ESSAYS ON
FAMILY
Angelique Henderson
College: New York University
“Visiting hours are from 3–4 and 6–8.”
The room was dimly lit and wherever light did shine, it only did so sparingly. He stood there, in that white, ghostlike gown that draped down to his ankles. Standing only feet away, it was still as if I couldn’t see or touch him, only worthy enough to admire his unfamiliar 55 silhouette. He didn’t appear to recognize me much either and instead gazed at me like a stranger he was seeing for the first time. Still, his eyes were both calling for me to help him and leave him alone at the same time. He is my brother.
How could your own brother not recognize you? My best friend asked me this question and all I could say at 10 is, I don’t know. The answer didn’t change much when I was 11, 12, or 13 either. The only thing I did know was that my brother had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and had to be admitted to a mental ward at least twice a year since.
The whole circumstance puzzled me. The days, weeks, and months added that I spent at different wards from 3–4 or 6–8 on these occasions left me with many unanswered questions. Why my brother? What exactly is this condition? But most importantly, how am I to study or concentrate on anything when I have a brother who doesn’t recognize me some weeks then sits beside me at the dinner table other weeks and asks me about school?
Now that I am 17 years old, I have acquired enough knowledge on the matter to make some sense of the situation. My brother suffers from extreme mood swings. “Well don’t girls have that, isn’t that called PMS?” I asked my mother that at 14. The answer was no and when I witnessed my brother pace back and forth through the house, then cry, then exert hostility to all those who came in his path whether it was parent, sibling or police officer, I knew why the answer was that way.
I suffered bipolar with my brother even though I don’t have it. When his mood swings were occurring, I was there. When he was in the mental ward, I was there. When he didn’t recognize me, I was there. I’ve spent so much time there, hiding from him, crying, visiting mental wards, questioning and answering, and now I want to learn. Learn all that I can in the life span that I am given about everything that I can. Now he is 22, takes his medication regularly, and is doing pretty well…and I’m still here. Now I want to do pretty well. I’ve always been here and now it’s time to be where I’m destined to be, at my own mental ward called college. The patients there are cured and released after the acquisition of special letters like B.A. or M.A. I know where I’m supposed to be now.
COMMENT:
This essay has it all—it’s a five-star essay in a three-star world. The grip of an opener, the hook pulls the reader in, the journey starts with a child’s voice (very useful tool, I might add) and transitions into a young adult’s. The writer flings the doors open to her family and invites the reader into the sideshow, knowing the spectacle to be seen is normal life for her. The writer shares the command her brother has over her life, how she managed to rise above, how this has shaped her path and acquiesced there is chance it can all crumble. The writer is exposed and vulnerable while still maintaining innocence. I would hand this back to the writer with the words “thank you” and wish her all the best. (BLB)
Meghan Elizabeth Brooks
College: Williams College
Having moved eight times by the age of twelve, I find that my childhood houses and neighborhoods have blurred into an unrecognizable Alice-in-Wonderland sort of place made up of jumbled rooms and landscapes. There is one place, however, which I know as soon as our minivan crests the hill above the beach. It is the summer hamlet of Humarock.
Coming down the hill I watch out the windshield as we cross the bridge my brothers swim from at high tide. At thirteen I finally summoned the courage to jump in myself, but a brush with a dead fish on the way down convinced me never to jump in again. We drive by the clubhouse where I spent Tuesday night socials hoping someone would ask me to dance and turn onto the street where my Papa first let go of my two-wheeled bicycle. I flew down the pavement, ecstatic, and then hit sand and skinned my knee. We pass the beach and then the car stops in the gravel outside my grandparents’ house. Looking up at its yellow shingles I remember forts in the sunroom and naps on the hammock, and nights of dancing in the kitchen instead of washing dishes. Everything here is familiar and warm, from the splintering backyard fence to the red plastic rinsing tub. I know every inch; I can’t remember when Humarock wasn’t home, though soon, it won’t be. My grandparents are selling the house. Yet, sitting here behind the windshield, I have made a vow not to let this place fade like the others. When I was younger and we moved from state to state, Humarock felt permanent. I now know nothing is. Maybe though, if I try, if I drive through Humarock enough times in the window of my mind, the memories will last.
COMMENT:
Wow, this essay immediately caught flight, hooked and did not disappoint. The first line pulls in the reader, questioning why did this child move so much? At the end, it doesn’t even matter. Speaking from a child’s ambiguous view of the world, it moves to a memory the writer has chosen to secure. The essay shares social class, family, dealing with loss, coping with change and insight. The writer is moving into the world of an adult. It “sticks” on the first read. (BLB)
Anonymous
College: Harvard University
TOO EASY TO REBEL
In my mother’s more angry and disillusioned moods, she often declares that my sisters and I are “smarter than is good” for us, by which she means we are too ambitious, too independent-minded, and somehow, subtly un-Chinese. At such times, I do not argue, for I realize how difficult it must be for her and my father—having to deal with children who reject their simple idea of life and threaten to drag them into a future they do not understand.
For my parents, plans for our futures were very simple. We were to get good grades, go to good colleges, and become good scientists, mathematicians, or engineers. It had to do with being Chinese. But my sisters and I rejected that future, and the year I came home with Honors in English, History, and Debate was a year of disillusion for my parents. It was not that they weren’t proud of my accomplishments, but merely that they had certain ideas of what was safe and solid, what we did in life. Physics, math, turning in homework, and crossing the street when Hare Krishnas were on our side—those things were safe. But the Humanities we left for Pure Americans.
Unfortunately for my parents, however, the security of that world is simply not enough for me, and I have scared them more than once with what they call my “wild” treks into unfamiliar areas. I spent one afternoon interviewing the Hare Krishnas for our school newspaper—and they nearly called the police. Then, to make things worse, I decided to enter the Crystal Springs Drama contest. For my parents, acting was something Chinese girls did not do. It smacked of the bohemian, and was but a short step to drugs, debauchery, and all the dark, illicit facets of life. They never did approve of the experience—even despite my second place at Crystal Springs and my assurances that acting was, after all, no more than a whim.
What I was doing then was moving away from the security my parents prescribed. I was motivated by my own desire to see more of what life had to offer, and by ideas I’d picked up at my Curriculum Committee meetings. This committee consisted of teachers who felt that students should learn to understand life, not memorize formulas; that somehow our college preparatory curriculum had to be made less rigid. There were English teachers who wanted to integrate Math into other more “important” science courses, and Math teachers who wanted to abolish English entirely. There were even some teachers who suggested making Transcendental Meditation a requirement. But the common denominator behind these slightly eccentric ideas was a feeling that the school should produce more thoughtful individuals, for whom life meant more than good grades and Ivy League futures. Their values were precisely the opposite of those my parents had instilled in me.
