SELF-PORTRAITS

 

Ellen L. Beckerman
College: Princeton University

It is a very difficult thing, to define one’s self on a piece of paper. Can anyone, through one example, reveal his essence? Whatever words I can grasp will never have the richness of the emotion they are meant to convey. On the page my words look hollow, inadequate: “beauty,” “pride,” “pain,” the words do not hold the intensity of the actual feelings. The image may be there, but the feeling, the feeling must be experienced, and in each person it will be different. And whatever two hundred words I use will be scrutinized, will be ME in your eyes. How can I show you who I am in ten minutes when it has taken me every breath of the last seventeen years to even begin to ask myself the same question?

*   *   *

I am the honey-colored sounds of my grandmother’s grand piano on a Saturday morning when the family has gone out for breakfast.

I am the scent of burning leaves and smashed pumpkin, and I am the foggy breath off the top of the pond next door.

I am the scintillation of colored city lights as the car cradles across the bridge, the skidding of windshield wipers across drizzled glass, the streaking of each light into lines of pink.

I am the smack of a spinning volleyball against sweaty forearms, the burning of elbow skin against a newly waxed gym floor.

I am the clean sting of chlorine and the tickle of freshly cut grass which clings to wet feet in summertime.

I am a kaleidoscope of every breath, every shadow, every tone I have ever sensed.

I went on a canoe trip and stood under a pine tree watching the rain patter against the lake and felt the warm summer wind and thought that I had found absolute peace and perfection in one droplet of water.

I sang at a school talent show for the first time in my life after years of being stage-shy. The crowd was small and cozy, and the light was warm as the guitar hummed. I ignored my fear, because everything was perfect, and let myself be free and sang and sang…

I don’t know whether Ronald Reagan is good or bad.

People who argue that nuclear war is bad annoy me because they assume that someone on earth thinks that nuclear war is good, and avoid the real issue, which is how to prevent nuclear war.

I don’t understand people who hate camping. I hope that I never feel that business and politics are more real than a pine forest or an open plain.

*   *   *

Reality and perfection are in my mind synonymous. I think that the word is perfect. Even things which I hate are perfect because hatred is no less real an emotion than love. Famine is terrible, war is terrible, murder is terrible. But to say that nothing terrible should exist is denying everything this world contains. There cannot be wonderful without terrible. Pain is just as beautiful as joy, from an objective point of view.

*   *   *

The exciting thing for me is that I know that there is so much more for me to learn, and that everything I embrace as truth now is a very small part of what I will eventually be able to recognize.

The terrible thing is that I know when I die I will not know a millionth of the knowledge which all people on earth collectively hold. No matter how many days I sit and read, research, engulf information, I will never be exposed to everything. And right now I want to be exposed to everything.

COMMENT:

Philosophical, poetic young lady. The introductory paragraph is a bit histrionic; the next several reveal some beautiful appreciations and recognitions; the third from last is confusing. The last two are honest and genuine. I’d take her into my honors program. (MAH)

*   *   *

Absolutely wonderful. Insight, depth, expressiveness, clarity—all are part and parcel of this essay. Not only do we know the writer but we can understand her. P.S. Extremely well done! (JLM)

Jordana Simone Bernstein
College: Harvard University

This one has the right idea. He knows where he wants to be, and he is determined to get there, even if it means swimming against the tide. He might be forced to push past those in his path, but he seems sensible enough to do it gently, without disturbing the flow. He may not be making the best move, but he feels it is right for him, and that is all that matters. One cannot be sure if he is turning toward something or away from it, but there is purpose in his stroke and he has a goal. One hopes he will achieve it; he probably will.

Independence of thought is marvelous. With an idea and a desire to fulfill it, the possibilities are infinite. To develop such an idea, one first answers the basic question, “What is it that you like to do?” The response is a personal one, and in order to reply accurately, there is the need for exploration.

I am pleased to have been offered numerous opportunities to explore many different areas. There have been clubs to join, organizations to belong to, activities to participate in, and experiences to share. My greatest difficulty seems to be that I am interested in too many things for a twenty-four-hour day. I have learned to set limits for myself by developing a sense of priorities. I can only try to move in a specific direction, aiming toward a goal while continuing my investigation along the way.

