkie blabbers on and on and my glass of Diet Coke wordlessly whispers of its passage from fizzy to flat. “What am I, Sam?” I beseech of my cat, who is disdainfully picking over the remains of his Tuna Entree and eyeing the purposeful plummeting of the sky’s best snowflakes with the vigorous venom of a cat grown old enough to truly despise winter.
“Ahh,” he hisses, lidded eyes coming to bear on my vaguely despondent figure. “You are, oh Grasshopper, what you accomplish. A man (or, in your case, a boy) can only be measured by his achievements.”
“Sam, I’d buy it if you were a Siamese, but let’s face it. You’re a Domestic Shorthair rescued by me from a West Side alley in New York. Now come on. I need this for my Beloit essay.”
“Okay, Charles. You want to know what you are? You are an insignificant eighteen-year-old kid pretending to be an adult, trying to write about some aspect of your rather short life and make it seem not only interesting, but significant, too. No offense, but the best thing you ever did in your life was to adopt me.”
“That’s not quite true, Sam, but you do have a point.” Sam disdainfully shook his left front paw and resumed glowering at the snowflakes’ gently offensive descent.
Snowflakes notwithstanding (for I in my youth still enjoy them greatly), my snide little fur-face is right. As my pen hand evicts my head and my pen begins to romp across the paper, I look back on my life and find a notable paucity of great achievements and memorable experiences. I see, complete with warm feelings of triumph and heightened self-esteem, the earning of my driver’s license, my first date, my first (and only) sack in a football game, and other memorabilia of my not-so-distant youth. Not to say that I’ve had an uneventful life, but there isn’t too much to brag about.
This is where what Sam just said comes into play. One simple word which explains my aforementioned paucity of experience. That word, if you have not already guessed it, is eighteen. After all, I’ve been on this earth for but one-quarter of my expected life span, and it’s only in the past few years that I have gained leave to explore the world’s virginal vistas, so it’s no surprise to me that my past is far from chock-full of wondrous life experiences.
Picture if you will the world reduced to the comparative microcosm of a chicken coop, perhaps with Sam playing a role as the Grim Reaper, or the threat of Communism, or the Fuller Brush salesman, or some other such menacing apparition. Following through with the analogy, I have been spending my time in the eggshell of high school. I am soon due to be released into the training ground of the coop’s floor, which serves as a college designed to prepare me for the dangers, inconsistencies, and complexities of the adult world outside the barnyard.
While the snowflakes remorselessly mount their attack against my poor, aged cat, I ponder the infinite mysteries of college. Why college? Sam is remarkably uncommunicative, his ears flattened with rage at the sky’s vile behavior, and refuses to answer my query.
Sitting here in the kitchen, all the wrong reasons for college are readily apparent, and I chant aloud of money, power, prestige, and the endless others that send people scurrying to the shelter of higher education in the hope that one will show some sign of earning my feline mentor’s stamp of approval. Nothing. He sits on the window like a stone meatloaf. Glumly, I stare into the oven, my wave of inspiration having crested and broken on the beach of writer’s block.
Now, though, I feel as if I’m being watched. Slowly, I turn to the window and gaze into two deep, burning liquid eyes. Sam has abandoned his snowflakes for my problem.
“You never could see the forest for the trees, could you? What is it that you were complaining about earlier? A lack of experience, wasn’t it? Now then, tell me what college is for.”
As the words sinuously roll off his tongue, I realize how totally correct he is. I need college to learn, not how to read or add, but how to live.
College is the beginning of real life, of life outside the chicken coop. And it is where I will begin my life.
Jennifer Applegate
College: University of Pennsylvania
MELPOMENE STRIKES
“I don’t know yet,” she replied. “I’d like to write a poem, since I think that’s my forte, but I just can’t find the inspiration under this kind of pressure.”
“I think I can help you,” Martha said slowly. “Call this number and ask for Calliope,” she said as she scribbled. “Gotta run.”
That night the girl sat for a full hour staring at the blank sheet of 81⁄2" x 11" paper before she dug out the bubblegum wrapper and dialed the number etched on it in #2 pencil. After three rings there was a short silence and a perky voice chirped, “Calliope and Company, may I help you?”
“Uh, yes,” the girl stammered. “May I speak with Calliope, please?”
“Calliope is in a board meeting right now,” the voice bubbled. “May I connect you with another party?”
“I don’t really know,” the girl replied, flustered. “I was told to ask for Calliope, but if there’s someone covering for her…”
“Well, let’s see…” Sounds of pages flipping. “I believe Erato and Thalia are free, but I can’t be sure. What is it you would like to write?”
“Um, a poem,” she replied, puzzled.