It has been a difficult task indeed for me to reconcile these two opposing impulses. It would be simple enough just to rebel against all my parents expect. But I cannot afford to rebel. There is too much that is fragile—the world my parents have worked so hard to build, the security that comes with it, and a fading Chinese heritage. I realize it must be immensely frustrating for my parents, with children who are persistently “too smart” for them and their simple idea of life, living in a land they have come to consider home, and yet can never fully understand. In a way, they have stopped trying to understand it, content with their own little microcosms. It is my burden now to build my own new world without shattering theirs; to plunge into the future without completely letting go of the past. And that is a challenge I am not at all certain I can meet.
COMMENT:
This is a good, strong statement about the dilemma of being a part of two different cultures. The theme is backed by excellent examples of the conflict and the writing is clear, clean, and crisp. The essay then concludes with a compelling summary of the dilemma and the challenge it presents to the student. (NA)
* * *
A masterful job of explaining the conflict of being a child of two cultures. The writer feels strongly about the burden of being a first-generation American, but struggles to understand her parents’ perspective. Ultimately she confesses implicitly that she cannot understand them and faces her own future. The language is particularly impressive: “It smacked of the bohemian,” “subtly un-Chinese,” and “a fading Chinese heritage.” That she is not kinder to her parents does not make her unkind, just determined. (TH)
Lydia Bassett
College: Harvard University
Family legends passed down through generations grow more incredible each time they are told. Sitting at my grandmother’s feet listening to her tell of my great-great-grandmother, Kate Travis, I knew that story would never change. The ideal of it was too important to be stretched and exaggerated, too important to be tampered with for the sake of a happy tale.
My great-great-grandmother was born an enslaved person in about 1845. She lived in a small, rural community, Horse Pasture, Virginia. She was allowed to keep part of her wages and when she was freed she had money saved to buy a restaurant in nearby Martinsville. With freedom a great desire to succeed came to Kate Travis. Money was not the important part of her dream. She wanted to raise her children with pride. She wanted them to be educated and have a chance to become what they wanted to be.
The restaurant was a success. Two of Kate’s children died of smallpox. Her remaining son, Raleigh, went to school and grew up into an ambitious young man. But the dream of Reconstruction was dying. Martinsville was changing; Kate was constantly being hounded to sell her restaurant. There was no place for Raleigh there. With high hopes Kate traveled North with her son to help him establish a business in Chicago. She returned to Martinsville to find that Jim Crow laws had become more oppressive. A sturdy partition was constructed down the center of the restaurant and she was forced to run a segregated business.
Kate learned to live within the new laws, but that was not enough. Close by the courthouse, her land was desirable property. A victim of legal manipulations and her own illiteracy, she finally lost her restaurant, forced to accept as compensation land on the outskirts of town. Raleigh returned to Virginia, his ambition crushed. Chicago was not what he had dreamt it to be. He died, leaving a baby daughter for Kate to raise. She earned a living working as a cook.
I wish I could have known my great-great-grandmother in her later years, her bitter years. I would tell her that her dreams were not lost, they lived on in her granddaughter, my grandmother, who grew up into a woman with the same strong convictions as Kate Travis.
COMMENT:
Direct, strong, and simple, the style here reflects the content. She takes a family legend and without sentimentalizing it or politicizing it; without editorializing she takes the reader back in time and tells a story. She does exactly what she says. She doesn’t “tamper with the story.” The end works because it brings the story into the present and suggests themes of continuity, continuation, and generation. (PT)
Kelley P. Borden
College: Barnard College
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
I have chosen to take roads less traveled by. I have chosen to be different than other members of my family.
My family is one of backwoods heritage—down-to-earth, good-hearted people who value hard work and integrity. We did not step off the farm until my parents’ generation, and then, only for economic reasons. In the past, members of my family chose to take the downtrodden path, the safe, well-known highway traveled by their ancestors. Some, I am sure did not have a choice, but others I believe chose the familiar path out of fear. I understand this fear, for I too experience it. It is a distrust of the new and of the different. My curiosity, however, helps me to overcome this fear, it entices me to look for bigger things and not to be content with what I already have.
Throughout my life I have chosen less traveled roads. I chose the road of an artist, the road of a dancer—a choice requiring hard work and total dedication, things family and friends do not always understand. While it causes me pain that my father does not approve of this choice, it has also taught me responsibility, independence, and survival.
Another road I decided to travel was that of a scholar, a path tough to walk on and easy to be pushed off of. Again it is an option which few of my family members and friends understand or dare to take. Peers pressure me to step off that path and follow theirs. Admittedly, there are times, especially in this past year, when I succumb to the pressures and walk off of that path. Yet, I know not to stray far for good things lie ahead for me on the road of scholarship. The door to a world better than one my parents are living in. This is what I am fighting for.
So far the roads I have traveled have been rocky, I guess because they are the less traveled, the lesser understood roads. Yet, I continue to travel them knowing it is worth the risk and the heartache, for one day it will all be rewarded. In many ways I could even say I already have. Dance has brought me the joy of movement and the freedom of self-expression. Scholarship has given me knowledge, an open mind, and a new perspective on life.
I do not condemn my family for not helping me down roads different from the ones they would have liked me to take, I just hope one day they will understand my choices.
COMMENT:
This writer took a risk in writing this essay. It comes across a little negative—she obviously does not have her family to support her in this venture. On the other hand she is very open about herself and her goals even though she has “traveled the road less traveled by.” She demonstrates her independence and determination to succeed on her own. (BPS)
* * *
There is a sort of churlish self-aggrandizement in this essay, which leans, too heavily in this writer’s opinion, on Frost’s beautiful poem. It would have been far more effective had Ms. Borden separated her positive vision of her life from the lingering hurt and resentment of her parents whom she cannot stop accusing. (SAB)
Ellen L. Chubin
College: Harvard University
MARLENE
I have never before attempted to collect and write down my thoughts about my sister and her effect on my life—probably because it’s so difficult for me to talk about—but as I turn it all over in my mind, I begin to see what a profound impact she has had on me.
Marlene, now age twenty-two, was born with learning disabilities and a lower than “dull normal” I.Q. that to this day prevent her from functioning at a normal mental capacity. When she was first tested, her I.Q. was found to be 60% of an average child’s, and though she now tests at 85% of normal, she continues to have severe gross and fine motor coordination problems, reading and speaking difficulties, and poor rhythm and balance. She is destined to remain socially and academically backward despite her efforts and those of my entire family.