Although he is only a Pepperidge Farm goldfish, the depth of his message is greater than the paper he is printed on. This creature makes a subtle and important statement. His individuality separates him from the crowd. Success is not always measured by achievement; sometimes it is simply the ability to see things differently.

Perhaps that is why he is smiling.

COMMENT:

Jordana has a cute idea and therein is its limitation. Certainly it shows initiative and a coherent style to present her deviant goldfish is such glowing terms. Alas, it also reflects the slick condensation of advertising, replete with audiovisual aids. Is the fish breathing a little too heavily perhaps? (SAB)

*   *   *

I like this. It is simply written but makes a powerful statement for independence that most students (and adults) can relate to. Using the Goldfish heading catches the reader’s attention. (BPS)

Arielle Simon
College: Wellesley College

The mid-July, New York City smog was just beginning to settle over Manhattan as I approached the brown apartment building on the corner of Bowery and Stanton. Although I had prepared extensively, I was apprehensive, having never given a workshop for eight-year-olds before. However, it was when Joyce, the leader of the group, arrived and changed the topic of the workshop that I panicked.

I work as a peer educator for NARAL/NY (National Abortion and Reproductive Rights Action League, New York Chapter), an organization focused mainly on abortion, reproductive rights and related issues. Though the choice of eight-year-old-friendly topics for which I had been trained was not extensive, I managed to produce a comprehensive workshop on grassroots advocacy for the group of second graders in the ten minutes I was allotted.

After the workshop ended—and it had gone remarkably well—Joyce took me aside to congratulate me and thank me for my work. Then somewhat apologetically, she said, “Don’t worry if they weren’t completely attentive, they never listen to women.” I never expected to hear this remark from the mouth of an educator, particularly a woman, and for a moment I was completely astounded and speechless. There seemed to be a great disparity between the way I had managed to create a seemingly impossible workshop under a time constraint, and the way in which I was viewed based solely upon my gender. It seemed as though it didn’t matter how hard I worked or how impressive my work was, I would still, at times, be viewed primarily as a woman. I was frustrated with the notion that things cannot change, that we must accept gender inequalities graciously. I was frustrated that no one was attempting to teach these children, at the very least, to be respectful of others.

I have seen how gender boundaries can be extremely paralyzing and harmful. I have been in classrooms where women who were rarely called on and often preempted by men have stopped speaking and stopped listening. I have seen women, stereotyped by their gender to be passive and dependent, actually grow into these expectations. Throughout my work as a peer educator for NARAL/NY, I have seen the difficulties and rewards in undoing and unteaching stereotypes and misinformation. I became a peer educator because I have seen how gender boundaries can be destructive and I believe that the best remedy has always been, without fail, education.

I left that brown apartment building on the corner of Bowery and Stanton, pondering Joyce’s words. Literary critic Stephen Greenblatt has said, “… we can scarcely write of prince or poet without accepting the fiction that power directly emanates from him [or her] and that society draws upon this power.” In other words, one cannot be overpowered unless s/he grants power to the authority. Joyce was overpowered. She assumed a powerless position by devaluing women herself.

Throughout my work at NARAL, as an intern at NOW (National Organization for Women, New York City chapter), and as leader of the Gender Issues Committee of the Dalton School, I work to erase the stereotypes that keep women passive and silent on a daily basis. Reflecting on Joyce’s words, I learned a tremendous amount about the continuing pervasive power of gender boundaries and how, in subtle and overt ways, women have learned to believe them. I have come to have a renewed appreciation for the individual—one who operates not based on expected roles and stereotypes, not upon the notion of what one should or shouldn’t be, but one who is motivated and inspired by personal ideals, ambitions and the desire for true equality for all people. This, I believe, is personal freedom and sovereignty, and it is a quality for which I continuously strive.