“Wellllll,” the voice said, “Calliope deals with overall eloquence, but perhaps Erato could help you. Is this a…love poem?”
Is it? the girl wondered furtively. “No, not really.”
“Hmmmm…Perhaps bucolic poetry? Thalia is free today.”
“No, that’s not quite right somehow…I don’t suppose you have a resident expert on prose poetry, do you?”
There was a tinkling laugh. “No, I’m afraid not. Would you like to try your hand at music or dance? I could ring up Euterpe or Terpsichore for you.”
Where do they get these names, she smiled to herself. “No, I’m afraid this has to be visual. It has to be done on one sheet of paper.”
There was a puzzled silence. “Oh…I see. Can you use both sides?”
“Um, I’m not sure. Good question…lemme check.”
She grabbed at the sheet and quickly scanned it. “‘…on or with an 81⁄2" x 11" piece of paper…’ Yeah, I guess you can.” She was growing desperate, staring at the list of deadlines posted above her desk. “I just need a little inspiration on this poem, that’s all. It’s very important.”
“I could try for Polyhymnia…she’s the muse of sacred lyric poetry.”
“I said important, not sacred…did you say muse?”
“Well, of course,” the voice bubbled. “You are speaking to Calliope and Company, Muses, an agency designed to help inspire artists of all sorts.”
Where did Martha get this number, she wondered. Ready to try anything, she said dully, “Oh. Well, who can inspire me?”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t quite know what to suggest,” the voice said sadly. “Please hold while I check with Calliope.”
Blowing the stray hairs out of her eyes, the girl slumped back in her chair and sighed, listening with half an ear to the faint strains of lute Muzak. A frosty voice broke the tranquility, shattering her thoughts: “Calliope speaking,” it snapped. “Is there a problem?”
“No, ma’am,” the girl stammered. “I mean, yes, there is…I want to write a poem, and I need it by the first of the year.”
“And what is it you wanted of us?”
“Inspiration?” she quavered.
“Of course,” Calliope sneered witheringly. “May I ask why you need this so soon?”
“College essay,” she replied in a near-whisper.
“For whom?”
“University of Pennsylvania.”
“And the question is?”
“Um…” She grabbed once more at the sheet. “‘…your sense of imagination and creativity are also important to us…Create something on or with an 81⁄2" x 11" piece of paper or other thin, flat material. All means of expression, written or otherwise, are equally encouraged.’”
There was a dead silence on the other end of the line for a minute. Then Calliope, colder than ever, hissed, “You would do better to simply recopy and send a poem that you had already written. One that you created spontaneously, not under a royal command. One does not call upon a muse and order her to inspire. Inspiration does not come when one tries to force it. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
The lightbulb clicked on over her head. “Oh! So that’s why I had that mental block! It was the pressure…you know, normally I can just sit down and churn out some funny little story or a nice poem with some good images, but this ‘Fill up this paper’ business just threw me!”
“Wonderful,” said Calliope, unenthused. “And now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Wait!” the girl shrieked. “What about Penn?!?”
Calliope snarled. “Tell Penn that creativity can’t be forced,” she snapped. Click.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…
COMMENT:
Terrific! Organized confusion and a spoof on anyone not up on his mythology. The central figure asks, “Where do they get these names?” only shortly after the reader asks the same question. There is something dreamlike about the essay. It’s very clever. (TH)
Eric A. Maki
College: Brown University
High above the Earth in a starship from the Andromeda Galaxy, two aliens stand gazing out a viewport at the brilliant blue orb below. They are intergalactic scouts, sent from the planet Nerfon to gather information on this strange civilization recently discovered by Nerfonian astronomers. Zilbub, a high-ranking military officer, has the task of gauging the Earth’s military strength. Zarkon, a Nerfonian anthropologist, has been assigned to gather all possible information concerning Earth’s culture…
“Well, Zarkon, my duties are nearly completed. It has been quite an easy task to monitor the military activities of the Earth creatures from here. But your task intrigues me. Just how do you propose to gather information regarding this strange and primitive culture?”
“I have decided that the best way to do this will be to replace an entrant into an Earth ‘university’ with one of our robotic spy clones. This action will provide us with unlimited acsess to a huge storehouse of information without causing any undue alarm among the Earthmen. Hopefully, they will never notice the switch.”
“Am I to assume that you have already found a suitable candidate for replacement?”
“Yes, Zilbub. He is called Eric Maki, and is an applicant to the institute of higher learning the Earthlings call ‘Brown University.’”
“Ah, yes…‘Brown’…I have heard the name mentioned in Earthling transmissions. It would be quite an accomplishment to have one of our agents inside such a place. But are you sure this ‘Eric Maki’ will be admitted to Brown?”