Those efforts have been tremendous ever since I can remember, and I am told that they appeared even more shocking and unrelenting before my birth. When my parents initially realized that Marlene’s unresponsiveness and lethargy signified mental handicap, they suffered a crushing blow that threw my mother into a severe mental depression, but they were determined that Marlene should reach her potential no matter how limited it may be. Throughout Marlene’s life my parents have always sought out the latest information, techniques, and educational opportunities available for the learning disabled, and as a result of these efforts combined with her willingness to engage in the struggle to achieve, Marlene has made slow but steady progress toward emotional and intellectual maturity.
She began her formal education in private schools for the mentally deficient, switched to special education classes in public school, and progressed to a mainstream academic program in high school. Though such success might have been ample for the family of another L.D., Marlene’s education did not end upon the receipt of her diploma. My parents again endeavored to find the seemingly unthinkable option for their mentally handicapped daughter—a post-secondary educational opportunity—and they discovered one. Marlene became a member of the first class of the two-year Threshold program—a specially designed college experience for high school graduates with significant learning disabilities—at Lesley College in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Upon graduation from Threshold, she entered the third-year transitional program to aid her with her full-time job in child care and her independent living arrangement in a Cambridge apartment with another Threshold graduate.
Though I do not spend nearly as much time with Marlene as I once did, we continue to share a close, caring relationship. When we were younger, our relationship was surprisingly mutually beneficial on the whole. The many things I tried to teach her in more recent years, after my accumulated knowledge had far surpassed hers, are balanced by the direct and indirect aid she gave me as a young child. Rather ironically, it was Marlene who first taught me how to read and write when I was two and three years old. She was seven and eight years old at the time and had just begun to develop these skills herself, but my parents verify that she imparted to me her knowledge in these basic academic areas through playful use of her educational books and toys.
I am also grateful to Marlene for a significant occurrence in my life which she indirectly brought about. My parents’ hunt for a special summer camp program for Marlene led them to the Tikvah program at Camp Ramah in Palmer, Massachusetts, and my sister’s first summer there was so successful, both socially and educationally, that consequently I began attending Ramah. This camp aroused my interest in Judaism and equipped me with the liturgical expertise that enable me to serve as a cantor several years later.
Now Marlene lives with two other Threshold graduates, works as a stock girl in a Boston department store (since our realization that she could not succeed in day care, though Threshold had trained her for such work), has a steady L.D. boyfriend, and relentlessly maintains a nearly independent existence, except for the continued support of family, friends, and hired social workers and other professionals. I wish to assist her as she struggles toward independence, and attending Harvard University would enable me to do so.
Marlene has taught me to be the best that I can be because that is what she is. Her kind, generous disposition has not become embittered by her endless battle in life. She has had to overcome so many more obstacles than the average person in order to satisfactorily perform ordinary tasks, and she continues that struggle although she knows she will never be totally successful. In that sense the struggle is hopeless, but she never stops—she never gives up. She is fighting the unbeatable foe. If she can achieve that much, can I be any less? I have to live up to her standard.
John R. Trierweiler
College: University of Michigan
My mom and I have played Scrabble for twelve years. We have challenged each other to over three hundred games; not once have I been able to beat her. In my house Scrabble is not just a fun little game that we play to pass the time; it is a battle for intellectual supremacy.
In second grade, my mom beat me by at least 150 points every time we played. Merciless in her routings, she often reduced me to the brink of tears. Yet, she insisted that all of the losses would help in the character-building process. I had no fear; I knew that as years of schooling increased, my mom’s margin of victory over me would slowly dwindle. As I flew through sixth, seventh and eighth grade, the victories did get smaller. By my eighth grade continuation, I consistently came within 75 points of her score. Though the lead was still sizeable, I knew that my middle school years had made me a more enlightened Scrabble player.
High school was a letdown. My rate of improvement slowed dramatically. Despite the massive number of vocabulary words I studied while preparing for the SAT, I gained little ground. Even after junior year, my mom dominated by at least 60 points each match. The lack of improvement was very disappointing, but perhaps the most heart-wrenching moment came no more than a month ago.
The game started with my mom jumping out to a 45-point lead after two turns. I had almost given up hope, when I suddenly had a rack full of all the right letters. On my next turn I played “quartz” on a triple word score. My mom countered with “cat” for only three points. I then played “joggle” on a double word score, and with that, the 45-point deficit was quickly erased. If there was such a thing as the “zone” in Scrabble, I had entered it. The game continued with me attaining a significant lead. I began to think that maybe college was not necessary; I had already reached the highest level of Scrabble enlightenment. At last my ten years of Scrabble education had paid off. The good letters kept coming in, and I was confident that it was my turn to take over as Scrabble champion. By my last turn, I had opened up a 135-point lead. With fewer options, I played “hat.” My lead now a seemingly insurmountable 138 points, my mom studied her last, futile move carefully. After more than fifteen minutes of pondering, I noticed the look of puzzlement on her face slowly turn into a smile. Adding to an “s” she slowly put down her letters one by one. My face twisted with horror as I stared at the board in disbelief. She had spelled “zebrulas” with a double word score and the “z” on a triple letter score. She had used all seven letters, which meant that she also received a 50-point bonus. “I win,” she said with a smile and walked away from the table. I put my face in my hands and tried to hold back the tears.
College is my only option now. It is impossible to think that I could make up a 60-point deficit in my senior year. A college education is the only edge my mom has on me, and I believe that attending a prestigious school like the University of Michigan would prepare me well for my quest towards Scrabble greatness. Using all of the University of Michigan’s fantastic resources, I would not rest until I was confident I could overtake my mom. Well, on second thought, I might take the occasional break on a fall Saturday afternoon to go and watch the nation’s greatest football team march towards another victory at The Big House.
* * *
zebrula—the offspring of a horse and a zebra
COMMENT:
This is a light and comical essay about the writer’s yearning to go to college so that he can eventually beat his mother at Scrabble. Ever since he was a child, he has been unable to do so; recently, he came close, only to lose big-time in the end, when the mother spelled a formidable word and won again. The problem here is that while the essay has a certain charm, it’s one big joke. The writer never gets serious. I get no sense of what really matters to him, or why this particular school would be best at providing it. (MR)
Julia D. Kyle
College: Princeton University
IN THE BARN
To the casual observer, my family might have seemed fragmented. My older brother Josh and I lived with our mother in Philadelphia. My two younger half-brothers, Allan and Kent, lived with their mother in the small town of Pipersville. The four of us spent every weekend together with our father, who lived in a nineteenth-century farmhouse near Doylestown. The farm hadn’t been worked for decades, but the huge, slightly decaying barn still stood.