COMMENT:

This is an interesting essay because it shows us the writer at work in a number of ways. She is trying to understand something upsetting that happened to her—not solely to narrate it—and to use that experience as a way to think more broadly. In other words, we see a mind at work here. She doesn’t know all the answers, nor should she. But as someone who believes in education, she has been startled by a professional educator’s apparent collapse under the weight of gender inequalities. This writer feels indignant about the danger of inaction. We get the sense that she’ll be an active and engaged college student. (MR)

Ann Cox
College: Harvard University

I could tell you all about my wonderful achievements, slightly exaggerated of course, but I’d rather tell you what affects me, what I remember. The things like the way the six shadows of my tennis racket converged on the ball as it sat clearly marked in its yellow on the huge green court. And how the same ball was caught in the net by the back wall, like a fish. The way the herring plane in Maine swoops down on me all little on the long field. And the piece of hay stuck between my toes that stayed with me even as I went in to talk to my old aunt. How I promised to remember that and the time I was walking down the marble stairs of St. Ann’s in my green knit skirt so I would know I existed then, that my past was not something simply planted in my brain. The way I’ve felt myself growing, almost physically, and listened to my growth settling into me, and welcomed it because it meant I was becoming more realistic about myself, so that not living in a world of illusions I could exist more in this world and feel all its happinesses and wonders which are greater than anything imagined because they are real—the most amazing thing of all.

The things that I love to feel and discover are the subtleties happening between people and events. How one person helplessly tries to make himself known to others, the way the others might ignore him, and the way he will stay with the others as friends because he’s been saved from something he doesn’t want to acknowledge anyway. The way masses or a nation of people will ignore some huge, very true situation, and then slowly discover it in a way that’s as useless as if they’d never found it. The way I myself fit into everyone’s patterns and the way my actions affect me, why they make me feel good or bad, and whether they really do. The things that are observed and given: trees, animals, ourselves, snow, and winds. Using my body to certain ends and to an end in itself: sexual, transportation, exploration, and to an immersion into an environment and discovering the physical realities of the world, as skiing does. Traveling, the feeling of “wanderlust” raging and satisfied, going wherever I wish to, encountering, dealing with, and enjoying new people, situations, and places.

And somewhere within this huge scheme of myself, learning fits in as a major part. Education brings all these parts of the world to me, and me to them, and I can work them and myself, as I use my own mind to deal with them, cast light on them, and encompass them. And so now I wish to present myself at one of the “great educational institutions” to gather, process, and give more.

COMMENT:

I liked the unsettling tone of the essay. The opening reminded me of Kenneth Koch’s poetry—the images are startling and disconcerting. The essay walks a thin line, though, since it comes close to being so abstract and fuzzy that it loses its impact. The daring, almost free association saves it. I think, though, it’s one of the weaker essays in this group. (PT)

Theodore C. Dros
College: Hamilton College

In his movie, Zelig, Woody Allen portrays a figure, Zelig, with a multiple personality. He changes his character and even his physical appearance to match the different situations he experiences. One minute he is waving to us from Hitler’s entourage during a speech, the next, he is a cardinal in the Vatican, or up at bat for the New York Yankees. All of these experiences in his life are divorced from one another, each exists as an entirely separate entity, having no connection to his past or future. He is, in other words, the perfect chameleon, about whom we are left to wonder, “Who is the real Zelig?”

What I understand you to be asking me to address here is “who is the real Ted Dros?” As I began to answer that difficult question, I find myself needing “to do a Zelig” by relating to you some of the diverse environments in which I’ve been immersed over the last five or six years.

Growing up in a changing community during the sixth to eighth grades, I saw my grammar school, Our Lady of Refuge in Brooklyn, face a dramatic ethnic shift in enrollment. Over a few short years, the school population changed from being predominantly Caucasian to being almost totally black and Hispanic. I graduated as one of two “minority students” in the class, and I was treated as one. On the one hand, my teachers of my own race alienated me from my classmates by anticipating that I would perform “par excellence.” On the other hand, my own desire to be accepted by my fellow students required me to hold back academically—to resist answering all the questions. There were definitely moments when I was tempted to get up and walk out on a system that was insensitive to the needs of someone who didn’t conform to the majority, but I didn’t. Instead, I withstood all of the unjust treatment that a minority typically has to endure. Having had the shoe on the other foot for that period of my life, however, I now more fully understand the injustice and resultant moral outrage that blacks and Hispanics must experience in our society-at-large.