“Well, Zilbub, we cannot be absolutely certain. The Earthlings who control the ‘universities’ employ other Earthlings, called ‘admissions officers,’ to determine such things. In my opinion, however, he seems a most promising candidate.”
“Hmmm…what are the characteristics of this creature?”
“Physically, he is five and one-half Earth ‘feet’ tall. He will certainly never be a member of the association of giants the Earthlings call the ‘National Basketball Association.’ Fortunately, though, extreme height is not a requirement for entry into the place called ‘Brown.’”
“Does the creature hold any position of importance among his fellow beings?”
“He is a leader among those of his age, holding a local position they call ‘senior class president.’”
“Ah…a leader…he may be the kind of creature I can identify with…tell me, Zarkon—does he use his power to subjugate and conquer other Earthlings?”
“No, Zilbub, you misunderstand. His main function is to organize his fellow beings—‘classmates,’ to use the Earth term—in preparation for year-end ceremonies called ‘the prom’ and ‘graduation.’ He also serves as a representative of his ‘class’ in dealings with the older Earthlings known as ‘school administrators.’ He was elected to this position, rather than ready-grown in a test tube, as our leaders are back on Nerfon.”
“This ‘democratic process’ by which they select their leaders is quite amusing to me. Besides, a leader without a military to enforce his decisions seems hopelessly powerless.”
“Nevertheless, Zilbub, he is a representative of over one hundred fellow Earthmen. It is a position of great responsibility, even if he has no armies to command. He has, judging by many observations, performed his duties well.”
“I am curious, Zarkon…as to how these Earth creatures select a leader such as this one; what qualities does this ‘Eric Maki’ possess which distinguish him from the others?”
“According to the data I have collected, he seems to be of above-average intelligence, doing well in his studies and on the ‘Scholastic Aptitude Test,’ a much-feared trial among the Earth creatures. Also, he seems to derive much satisfaction from helping his fellow ‘students’—an activity I believe is called ‘tutoring.’”
“‘Tutoring,’ eh? The charity these creatures show toward each other disgusts me. Does he have any other notable characteristics?”
“Yes. The one that interested me the most is what they call a good ‘sense of humor,’ something quite unknown on our planet since ancient times. It seems that the ability to percieve things in a ‘humorous’ way and make other creatures ‘laugh’ is highly prized on the Earth. This ability enables one to make friends and generally put other Earthlings at ease.”
“This…‘sense of humor,’ did you say? seems a most illogical trait. We Nerfonians have advanced quite highly without such a thing. I suppose I should not let it bother me; there are many things about these Earthlings which defy understanding. Besides, you are the cultural expert; if you think we can gain a foothold in ‘Brown University’ through this ‘Eric Maki,’ we might as well try it. When shall we instruct the technicains back on Nerfon to begin the contrustion of an android to replace him?”
“I think it would be wise, Zilbub, to return home and wait awhile. The only possible hitch in my plan would be a ‘rejection letter,’ a notice to Eric Maki that he has been denied admission.”
“And what if he is rejected, Zarkon, what then?”
“Obviously, my dear Zilbub, the next step would be to replace the Brown admissions staff with our androids. We would then be able to admit anyone we wanted. Think of it—we could admit a student body made up entirely of Nerfonian spy clones—what a glorious day that would be! But for the moment, we must be patient; the admissions decision will not be final for several Earth ‘months.’”
“I am curious, Zarkon, as to what will become of the original Eric Maki after our android has replaced him?”
“I was contemplating depositing him in the interplanetary zoo on Nerfon. He has several other talents which might be interesting to visitors there. Spends much time attached to a thing called a ‘saxophone,’ creating weird and chilling sounds. He also rides a device called a ‘bicycle’ great distances at high velocities for no apparent reason. An exhibit like that could cause a larger sensation than the four-headed grooble from Dorcon IV. We could be two extremely rich Nerfonians for capturing such a one.”
“You are shrewder than I had previously thought, Zarkon. But as you say, we must wait until the ‘month’ of ‘April.’ Let us set a course for home.”
“Yes, Zilbub. I long to breathe the sweet, fresh methane of our atmosphere again.”