Whenever I think of my childhood, that barn looms large in my memory. Adults almost never went in there. I think they were a little afraid of it—and with good reason, too. The floorboards had rotted in some places, and unless you knew exactly where to walk, you risked falling through onto the concrete area below which had once housed the cows. In some rooms, ceilings were half caved in, and the superstition developed among us children that if we spoke above a whisper in those rooms, the ceilings would fall in on us.
But for the four of us, the barn held more than fear. Sometimes the barn was awe-full, almost holy. We would stand quietly in the still of the afternoon and watch myriad particles of dust glitter in the rays of the sun that slanted through the cracks in the walls. We could hear the almost inaudible creakings and moanings of beams which had held together for a century and were trying to last yet another day.
Sometimes the barn was interesting. Josh (whom we considered omniscient) would tell us how farmers used to build without nails, show us barn swallows’ nests, or explain how bats can fly without sight.
Sometimes it was challenging. Josh would lead us on expeditions to the top of the rickety silo, or to the uppermost windows which could only be reached by creeping precariously along the beams.
Sometimes it was terrifying. We would go into the barn at night and tell ghost stories. Some, I later found out, were well-known, like the Tell-Tale Heart, but the ones that still send a shiver up my spine were those we created just for ourselves. I remember one dark night when the wind was blowing through some wire, making a high-pitched wailing noise that sounded like demented laughter. The story that night was about four children (three boys and a girl, of course) who were killed, one by one, by the barn. Each time, just before it killed the next child, the barn started laughing. After that, whenever the barn “laughed,” we would remember that night.
My father moved to another house several years ago. The barn has been boarded up so “children won’t wander in and get hurt.” Josh has married, and we’re all too old now to be frightened by ghost stories. Yet sometimes we drive past the barn and those memories flood back, and I know that inside its crumbling exterior, the barn holds a part of us intact forever.
COMMENT:
This is an excellent essay. I don’t know if the essay hints at the character of the writer or whether she’ll do well in college, but she should do well in a writing course! (BPS)
* * *
Brava! Julia, Princeton would be lucky to have you. What beautiful tension is created here, what understated home truths are revealed by the barn! This is a writer. She is also someone who manages to reflect in a way that is fiercely independent. She is truly transcendent and, best of all, she writes so well that instead of having to take her word that she is a writer the readers know it to be true. (SAB)
Deanna E. Barkett
College: Harvard University
When I was younger, I used to silently pray that I was nothing like my father. He was so serious. His brow was always knit. My grandmother could not remember a time when my father had done anything wrong. He was too perfect. I felt timid and self-conscious around him.
My father was always offering advice by which he swore. Although they may have been ancient proverbs or old adages, they were always “Daddy originals” to me.
“When you’re prepared, you’ll never be scared,” he would tell me when I was up late studying for an evil chemistry test.
“Haste makes waste,” was his rejoinder when I would bring home a math exam littered with careless mistakes.
“When you lose an hour in the morning, you search for it the rest of the day,” is the Chinese proverb I learned on more than one Saturday morning of a weekend filled with homework.
“Live by foresight, learn from hindsight,” he would say when I was younger and only old enough to relate “fore” and “hind” to the legs of a horse. These sayings interminably buzzed in my ear at times when, as I got older, I wanted to scream: “I know, Dad! You’ve only been telling me these things since I was two years old!”
I never elevated my father to sage status. I always recognized that he wanted me to do my best, but his advice lacked a loving tone. Indeed, at times his became a voice of nagging monotony.
As I have grown older, however, I have realized that Dad—in his own way—has these many years been trying to guide me. The denouement of my father’s motivational speeches occurred this summer. I was away at summer school for two months in Massachusetts. It was the longest separation I have had from my parents.
Communication with my family consisted of more e-mail messages than telephone conversations. My father corresponded with me more than anyone else. He always returned my e-mails promptly and tried in his own silly way (he signed one of his e-mails “love ya!” which is not at all like my father) to make me laugh. So much so, I was reminded of another of his sayings, “When you lose your sense of humor, you lose your mind.”
Near the end of summer school, Mom told me that Dad had printed all of my e-mails and was planning to take them to the family reunion. “You have pleased him so much, Dee. He is so proud of you and loves you so much,” she told me. I had an epiphany: In my messages, Dad was reading about preparation and patience, time management and foresight. I made him laugh a lot too. Then I remembered another of his sayings, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” And I cried.
COMMENT:
This is a nice essay about a young woman and her dad, and it has refreshing features, including the way the writer sets the tone in the introduction. Her short paragraphing style makes the piece readable and gives it a structure that helps it flow logically and coherently. While she talks about her dad lacking “a loving tone,” she ultimately realizes the significance of those “Daddy originals” that have come to guide her in her life’s encounters. It is effective, and not all essays about dads can deliver this kind of smart, moving conclusion that is not maudlin, despite the tearful resolution. Her reflection about her father’s true wisdom, and her own affection and respect for him, make for a strong conclusion. (RK)
Ron Lee
College: Harvard University
As far as I could tell, Ted Williams, Dom DiMaggio, Walt Dropo, Birdie Tebbets, Billy Goodman and all the rest came from humble backgrounds. On that basis I used to think there was some connection between rough childhoods and good batting averages, which is why I sometimes wished my own house would burn down, to give me an edge.
—Laurence Sheehan
“How to Play Second Base”
Things I will always remember about my family: my father showing up for soccer games in out-of-the-way places; my mother driving me to a Little League practice she really didn’t want to go to; doing my homework at my desk and being interrupted by my sister who comes in, lies on my bed, and talks with me while “You know?” and “I know,” go back and forth like a responsive reading in church…I will leave all these things next year. No matter where I go to college, I will never again be with my family as much as I have been—as much as I would like to be.
Dad started coming to soccer games when I played freshman soccer. He stood on the sidelines, alone, and watched the game attentively, hands clasped behind his back. I never told him how to get to a game; he just showed up. When I left the field at the end of a period, he would call me over with his hands. Not quite sure of what he was talking about, he always said the same thing, “You’re playing good, Ron. Bend your knees a little more. Are you tired? You look tired.” I would utter some witless remark and respond to his comments by bending my knees more and running harder when I got back in the game.
When I was eleven, my mother came to visit me at Boy Scout Camp. I knew everyone else’s parents would be there, but I was still comforted by my mistaken belief that my parents weren’t coming. Looking back, I realize how touchy I was about being the only Korean, the only non-white, at the camp. Undaunted by any of the self-consciousness that burdened me, Mom showed up with my sister Michelle, Kentucky fried chicken, and some things to help me through the week. She did not embarrass me with her poor English, as I was sure she would. My mother’s confidence and love made me ashamed of my own unfounded insecurities. I am thankful to my family for giving me a sense of identity in being Korean, something that has proved to be a blessing, not an embarrassment or obstacle as it has been for other first-generation Korean-Americans I have known.