In striking contrast, summertime has always provided me an opportunity to explore another side of life. During this time my family and I stay at my grandmother’s summer beach house in Breezy Point, Queens. Consisting primarily of middle-class Irish families, this community has been a part of my life since birth and has served to put me in touch with my own ethnicity. At Breezy Point there is an Irish concern with ancestral lineage, a deep-rooted pride in family, and an interest in folk dance and music. My family, as are most in Breezy Point, is closely tied to an active religious life. Perhaps grounded in centuries of Irish oppression, the community is a hot-bed of religious, social, and cultural bonding.

Finally, at the end of the summer four years ago, a totally new and unexplored environment, one that was chiefly academic, was first introduced into my life. At Regis striving for academic excellence was encouraged by all. It was quite a different situation than grammar school. Regis High School propelled me into another world—one that was more white middle- to upper-class and “preppy” than I had ever known. It gave me freedom through which I was able to pursue my interests with confidence, voice my opinions, exercise my right to be wrong, and accomplish my goals. As the result of being accepted for who I really was, I became more at ease with my world.

Given the three vastly different environments that I have just described in this self-descriptive essay, I imagine it’s pretty easy for you to understand why I should think of myself as a Zelig-figure. There is, however, a striking difference between us: Zelig—chameleon that he is—totally adapts to his various environments and looks at each one as if it were an isolated set of circumstances. The effect of the diverse environments I have known on my perception has been dramatically different from that on his. I assimilate to the point of being comfortable with retaining my identity. As a matter of fact, when I move on from these learning experiences, I take a part of them with me: an idea, thought, feeling, emotion—a certain understanding.

This carryover from experience helps to explain why I still find it exciting to be teaching parish CCD classes at my old grammar school to Haitian, Jamaican, and Puerto Rican children. It also accounts for the enthusiasm I bring to the summer job I have held for three years at the Silver Gull Beach Club in the Rockaways. Here I cater to another cultural group—a Jewish community—of which I had no prior knowledge, but which I found myself drawn toward as a contrast to my Breezy Point Irish heritage.

While the answer to the question “who is Ted Dros?” may vary at any given moment according to my environment, I have, unlike the schizophrenic Zelig, a single, though evolving personality. While I value multiplicity of situations and diversity among people precisely because they prompt my personal growth, I do at most points know and like who I am. It’s just that, building on my past, I also look forward to the person I will be tomorrow.

COMMENT:

This student completes a difficult task with excellence. His initial analogy to Zelig arouses the reader’s attention. He describes his varied experiences in a clear, concise form that flows naturally from one to another. I would have no difficulty accepting him for both his background and his description of it. (TG)

*   *   *

A well-written, clear account of Ted Dros, whom the reader knows quite well after reading it. Where many essay writers may have fallen into a rather tedious autobiographical format… “I was born…,” Ted has neatly woven Woody Allen’s Zelig to create a thorough, interesting, and informative essay. (JWM)

Cody Corliss
College: Harvard University

AN APPALACHIAN VIEW

As I reached the top of the country ridge, my jog gradually slowed to a walk. I looked to my right and saw my cross-country teammates gathered together enjoying the picturesque view. I walked over to them.

I gazed out upon the green rolling hills, but my eyes soon fixed upon the tiny community below nestled between the hills and the mighty Ohio River. I knew the town well for it was my hometown, the place where I first learned to ride a bicycle, attended my first day of school, and first learned to drive a car.

A teacher once told me that nearly everything that I would come to believe would be rooted in my hometown. As I looked out upon my home connected to the outside world by a two-lane road, I understood the meaning of those prophetic words. This community has taught and instilled every value that I hold true today. I’ve learned to value hard work from the laborers who produce power, chemicals, and steel in the nearby plants and mills along the river. My school and community have taught me to value education and to develop a hunger for learning. My grandmother has taught me to be honest and compassionate while my mother has instilled my vision and self-discipline.