Their conversation ended, the two aliens move their craft out of orbit and back out into the inky blackness of space…
COMMENT:
Thumbs up for the high degree of creativity displayed here. This will surely grab and hold the attention of the earth creatures on the admissions committee. Eric is a talented writer, with a fine sense of humor, and many other positive things to offer his college. The downside is that most of the information about himself contained in the essay represents information found elsewhere—already—in Eric’s application materials. We must applaud this original approach to answering the question—but should also caution against gimmickry for its own sake. There are a few spelling errors Eric should have spotted: “access,” “perceive,” “technician.” (RJO)
William Meyerhofer
College: Harvard University
THE TRIAL
(As the lights slowly rise, a spot distinguishes the suspect alone in the middle of the stage. He is sitting in a rigid, uncomfortable-looking wooden chair. His ankle is handcuffed to a chair leg. High above him, behind a glass booth, such as is the kind used in recording studios, sit three shadowy figures, the judges. There is a great deal of clicking and scratching of the sort made by microphones when they are first turned on. Finally, there is a long, piercing cry of feedback, and a blowing on an overamplified microphone. Judge 1 has the voice of a bored clerk.)
Judge 1: Your name please?
The Suspect: What?
J1: Your name, please?
Suspect: Will Meyerhofer.
J1: Do you know why you’re here?
S: Here?
J1: Being judged.
Judge 2: He’s playing stupid.
Judge 3: Shhh!
J1: You have been accused of uselessness. How do you plead?
S: Plead?
J2: Really…
J3: Shhh!
J1: Please answer the following question in any way you can. Tell us about an extracurricular activity which is important to you and which you think will help us know you better.
S: Well, I write. And I…
J2: We’ve read your writing, Meyerhofer. It’s pretty pitiful.
J3: (A female voice, rather condescending) Oh, yes, all the adjectives! Cliches galore…
J1: Can you think of anything else?
S: (thinking) I play the bass…
J1: Anything useful?
S: Perhaps less than I’d thought.
J2: Suspect pleads guilty.
J1: We are going to run quickly over a list of your more glaring faults, Mr. Meyerhofer. Please stop us if anything should strike your particular interest. You talk too much. You don’t know how to punctuate conversation. You like to sit with your sneakers on the wallpaper. You often forget to walk your dog. You never clean your contact lenses. You curse. You are arrogant,…let’s see…you don’t practice the piano…
S: Is this really necessary?
J3: We’re only doing this for your own good.
S: Just tell me why I’m supposed to be useless.
J2: It’s simple, you don’t accomplish anything of use to the rest of the world.
J1: You wander around in a haze, Meyerhofer, paying no attention to anyone around you. What’s your greatest ambition?
S: To go to Harvard.
J2: You’re as good as lost, kid.
J3: Why don’t you take up something useful? Like soccer, or student government?
J3: Or speaking Arabic, or Hindi?
J1: Or a varsity letter, or a piano competition.
J3: Make something of yourself. Perfect your character.
J2: Yes, make yourself perfect.
S: But no one is perfect. You couldn’t find someone who does everything well.
J2: Of course we could.
J3: We do it all the time.
J1: Do you honestly think that everyone is as useless as yourself?
S: Well, I do believe that no one is perfect.
J2: If you insist, then we’ll prove it to you. Call in the last witness.
J1: He’s fairly average, but he’ll do.
(There is a short pause, then the witness walks onto the stage. He is every senior’s nightmare, the perfect kid. He is immaculately dressed, down to the penny loafers and a wool tie. He sits comfortably beneath the judges.)
J3: (In a sickeningly sweet voice) Good afternoon.
Witness: Hello, and how are you today?
J2: We’re just fine. Anything we can get you?
W: No thank you, I’m fine, beautiful day.
J2: Yes, it is lovely.
J1: We called you here to tell us a little something about yourself.
W: Well, I’m terribly modest, but I’m at the top of my class in every subject.
J2: That’s just wonderful.
W: I play varsity hockey, tennis, lacrosse, wrestling, cross-country, squash, handball, backgammon, and chess.
J3: That’s good to hear.
W: I read Sanskrit fluently, and dance, and star in every school play, and have bicycled across the country, and won the Tchaikovsky piano competition.
J1: Thank you, that’s just grand. We’ll see you later.
J2: Yes, bye-bye.
J3: Take care.
(The witness leaves. There is a silence.)
S: So that’s the competition.
J1: What?
S: I’m a little discouraged, that’s all.
J1: Cheer up, we’ll make something of you yet. Here’s the next question: What’s your Social Security number?
S: I don’t know. What is it?
J1: This is no time for games, Mr. Meyerhofer.
S: How could my Social Security number possibly have any relevance to this hearing? I object.
J2: Objection denied on the grounds that it may be a good Social Security number or a bad Social Security number. Read the school philosophy concerning such matters to the suspect, if you would.