Now and then Michelle will say with a sigh, “God, Ron, you’re going to college next year.” I respond with a forlorn “I know.” I have gotten an “edge” in exactly the opposite way Laurence Sheehan hoped he could: I haven’t had a “rough childhood”; God has blessed me with an amount of talent, but as college draws near I realize He has blessed me with a family I will miss a great deal.
Recently, I have realized how profoundly a child is shaped by his parents and his environment. My family has helped me to become secure, appreciative, confident, and independent. If I am accepted to Harvard, perhaps the letter of acceptance should be addressed to me and my family.
COMMENT:
It’s a poignant conclusion. Again what works here is the use of specific examples. The closing makes the “sincere” tone authentic. (PT)
Kimberly D. Morgan
College: Harvard University
GROWING UP ON THE JERSEY TURNPIKE
“Howard, slow down, you’re tailing that blue car!” We switch lanes. “Danielle, move your leg!” demands one voice. “How much longer,” demands another.
This is common banter on my family’s frequent drives to New York. The route to my grandparents’ house isn’t “over the river and through the woods” as in the stereotype of Americana; but over bridges, turnpikes, and highways. In fact, their house isn’t even a house; it’s an apartment. Once every six weeks or so, my family makes the pilgrimage to a far off land called Queens, New York. The journey takes over three hours and although it is usually an ordeal, it allows me to spend a significant amount of time with my family. We have been making the same trip since I was about three and it has become a family tradition of a sort, and one which I have found myself looking forward to.
The first fifteen minutes of the drive is always crazy. My mother worries about how late we will be while my sisters and I fight over our seating positions. Then the inevitable battle begins: the war between the radio stations. It is the “Sinatras” against the “New Wavers.” Eventually an armistice is called and a compromise is reached. The “New Wavers” may have their station until it is overtaken by static and then they must relinquish control to the “Sinatras” for the remainder of the ride. Oddly enough, the static appears after about 45 minutes and we are stuck in a car with the big band sound.
We have also developed our own rules and regulations for these rides. The most important ones govern food. The “Constitution” is as follows: no pretzels until the first toll booth, two cookies each while in Pennsylvania, and the rest must be divided equally after we reach the N.J. Turnpike. Most importantly, NO throwing trash on the floor.
Usually after we have passed exit 7A (the one for Great Adventure) and we’ve divided up our snacks, my sisters fall asleep. This is one of the best parts of the trip for me. For an hour or so I am an only child. I lean over the front seat and turn off Frank, abruptly ending “That’s Why the Lady Is a Tramp.”
“So where am I going to college?” “Wherever we can bribe them to take you,” teases my father without missing a beat. Lately all of our discussions seem to concern college. Where do I want to spend the next four years? What interests should I pursue? What are my long-term goals? Although it is hard to admit, talking it out with them has helped me to focus on the sort of experience I want for my undergraduate years. Essay topics also take up a lot of our time. What is there about me that distinguishes me from the thousands of other bright Harvard applicants? “Emphasize leadership,” suggests my father, taking both hands off the wheel to gesture. “Make sure you mention the grant,” adds my mother. “Just don’t mention the trips to Europe,” they add in stereo.
“Why don’t you tell them that you always wear my clothes without asking.” My sisters wake up and again, I am part of a trio of girls who strive to spend equal time fighting and having fun. When we pass Newark, we all talk in nasal voices as if we were holding our noses. We do the same thing when we sense a skunk near Cranbury and when we drive through Secaucus. We play the alphabet game and twenty questions. And, when we reach the Elizabeth exit, my sister declares, “We are now going through the town with the most awesome name in the world. Mine!” While passing a service area we note its obscure name. “Who the hell is Richard Stockton?” “He was a New Jersey signer of the Declaration of Independence,” answers my father, the world’s authority on everything.
The ride continues. We see ships at the piers in Brooklyn and keep up our quest for unusual license plates. In my fourteen years on the turnpike I have spotted all except Alaska. We cross the bridge, see the abandoned car that’s been in the same spot on the B.Q.E. for thirteen months, and finally hit Queens Boulevard. The green sign for Lefrak Towers is the signal that it’s time for the socked feet and footless shoes to become one. As the car circles the block for a parking space we rapidly gather our belongings. When all is in place my father ceremoniously declares, “We’re here!”
Our car rides are really a microcosm of our life together as a family: teasing, advising, arguing, joking, and caring. Some of my funniest moments, loudest discussions, and soundest advice have been shared between the tolls of the New Jersey Turnpike. Perhaps it is because I have taken so many comfortable car rides with my family that I can now travel to college as an inquisitive, confident, eager person armed with humor and a realistic sense of self. Now, if only I could convince the “Sinatras” that New Wave is the REAL music those trips would be truly worthwhile.
COMMENT:
Wonderfully irreverent, honest, and observant! Underneath the pull and tug of family life there is a sense of bonding: of “teasing, advising, arguing, joking, and caring.” She should have resisted the temptation to draw the too obvious connection between the family and college, but it was probably her father’s idea. (TH)
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I like the essay, for sure. I’ve driven the route myself often enough. But the essay is too long for an application, I think. It sustained my interest because of my familiarity with the route, and I wanted to compare notes with her. She has a great feel for her family and conveys it well. The phrase “for an hour or so I am an only child” is quite poignant, and many of her quips are quite cleverly expressed. I reacted negatively to the use of “Who the hell…” and wonder if “B.Q.E.” is comprehensible as such. Overall, well written and interesting. (MAH)
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While the essay is well written, and there is depth, it tends to labor along the turnpike. There is almost a travelogue quality about the essay. To her credit there is a definite sensitivity and family being which comes out. (JCM)
William S. Plache
College: Haverford College
When my brother, Alex, was in law school a few years ago, he lived at home with us. But he always did his studying at my grandma’s house. He said there were fewer distractions and he could concentrate more on his work. So after several unsuccessful attempts to write the great college admissions essay at home, I have decided to see if I can do any better over here. Instead of using my own desk at home, I am sitting at Grandma’s kitchen table.
I came over alone this time, as I usually do lately. But I can remember when our whole family would go together to see Grandma. The holiday occasions when we would all come for dinner are still vivid in my memory. Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house was an annual event. Just getting there was an experience in itself.
My father would make it clear to the whole family that we were to leave our house by five o’clock. But as it turned out every year, he and I were the only ones ready to leave at that time. Dad was always on time, and I had nothing to do to get ready. The youngest didn’t have to get dressed up to go to Grandma’s, and nobody expected him to wear a tie. The others, however, were in a mad rush to put on their formal outfits.