More than any other value, I have been taught to be loyal. I know that I will soon have to leave my home to attend college. Yet I am compelled to return to West Virginia. I am compelled to return out of duty and loyalty for this place that I love. West Virginia needs leaders to enhance education and improve an economy plagued with inadequacy since the Civil War. The plants and mills that provide jobs for my community are owned by companies from outside of West Virginia. According to a 1990 Appalachian Regional Commission study, seventy-five percent of the land and eighty percent of the mineral rights are owned by out-of-state interests. Sadly, if West Virginia were a third-world country, we would be called a colony.

Many of my friends talk of leaving West Virginia and never returning. I understand their views, but I disagree. I look forward to the day that I can return and make an impact. We must take back our state. It is time to return to the tradition of the proud mountaineer. This place, formed by Lincoln’s pen and forged in the fires of war, will improve only through the combined efforts of all of West Virginia’s best and brightest.

I admit that I am excited about the prospect of attending college and meeting new people. I cherish the thought of having the opportunity to meet and interact with people from all different backgrounds and cultures. I await the chance to gain insight from exposure to new ideas and new views. These are the ultimate goals of any college education. I know though that even when I am away from home, I’ll always be influenced by West Virginia. I take pride in the fact that my values will always trace back to a tiny community nestled along the banks of the mighty Ohio River and connected to the outside world by a two-lane road.

COMMENT:

This essay has a clear focus and makes a clear point. It tells a good deal about both the writer and the importance of place upon him. The first two paragraphs seem quite vague and dreamy; I was worried. Would the writer ever abandon abstractions and generalities and get down to specifics? Fortunately, he does. He comes from a particular place that has meant something quite particular to him. Loyalty is what he learned in his home state of West Virginia, and loyalty is what he holds himself responsible to return to it. (MR).

Don Hoffman
College: Amherst College

AN ESSAY

I am a product of hippies, he wrote, startled that he had begun with such an idea. It was an interesting way to begin, he pondered, though not totally accurate. He wasn’t actually a product of hippies, but he had been given a brief, fleeting vision through their eyes. Yes…he and Joan Didion had walked through the place where the kissing never stopped, they had met Comrade Laski, they had taken courses at the Joan Baez School; his visions had caused him to redefine his beliefs. Was his outlook on his life his own, or had his ideas been passed on to him like genes? He sat outside on the Senior Patio and read her book, Slouching Towards Bethlehem; “space is a place” was written on his jeans in the spirit of Hippie Day. He believed he was a product of the ideas he encountered; shouldn’t it be that way?

I am a product of everything, really. Just as he wrote, he noticed that he was finally doing it: writing these dreaded essays. He once knew a friend who had visited the Temple of Essays. As he was being lowered down into the pit, he could hear the awful hiss of the essays below him, like snakes. “I hate snakes,” he thought, helplessly. What did they want? The meaning of life on paper. He could give them the fundamental theorem of calculus, the definition of Newtonian relativity, perhaps the three qualities of good writing, but only if he referred to his notes from September.

He had a great idea for an essay, but it passed like a gray freight train on the tracks near the river, where trains were no longer that frequent. Another idea came, then a multitude of others, pouring down on the paper as if falling from the waterfall in North Carolina named Silver Run. Some were tears, perhaps, bits of the soul. When he looked at the paper, he saw that the ideas had soaked it and made it soggy and impossible to read.

Then, there was a knock at the door. He opened it with trepidation, fearing a younger brother or perhaps another terror not so bad as that. Standing there was an original idea for an essay, naked and somewhat unformed. He wrestled with it, questioning it until he became a part of it. His life was merely an extension of this wonderful yet terrible idea, swirling like a hurricane. In his humanities class at school he was studying World War I, but he often felt like he was the one in the trenches. He was called daily to charge some great unseen idea. He used his pen as the sword, often finding it an unsuitable weapon. He never knew who won his war, but he knew by his grades that he had won at least a few important battles.