J3: Ahem. In its effort to maintain a fair and comprehensive admissions policy, the court has found it appropriate to give equal consideration to both the applicant’s classroom grades and the numbers, such as SAT scores, ACT scores, school CEEB numbers, Social Security numbers, birthdates, expected dates of graduation from the aforesaid institution, and dates of graduation of the parent or guardian of the accused, which have been assigned and considered appropriate by the institution of assignation. Is that quite clear?
S: Yes, I think so.
J2: You see, Mr. Meyerhofer, these numbers are the only standardized basis on which we can base our considerations. I don’t like numbers either, when I dial ‘’ on the telephone, I like to talk to a person, not a machine.
J3: Hear, hear.
J2: But these numbers simply must be considered.
J1: Very well put.
J3: Yes, perfectly concise and comprehendable.
J1: Now, what is the birthdate of your maternal grandmother? Please give us the best date possible. We will discard the lowest date.
S: May 1, 1908.
J2: Thank you. Next question. Please describe how you expect to change during your four years in college.
(Silence)
J1: Well?
S: I don’t know. I’ve never gone to college before.
J3: But surely you must know what you’re in for.
J2: You must have seen what other people are like when they get out of college?
S: They just seem older, I guess. And they know more.
J2: This is ridiculous. Call in the other witness!
J1: I’ve never heard of such a thing. What is he going to college for, anyway? Employment?
(The perfect kid reenters, with a Walkman around his head.)
W: (In a bored monotone) I expect my four years in college to be years of profound personal and intellectual growth, a time when I will have the freedom and resources at my disposal to expand and broaden the scope of my vision of mankind.
J1: Oh, now that was lovely.
S: But what exactly did it all mean? What “scope of vision”?
J3: Please!
J2: If you cannot appreciate another’s true superiority, you might as well be quiet.
J1: (To the witness) That was very nice. Do say hello to your father for me. He was a Yale man, wasn’t he?
W: What?
J1: Well, I’m pretty sure of it. Bye now.
(Witness leaves.)
J2: Now, are you going to be helpful, or do we have to sit here all day?
S: (Bitterly) I will expand my horizons.
J3: Very good. Next:
J2: Tell us about a book which has changed you, which you have read in the last six weeks, and which was not a required-reading book. It must be between one hundred and fifty and four hundred pages, written between 1830 and 1952, and well known to our admissions staff.
J3: May we suggest The Catcher in the Rye.
J2: Or Shakespeare’s Faust.
J3: Or Spanish Lace, by Joyce Dingwell.
S: Well, I remember Remembrance of Things Past, by Proust.
J1: Too long.
S: I read The Magic Mountain, by Thomas Mann.
S: I read Crime and Punishment.
J2: What’s that?
S: Crime and Punishment.
J1: Isn’t that that Russian thing?
J3: I know I’ve heard of it.
J2: Probably just obscure. Book accepted. Now then, Mr. Meyerhofer, are you applying for very early admission, fairly early admission, earlier than most admission, regular admission, late admission, blueberry admission, guava admission, rectilinear admission, rolling admissions, bouncing admissions, or large green admissions with fur on their teeth?
S: The former, I think.
J2: Excellent choice. You must have your application in by yesterday afternoon.
S: That doesn’t give me much time.
J1: We’re just trying to treat you like an adult, Mr. Meyerhofer.
J3: The real world isn’t a bed of roses, I can tell you that.
S: I’ll do my best.
J2: Now for the part of the application process which we are personally very proud of, the personal statement.
J1: Yes, this is the brand-new part of the process which lends us the important final insights into your character which are so vital to a cooperative and successful admissions experience.
(During the end of the play, perfect students, like the witness, appropriately dressed, are lining up behind the suspect, their dark forms visible, like Macbeth’s line of kings.)
J3: We are very proud of the courage it took to grant our applicants this portion of the application to be creative, personal, and irrelevant.
J2: Mr. Meyerhofer, describe for us, in as many words as you wish, in as personal a way as is possible, the relevance of new-triassic polymers in the reproductive cycle of plasmids.
S: The what!?
J1: I told you that it wouldn’t work.
J3: Blasted liberals, what more could we do for these brats. Ungrateful termites!
S: What am I supposed to do with a topic like that?
J1: I think it’s perfectly clear.
J2: Write, pig!!!
J1: We couldn’t have made it clearer.
J3: Do you think we enjoy our jobs? Do you think we enjoy reading your stupid essays? I drink ten cups of coffee a day just to get through this boring job, and I need a bottle of Valium to get to sleep at night.
J1: You don’t have to sit and study adolescents all day for a living. You don’t have to read this junk all day. You have to understand her feelings.
J2: He’ll never understand what he’s done, that his generation is singlehandedly destroying all that mankind has worked so hard for. Just go away, you vicious child.