Finally, when everybody was ready to leave, at quarter after five, we would all pack into the Citroen. Our positions in the car were pretty well established. Dad always drove. No matter where we were headed, Dad was behind the wheel. Next to him, in the passenger seat, was my mother. The back seat was left for the four boys. Alex, Dave, Matt, and me. Darwin proposed his theory of the survival of the fittest, and such journeys were no exception to this idea. I always ended up in the middle of the back seat, forced to contend with the hump that runs along the floor. As the youngest of them all, I never thought of complaining.
The first moments of our ten-minute trip were filled by the harsh yet familiar lecture of my father. “For crying out loud, Marilyn, I said we had to leave by five. We’re a half hour late!” Over his shoulder, he would exclaim, “You always wait until the last minute to get ready! Why can’t we ever get anywhere on time for Pete’s sake?” Nobody cared to mention that we were not a half hour late, but rather only fifteen minutes late. And dinner would not be ready until six o’clock anyway.
The rest of our drive consisted mostly of silence, except for some occasional jostling in the back seat, which was immediately extinguished by the emergence of Dad’s proverbial hand of discipline reaching around from his own seat.
When we arrived, Grandma was busily at work in the kitchen. Mom would stay to help mash the potatoes, while we went into the other room to wait. The dinner was always great, but what I looked forward to was the dessert. Every year Grandma makes thirteen different kinds of Christmas cookies, and when she brought them out, we would each grab our favorites. After dinner, we all assembled in the living room, where Grandma had her artificial tree set up. I would eat one of the candy canes that were hanging from its branches. Then Grandma walked in bearing six envelopes, one for each of us. I opened mine to find a fifty-dollar bill. Alex would shout, “A hundred dollars, thanks Grandma!” We all anticipated this annual quote, and we knew that everybody’s gift was equal.
Today, as I sit here it is quiet except for the sewing machine Grandma is using in the other room. The Citroen broke in half ten years ago, and has been replaced by a succession of odd cars over the years. Alex, Dave, and Matt have all moved out. They visit occasionally, but they are never all home at the same time, and when they do return, their wives usually tag along. Grandma still makes her famous cookies, but she has to mail them to her out-of-town grandchildren.
COMMENT:
The beginning is promising, but his memories are not well tied to his present task nor are they particularly unusual. It bothers me that the only emotion expressed is anger. (JMcC)
Jacob Press
College: Harvard University
Sunday was the day we went visiting. Just about every sun-baked, suffocating, summer Sunday during the period known as my childhood, extending as far back as I can remember and rapidly coming to a close, we packed ourselves up in the car and drove down to “the Beach House,” my grandparents’ summer home.
This weekly pilgrimage was not simply a trip, like a drive to the shopping mall, the butcher, or the Chinese restaurant. It was nothing less than a journey to a different culture, like a weekly student exchange program. Gone were the elaborate landscaping and fancy cars sunning themselves in driveways. Here there were no driveways and, as you gazed up, it was obvious that the trees had been here long before the people. All the homes on this street were similar: small frame houses with large front porches and shingles that had once been shiny and bright but were now faded by the saltwater air into softer, friendly pastels, so that no matter what color a house might have been when it started out, it eventually fit in perfectly with the others.
It was the same with the people. They had entered this block as independent individuals, but over time their facades, like those of their houses, had faded together. As they aged together they became closer, and a community was formed where the phone wasn’t used to call neighbors who were just a short walk away and one could drop in next door for dinner unannounced (and frequently did). The women shared recipes and the men shared financial advice and they all joined in the powerful and mysterious cult of the Grandchildren which, through its powers, forced otherwise rational people to swear that their five-year-old grandsons were taking college-level classes.
The drive was just long enough to be massively miserable, but was immediately forgiven as we drove up the street and spotted Grandpa waving hello. He must have been waiting on the front porch for hours, but time meant very little to this octogenarian. My Grandpa was a slight, short, usually quiet gray man. He preferred bow ties, and gave perfect hugs: not very powerful, and not lasting very long, but covering you from head to toe with a feeling of well-being that made you feel at home. I’ve been told that in his day he had quite a temper, which I find hard to believe, but if so, he had certainly mellowed. He took just about everything in stride, including Grandma, which was quite an accomplishment.
We would all make our way inside and shortly Grandma would come trotting out of the kitchen, drying her hands on the apron that covered her stout, slightly plumpish body. She seemed always to be washing dishes, in spite of the fact that she had owned a dishwasher for a number of years. She “rinsed” the dishes before she put them in, explaining that it was absolutely necessary. In a loud voice she greeted us all, gave a hug, and said, “So, why are you so late, you said you would be here at twelve?” as she took some packages and my mother back to the kitchen. “Sam, I think you should go warm up the barbeque,” she shouted across the house, “it might need some new coals. Kids, you won’t believe how cold the water is, I couldn’t even put my feet in. On Wednesday, Aunt Pearl and Uncle Herman were here and they were saying, well actually Aunt Pearl was saying, Herman wasn’t really paying attention, so what else is new, Pearl was saying that she remembered that the water in Florida…” Grandma was rarely at a loss for words. Whether on line at the baker’s or on a bus full of strangers she had enough to say for everyone, but especially her family.
So it was to these warm surroundings we went in the warm weather. Little did we know that we were being filled with memories of people and an atmosphere that were almost extinct. These visits helped me understand much about what a community should be, what a family is, and where values and priorities should be placed. No matter what I do or where I go, I will always keep these Sundays in mind. And maybe someday young children will come to visit me in my beach house.
COMMENT:
This is well written. When given a choice, write about that which is known or familiar. This is written about a childhood experience that obviously left a deep impression on the writer. (BPS)
Leah S. Schanzer
College: Swarthmore College
WASHING UP
Recently my grandfather showed me a photograph of my grandmother when she was just eight-year-old Eva Littwin, living a little girl’s life in post-World War One Brooklyn; she stands in the courtyard of a tenement building, hanging laundry to dry (perhaps this is her regular Monday afternoon chore, and when it rains, are the wet sheets and underthings hung in the kitchen, to drip and run in thin rivers over the linoleum floor? On rainy Mondays, does my great-grandfather joke that dinner is cooked at sea?). Smiling roundly, she holds a grubby dish towel before her stocky little body with a dainty turn of wrist, as if it were a heavily draped evening gown.
During my own eighth summer, my sister and I established a tradition of eating breakfast with my grandparents Eva and Max. Each morning we would race across the wide lawn which separated our house from our grandparents’, nightgowns flashing about our legs, night-tangled hair flying straight behind, to trip onto the wet, cold flagstone path which led directly to their front door. The first thing my grandfather always did when he got up was to turn his radio on to a classical music station—the memory of that announcer’s voice, gentle and without inflection, as familiar as an old friend, was a great comfort to me in my times of eight-year-old trouble.