S: But I’m handcuffed to this chair, I can’t go away.
(The line of perfect students marches slowly toward him, their arms outstretched, ready to kill.)
Total silence.
(The lights in the glass booth go out, and the suspect stands alone in a slowly shrinking spotlight. He turns to the audience with a look of complete despair, and the spot blacks out.)
Curtain
COMMENT:
What is impressive about the essay is not the theme, which is rather pedestrian, but the form. The writer is clearly and admirably in control of his medium. (TH)
Arun Ramanathan
College: Haverford College
Mental Block is a nasty old hermit who lives in the gullies and ravines of my mind. He makes a living by slinging nets across my neural canals and catches my thoughts as they swim toward the great spawning grounds where writing is born. M.B. always waits until his nets are full to the point of bursting before he drags them up. Like any experienced fisherman, he saves only the big, healthy, mature thoughts and throws juvenile or diseased thoughts back into the canals to mature or die. Those thoughts he saves, he either eats immediately or freezes and sets aside for use when my stream of creativity slows.
Up until three weeks ago, I had always ignored M.B.; his paltry catch consisted of only a small fraction of my thoughts. Lately, however, with college essays to write, M.B. has become an increasingly irritating problem. Many of my best thoughts begin their journey through my mind only to be poached and eaten before they can breed and create others like them.
So, with college deadlines looming, I set off in search of the old hermit, determined to somehow halt his activities, if only temporarily. Finding him was no problem. The recent flood of thoughts accompanying my latest attempts at creativity had so fattened him that he was uninclined to move about. Instead, he sat in the center of my mind at the junction of a number of important canals, wielding his net with practiced expertise. M.B. pulled in one load after another, emptying them from his nets in a flopping, jumbled tangle.
He frowned when he saw me approaching and shifted to face me, his motion scattering the skeletons of countless thoughts. I picked my way toward him, through heaps of such skeletons, stopping at the base of a particularly large one upon which M.B. was seated. “What cha want?” he snapped, peering down at me over his massive, bloated waistline. Before I could reply, he angrily muttered, “C’mon ya gotta want somethin’; you ain’t one ta come visitin’ fer no reason.”
“I want to make a deal,” I replied.
“A deal, with me, how nice of ya, now what kinda deal were ya thinkin’ of makin’, my boy?” he said, his lips curling into a sneer.
“I want you to stop stealing my thoughts until after college deadlines…”
“And if I should do this?” he interjected.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Well, my boy, let me tell you.” He paused, shifting into a more comfortable posture. “I’ll make this deal with ya if ye’ll do me two things.”
“What two things?” I asked, dreading his answer.
M.B. picked up a bone and began to wave it at me in schoolteacher fashion. “You know, my boy, I’ve been doin’ this job fer sometime now, seventeen years at last count, and over this time yer thoughts have been getting’ progressively better. Over these last four years, boy, not only has the fishin’ improved, but yer thoughts have been bigger, healthier, and more mature.”
“So what are the two things?” I questioned, irritated.
He ignored me. “Especially when ya tried ta write poetry last year, my, that was some good fishin’; and that term paper, ‘Richard III and The Prince: the Villain and the Pragmatist,’ whooo whee, that was some good eatin’.”
“No wonder I could never write poetry or organize that stupid paper,” I muttered under my breath.
“Well, gettin’ back to my point, I’ll stop my fishin’—fer the time bein’—if ye’ll apply to Haverford and take liberal arts if ya get in.”
“What??!!”
“See boy, the thing is; if ya get into Haverford, I figure ye’ll have so many term papers and stuff ta write that I’ll be feastin’ regular fer more’n four years.”
“But what about the liberal arts?”
“Well, boy, in my many years at this fishin’, I’ve caught yer liberal arts thoughts and I’ve caught yer science and math thoughts, and, when ya get right down to it, yer liberal arts thoughts are just much tastier. They’re so much more natural and healthy. Them science and math thoughts just taste so processed and mechanical. It’s like the difference between filet mignon and Spam; see?”
“Yeh, I do,” I replied. “You got a deal.”
M.B. held out his great, pudgy hand, which I grabbed and shook. “Ye’ll know when I’m back in business,” he said, giving me a wink.
“And by the way,” he shouted, as I walked away. “You better get into Haverford; I ain’t starvin’ fer nothin’.”
Karen Steinig
College: Brown University
Through the wee hours of the morning, during the time between Late Night with David Letterman and reruns of Ben Casey, I stayed awake, sitting on the carpet and gnawing my pencil. Sane people were sleeping. Yet here I was alone in my room with the television droning in the background, agonizing over “this opportunity to tell us about anything you think we should know.” After yet another sales pitch for imported bamboo steamers (just $19.95), something on the TV screen caught my eye. Lights flashed, bells rang, and then…
“Hey there, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to…THE ADMISSIONS GAME! You all know the rules: There are none! Our players will be competing for a chance at the Grand Prize: a four-year trip to…Providence, Rhode Island!”
“Oooooh…” sighed the studio audience. “Aaaaah…”
The host continued. “Here are today’s players. Why don’t you introduce yourselves, kids?”
The three teenagers glanced about nervously. “Ah’m Becky Sue Smith,” drawled Player #1.
“I’m Joe Jock,” mumbled Player #2.
“And I’m Karen Steinig,” said Player #3.
The host went on. “We’ve got a great mix of opponents here. Let’s get under way. First question. Be careful, it’s a tricky one: Where do you live?” Player #1 slammed the buzzer. “Yes, Becky Sue?”
“Ah’m from Vandervoort, Arkansas,” squealed Player #1 with a knowing grin.
“Good answer! Good answer!” cried the audience.
“All right!” shouted the host. “Ten points to Player #1 for Geographical Diversity! Don’t feel bad about not getting to the button first, Karen; Long Island is the wrong answer anyway. Next question: How do you spend your free time?”
This time Player #2 was the first to the buzzer. “I play football,” he rumbled. The alumni in the audience stood up, cheered, and threw $20 bills like confetti.
“Excellent!” exclaimed the host. “Ten Endowment Points for Joe Jock! Don’t feel bad about not getting to the button first, Karen; badminton is the wrong answer anyway. Well, things are really sizzling here, but Karen seems to be at a bit of a disadvantage. Let’s see how she does with question number three. Everyone ready? Okay. Why do you want to attend Brown University? Yes! Player #1, Becky Sue Smith.”
“Ah’d like to take all thirty-two courses S/NC.” BZZZZ!
“Spare me,” groaned the host. “Let’s hope for a little more depth from Player #2, Joe Jock.”
“Uh, well,” he stumbled, sweating beneath his shoulder pads, “I hear those Ivy League women are pretty hot.” BZZZZ!
“Not quite what we were looking for. How about you, Karen?” Player #3 cleared her throat and stood up straight. She knew her answer to this one. “I want to be part of Brown University,” she began, “because I’m more motivated, more disciplined, when I have the freedom to choose not to be. You see, I am—”
“Thank you, Karen,” said the host. “That’s just fine. And now, a few words from our—”
“Excuse me, but I’m not finished. As I was saying, I am my own harshest critic; therefore, my biggest challenges are the ones that I alone seek to create, not the ones that are imposed upon me by outside sources. Paradoxically, I’d be roused to take a wide variety of courses at Brown because there are no distribution requirements. Brown would trust me to make responsible choices about my education, and when I’m treated as an adult, I become one.”
The crowd roared, whistles blew, balloons fell from the sky. “Well, folks,” yelled the host, “it seems as if only Karen Steinig will move on to the big bonus round and try for that Grand Prize…four years in Providence (a metaphor if ever I heard one). But we won’t let our losers go away empty-handed. For Becky Sue and Joe Jock, a very nice consolation prize…six months’ training at Wilfred Beauty Academy! And we’ll be right back after these messages.”
During the commercial break I went down to the kitchen for a fourth cup of coffee, cursing myself for vegetating in front of a TV game show when I should have been working on my application. November 15 was quickly approaching, and I still had no essay. My little sister’s advice made it seem so easy: “Just write something that tells them you’re smart, creative, spirited, artistic, and funny.” Sure, but how? Frustrated and bleary-eyed, I trudged upstairs.
When I entered my room, I was greeted by the final strains of the national anthem. Apparently I missed the final bonus rounds of that game, so I don’t know how it all turned out. To tell you the truth, I’m sort of curious. If you happen to have been up late that night and you saw some unusual programming coming across the airwaves, tell me what went on. Did Player #3 win the Grand Prize trip to Providence, or did she wind up with the dining room furniture and a year’s supply of Turtle Wax? Let me know around mid-December, okay? Thanks.
COMMENT:
Nice. Tight, introductory paragraph that sets the mood but doesn’t belabor it. The game show section is creatively done, not too involved, and filled with appropriate and funny phrases that have been borrowed from real game shows. The game show format ties into the admissions process, but the writer does not force the connection too far. On the other hand, the writer is clearly writing the essay for Brown, and s/he cleverly, using Karen (contestant #3), presents her rather full understanding of Brown’s academic program and the kind of student who will benefit most from it, despite the potentially awkward context. This writer has an excellent ear for dialogue and a very mature sense of what will succeed in being humorous. (AST)
Kristin Ward
College: Dartmouth College
I would like to explain to you how it all happened. The day I took my SATs started out as a perfectly normal January day in New Hampshire. I woke up with icicles hanging off my ears. I swung my feet onto my bedroom floor, which was as warm as a polar ice cap, and then I slunk down to breakfast, harboring the bitter realization that every step I took brought me farther away from the comfort of my pillow and quilt.