My grandmother always made my grandfather a single fried egg, sunny-side-up, and served it to him in a heavy old cast-iron frying pan, while my sister and I looked on in distaste: It was our job to do the washing up. As soon as breakfast was finished, we hurried to clear the table, for we usually liked to be quick as possible, and very efficient. But sometimes, if it were a rainy day and Bach spoke to me eloquently from the speakers in my grandparents’ bedroom, I would put the sponge to one side in preparation for my special Sink Dance.
My grandma’s nylon Peds became beautiful worn toe shoes which transformed my feet into the strong, bony feet of a dancer, and conjured for me the breathlessness of a dancer’s life. My sink dance was an expression of what I felt looking around at the smiling faces of my sister and my grandparents, there in that summer kitchen—lifetimes of experience. Urged on by Bach and the steady, quiet rush of tapwater beneath, my dance took me across rooms, around corners, careening and leaping through the whole house. When it was all over, my sister giggled knowingly, but my grandparents always kissed me and told each other, low, that I was a graceful girl, wasn’t I?
Afterward, I was ready to get to my chore. I could appreciate the feel of the musical water running over my hands, and I squeezed liquid soap onto the sponge with a will as I looked out the little window above the sink at the bright sodden flower beds my grandma had planted long ago to line the walk. Beside me, in companionable silence, my sister stacked everything in the drainboard and when we were through, we stood back to admire the way the dishes slouched orderly, gleaming, against one another. Just as eight-year-old Eva Littwin must have admired the rows of sheets and dish towels which billowed and danced on their line in the tenement courtyard.
COMMENT:
It’s very atmospheric, and I like very much the first part of the opening paragraph and the closing. There’s a lovely sense of the way generations echo each other. What is particularly good are the images. They are concrete and emotive. I thought the weakest part was the parenthetical section in the first part. (PT)
Brittany Krupica
College: Wheaton College
YA YA’S HANDS
Dry, scaly, cracked, yellow stained hands. These were the first vivid images that came to my mind when I thought of my grandmother. For more than forty years, those hands had given birth to hundreds of thousands of “Marsh Wheeling Stogies.” These were my Ya Ya’s hands.
Standing outside, I gazed at the breathtaking sky that hovered above my mountaintop West Virginia home. Glowing in the east were sinister clouds, moving ever so slowly across the vast sky. The whole sky was alive with clouds of ever-changing shapes and colors, from steel blue to crimson red. It was the sight of my beautiful surroundings that had first sparked my interest in wanting to become an international environmental lawyer.
The dark, desolate grey houses, built during the coal mining struggles of the 1920’s, stood tall in the dismal shadows of the clouds, providing a sharp contrast, while the numerous puddles reflected the radiant colors peeking through the rain clouds. Sweet thoughts began to transfix my mind about my friend, my teacher, my inspiration. It was a picturesque scene; however, the thoughts of my dear grandmother were more vivid than the beautiful countryside of West Virginia.
It has been nine years since my grandmother died, and still to this day I can remember the distinct smells that filled her old, wooden-framed house. For as long as I can remember, my grandmother smoked cigarettes. Etched deep within my memories of her is the description of her hands. Her long, bony fingers reminded me of the bare winter branches of an oak tree, sprawling out, desperately reaching toward the sunlight. As the days passed on, I watched my grandmother’s health fail. Cancer had begun to take over her body. Sadly, I had to witness her agonizing deterioration.
Since the death of my grandmother, I have taken an active stand against cigarette smoking, especially with youth in West Virginia. Alarming statistics give evidence of West Virginia’s tobacco-induced cancers. Teen smoking is rampant and truly distressing.
Last year, I was Chairman of the Ohio Valley Health Awareness Organization. As Chairman, I led ten area high school students who participated in the volunteer organization on various research topics regarding tobacco-induced cancers. Our group presented our research to fifty oncologists from the Wheeling–Pittsburgh area. The biggest impact was our presentations at various schools in Wheeling.
Our enthusiasm about encouraging youth not to smoke prompted interest among local television stations. I worked diligently to organize public service ads that warned of the dangers of teen smoking among West Virginia youth. The 2000–2001 “Ohio Valley Cancer Research” team was a big success (despite all the time constraints and countless meetings for preparation), and today I continue to promote a tobacco-free youth society throughout West Virginia.
As I sit here now, gazing at the morning sky, I am contemplating my future. My grandmother has instilled in me the values of love, compassion for others, and most important, the gift of generosity. I am enthusiastically awaiting my journey to college, for I want to continue following my passion of volunteering.
I have a vision, a lofty ideal in my heart, to make a positive impact on the world, to make a difference, for the next ten, twenty, or forty years from now. Someday, I will return to the beautiful state of West Virginia where I will continue my work as a professional. I don’t want West Virginia’s youth to grow up blanketed by smoke. Instead, I want them to be embraced by the radiant colors of the Appalachian mountains. I want them to be inspired by the breathtaking vistas, and meandering crystal-clear springs, and roaring rapids.
Recently, my passion for preserving the beauty of my surroundings led me to organize an environmental project at Harvard University’s Summer School 2001. By encouraging the cleanup of Harvard Square, I was thrilled to receive help from more than twenty summer school students. Seeing Harvard Square a little cleaner was rewarding, but seeing the excitement and enthusiasm among the volunteers was equally gratifying. Community service is important to me and I hope to continue it throughout my college years.
My grandmother’s hands were full of compassion and strength. I want to become a servant for the greater good. Like my grandmother always said, “People don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care!”
COMMENT:
This essay begins with the painterly imagery of the writer’s grandmother’s hands, which she wisely references throughout the essay as she describes the poignant details of the grandmother’s impending illness. From “radiant colors peeking through the rain clouds,” however, she dramatically shifts her writing voice in the section where she “led ten area high school students” in a research project. While she speaks lyrically and idealistically about her return to “the beautiful state of West Virginia where I will continue my work as a professional,” she perfunctorily describes her volunteer experiences. In the final paragraph, the cigarette-stained hands are now “full of compassion and strength” as the writer comes to understand her grandmother as inspiration and her own desire to “make a difference.” Despite the shift in style, this connection, and the discussion of her motivation to volunteer, makes the essay stand out. (RK)
Susan Ashley
College: Harvard University
I clattered the habitual four plates onto the counter before remembering the need for the fifth. I held the smooth china, round, blue, familiar, then placed it in front of the smiling, foreign face. New hands ate with the old silverware that night and new accents graced our familial conversation.