As I sat at the kitchen table, I wished that I could discreetly dive into my mug of hot chocolate to combat the frostbite which I had contracted on the way downstairs.
Merely a red blur of scarf, hat, and mittens against the thick white snow, I trudged down the driveway to my car.
I was halfway to Concord, the testing site, when, all of a sudden, I came upon the mind-boggling scene. I coaxed my eyes back into their sockets and hit the brakes. Less than ten feet away from my Volkswagen, there were three aqua creatures, shaped like gigantic mushrooms with arms and legs. They were seated in the middle of the road and they seemed to be meditating.
My wits were still scattered all over the car when one of the three creatures, having noticed my presence, came over to address me.
The creature raised his arm in what seemed to be a harmless greeting, and began to speak: “I am Sug. I am on a mission from a distant star. One of the masters of our species has died…”
“My condolences,” I interrupted weakly.
“Thank you,” the creature continued. “We have decided to start a new tradition in our culture. We observed it on your planet. I am referring to the custom of engraved tombstones. My associates (he paused and gestured to the two meditating mushrooms) and I stopped at a gas station and we were told to come to New Hampshire, ‘the Granite State,’ to get a slab for our master’s tombstone. So here we are. Can you please assist us?”
Several maxims surfaced in my mind: Don’t talk to strangers (especially ones who resemble mushrooms); be hospitable to guests (especially foreigners); be on time for tests (especially SATs).
I glanced at my watch nervously. If I did not get to the test center in ten minutes, I would be late. The creature was leaning on my car, waiting for an answer.
“I’m very sorry,” I said. “I would like to help you, but I am taking my SATs today and I can’t be late.”
The creature looked puzzled. “SATs?” he asked, tilting his head inquisitively.
“They’re hard to explain,” I said, “and I really must be going.”
Sug scratched his head thoughtfully. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “You will have to help us now. We must get back to our people soon. They are anxiously awaiting our return. As soon as you have helped us, you can go to your SATs.”
I considered my alternatives: I could try to make a break for it and be pummeled by three extraterrestrial beings in search of a tombstone, or I could help them with their mission and then pray that I would be admitted to the testing center a little late.
I noticed that Sug’s two associates were now up and walking toward my car, so I quickly decided to go with the latter option.
“I’m not sure, right offhand, where we can get a slab of granite,” I said. “I’ll have to go back to my house to get a phone book. I am sure there will be a listing in the Yellow Pages.”
It was fortunate that the creatures had some invisible flying mechanism, because it was quite obvious that they would not fit into my car. Constantly glancing at my watch, I drove back to my house. To spare my family the shock I had experienced, I politely asked the creatures to wait outside while I consulted the Yellow Pages.
“All right, I’ve found a place,” I said, feigning enthusiasm. “It’s about twenty minutes from here.”
They flew alongside the car as I drove to the quarry. (You can imagine the stares!)
The man at the quarry was very helpful—even if he was in shock. The creatures were very satisfied with the tombstone, which they had engraved on the premises, and then tied onto Sug’s back for the journey home. Before leaving, he thanked me profusely.
“Thank you so much,” Sug said. “Our people will be forever grateful. And good luck on your SATs.”
My face turned white as a sheet. I had forgotten all about them. I looked at my watch. The tests would be almost over by now.
I arrived at the testing center in an absolute panic. I tried to tell my story, but my sentences and descriptive gestures got so confused that I communicated nothing more than a very convincing version of a human tornado. In an effort to curb my distracting explanation, the proctor led me to an empty seat and put a test booklet in front of me. He looked doubtfully from me to the clock, and then he walked away.
I tried desperately to make up for lost time, scrambling madly through analogies and sentence completions.
“Fifteen minutes remain,” the voice of doom declared from the front of the classroom.
Algebraic equations, arithmetic calculations, geometric diagrams swam before my eyes.
“Time! Pencils down, please.”
“Thanks a lot, Sug,” I thought, when I saw my math score six weeks later.
Naturally, I attributed the disastrous 480 to him. He had been in a difficult situation, of course, with his people depending on him and all, so I decided, in my mind, to forgive him. I felt a little less gracious, however, when I was halfway to the SAT testing center in June, and there he was again, an oversized blue mushroom in the middle of the road…