Later, my foreign exchange sister and I sat together on her bed, recently moved into my room. Ozge unpacked the photographs and trinkets her closest friends had sent with her to America. I listened to her stories of her life in Turkey and her excitement to share my life here, in Nebraska. My cozy room, transformed into a cluttered mass of beds, suitcases, and chaos, reflected my own feeling of confusion. I, too, felt the thrill of the moment. How often does a girl meet her “sister” full grown and ready to embark on an adult relationship? However, on the fringes of my excitement, I began to sense just how enormously she would impact my life.
By October, I thought I had adapted to life as a younger sister. I kept my room neater, enjoyed less of my parents’ attention, and delighted in the nonstop companionship of the girl who was quietly becoming my dearest friend. Not until March did feelings of resentment and jealousy begin to plague me.
I knew it was petty. My sister deserved all the attention she got, and my parents didn’t love me less just because they also loved her. But like the child I still was, I couldn’t overcome my anger. In my immaturity, I pulled away from her. I found fault with everything she did and I had no tolerance for her. I didn’t want to spend time with her and more importantly, I didn’t want my friends spending time with her. I wanted my own life back. I wanted to be everyone’s obvious favorite, with no competition for my place.
For close to a month, I maintained my puerile attack. This fight embodied my maturation. My world had grown, and I had to grow with it. Day after day I faced a choice: continue persecuting the Turk or swallow my unfounded jealousy and beg for forgiveness. As a grown woman, I loved her and wanted her love in return, but as a child, I could see her only as a threat.
I knew I had to resolve the struggle alone. I lay awake through the night, arguing with myself. In the early morning, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed through the dark room. I paused at my desk, the dividing line between her side and mine. On my side, I was a child, but when I crossed the line, there was no going back. With a sigh of courage, I plunged across. The moon peeked from behind her cloud, illuminating my sister’s silent face. I caressed her cheek, and she moaned contentedly. Gingerly, I crawled into her bed and we awoke the next morning, clasped in each other’s arms.
COMMENT:
This is a well-crafted essay with an intriguing first paragraph. Through artful prose, the writer quickly opens herself up to the reader as she communicates candidly her ambivalent feelings about her “sister, the Turk.” Struggling between the woman and girl within, the writer takes a risk, exposing her immature and “puerile” reaction to her “sister’s” popularity. The frankness about her jealousy and resentment lends dramatic emphasis to her moral dilemma. In a surprising conclusion, the writer evokes suspenseful curiosity as she reconciles her inner issues, crossing the line unexpectedly into womanhood. Though the skeptical reader might view this essay as contrived, the writer’s refreshingly concise statement more likely is a risk-taking venture in self-disclosure. (RK)
Michael Wechsler
College: Harvard University
I have often thought that the fictional character Hawkeye, the lead role in the popular television show M.A.S.H., is based on a “real-life” individual: my grandmother. What—you may ask—does a gentle, gray-haired little lady, who is more familiar with the layout of her kitchen than with the battle zones of Korea, and whose skill is with knitting needles rather than with a scalpel, have in common with the sardonic, perennially unshaven, lanky surgeon of the infamous 4077th army unit? The answer is character; the strength and nobility of character that manifest themselves best under conditions of adversity, which made their presence felt, and which leave a lasting impression.
Like Benjamin “Hawkeye” Pierce, my grandmother has had a war against which to rage. In fact, she has had many: the two World Wars spent in Eastern Europe, experiencing inhuman conditions, unimaginable horrors, and senseless losses; later the struggle against poverty and hardships that faced her as a new immigrant to America; and more recently, the long personal battle against an illness that has confined her to a wheelchair. But, for both the fictional character and his living prototype, the raging is simply the manifestation of an indomitable spirit, of an unwillingness to accept as unsurmountable the problems created by the madness of human conflict or the unpredictability of fate. Both have been successful in tempering this rage and channeling this frustration into positive, useful action. Both have survived with dignity and earned the affection and respect of those around them.
The prime moving force for each is a fundamental love of life, with an enormous capacity to care for others. Hawkeye spends his time patching up fragmented bodies with his sutures and encouragement. He risks his life on numerous occasions to save his comrades and patients; she has always placed the well-being and happiness of others above her own needs and desires. Even now, despite her infirmity, she does volunteer work regularly, teaching arts and crafts to severely handicapped adults. What does it matter that he comforts his friends with homemade gin and a pat on the back, while she uses homemade chicken soup and a hearty hug? The common bond is the willingness to take the time to give of oneself, to stop and alleviate the misery in someone else’s life.
Both Hawkeye and my grandmother consider frankness of paramount importance. Forthright and outspoken, they will stand up for a belief, defend a value, or protest an injustice. In the same way that Hawkeye does not hesitate to challenge an unreasonable order or a corrupt decision—even one emanating from a general—my grandmother has not shied away from questioning the excessive rigidity of an official regulation, or from objecting to the prejudicial treatment of a minority group. He does not tolerate the abuse of a subordinate; she has taken the cause of the elderly and handicapped, and fights for their rights.
The ability to laugh and to make others laugh is another attribute they share. Endowed with a superb sense of humor, they are quick to dispel a gloomy mood or defuse a moment of tension, raising the most flagging of spirits. They have a knack for detecting the absurd in affectedly grandiose situations, for deflating pomposity with a subtle jest, and for disarming anger with a wink and a smile. It is this ability that has allowed them to deal more easily with the crises and disasters of life, for the poking of fun extends to their own predicaments: ready to receive the anesthetic prior to her seventh major bout of leg surgery, my grandmother extracted the promise of a dancing date from her handsome young physician. Hawkeye, who flirts with the nurses to hide his fear of loneliness, would have understood, and rushed to hire the band.
The fictional young doctor from Crabapple Cove, Maine, and the very real eighty-year-old lady that I love share many qualities: sensitivity, warmth, compassion. Having experienced my grandmother’s gentle care, I readily recognized the tenderness with which Hawkeye looked after a pet hamster; watching Hawkeye’s tears on witnessing the suffering of a friend, I was reminded of my grandmother’s gentle sorrow under similar circumstances. Their touch has made a difference in many lives.
To me they represent the essence of being human.
COMMENT:
The writing here is of a high order. The vocabulary is excellent, and so is the sentence structure. Most important, the comparison of Hawkeye and the grandmother works, from beginning to end. The similarities are clearly delineated and effectively supported with examples. Learning about what he admires in these two characters tells us a good deal about the writer himself. (RCM)
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Although his last sentence lacks the punch I expected, this student draws an excellent parallel between his grandmother and Hawkeye Pierce. He joins two unlike persons into harmony by skillfully describing their common attributes and values. His insight and sympathetic portrayal of his two models indicate a strong appreciation of the values a person of intelligence, wit, and moral perspective would cherish. I believe it is a self-portrait. I like him! (AAF)