Besides fighting ideas, he was fighting to establish himself. He was fighting against being seen as impersonal; he was fighting against impersonal things. He loved dwelling on his own personal ideas, experiences, emotions. He had fought a grand battle with standardized tests. Could it be that this one important battle would change his life?

I don’t think standardized tests deal with ideas, he realized. He did have aptitudes, but one for lapsing into extremes. But he enjoyed this because he often learned more because of it. Whether he explored Brighton or Bethlehem, he did so with both joy and fear. He loved ideas as well, writing English papers when the ideas flowed freely from him. Then, he actually believed in what he wrote, hearing the words, like foreign voices. He realized that ideas were not the only things that could possess him. Music controlled him too, signing him up for the church and school choirs, making him audition for musicals, driving him to create songs on the piano.

Other things control me too, he continued. He loved running, but often felt that he temporarily relinquished control of himself when he ran, as when he wrote English papers. When he ran, he sometimes felt that he would not be able to finish the race, he would have to stop and rest. He often wondered why he ran, as it was so difficult. The words of the coach, however, had given him a vision, an idea, to commit himself to the run: As the run came to an end, he always felt refreshed. He would be ready for tomorrow, he promised, he would get out there and run hard again, challenge himself, sometimes not knowing why but running hard just the same.

I am controlled by what I do, he rewrote.

COMMENT:

The author is controlled by metaphors and similes rather than having control over them. The ideas are complex and the writer is clearly intelligent. But, as he tries to show his complexity as a person, he loses control of the essay. The result is diminished by overabundance. (PLF)

Josh Jacobs
College: Amherst College

Some people, I am quite sure, go through all of high school without a single moment of social hesitance or exclusion. I would imagine that many cheerleaders and football players fit this mold—at least, that’s what I’ve always heard. At any rate, I certainly have not had a maintenance-free high school social life; however, aside from the Whipped-Puppy Crush, which most adolescent males suffer at least once, I have had only one major watershed in these four years, a time when I realized that the past was ending, and that the future could go anywhere. This was when my best friend of four years, who I will refer to as The Philistine (or TP, for short), totally severed relations with me in the first weeks of my junior year.

An unsigned New Yorker editorial once described a true crisis as one in which “…for a measurable, anguished period…nothing happens. Truly nothing…At a false turning point, we nearly always know, within limits, what will happen next; at a true turning point, we not only know nothing, but know that nobody knows. Truly nobody.” As in this quote, I had several weeks in which I had no idea what to do. I had always been aware of the fact that TP was better-looking than I, and more confident as well. The fact that TP picked up a steady girlfriend midway through my time in Coventry brought me to the conclusion that I had become too great a burden on him, that my function as an amusing second banana had ended. I was becoming aware of the fact that there had always been a certain coolness about TP, one which I had not been exposed to being his friend. At times, I thought TP would come to me and apologize, and that all would be sweetness and light once more; I came to realize, however, that I could never accept such an apology in the unlikely event that it were to be proffered. Once revealed, a person’s true feelings are nearly impossible to plow under again.

It was during this bitter time that I first became friendly with my current group of closest friends. I believe that I was attracted to them because, not to demean their maturity or complexity, I sensed that there was something about them that was more willing to care, and much less cynical and begrudging than TP was. It was hard to say why they were attracted to me; I do not remember trying particularly hard to impress them with my wit or intelligence, perhaps because I did not realize completely that I was growing closer to these people. It may be that my subconscious mind was, in a subliminal way, going all-out, realizing that this was a golden opportunity to make a transition from knowing and trusting just one person to having several confidantes.

It is with this group that I have spent the happiest months of my life. To be loved is the most joyful, most uplifting emotional state; giving of one’s own love is a close second place, however, and with these friends I have had both. I have become more outgoing and spontaneous, and quite a bit sillier—in short, I feel better about being myself. Reflecting on the friendship that TP and I once had, I can say that the saddest lesson that I learned from my transitory semester in high school is that the best things in life are often the hardest to preserve, the hardest to hold on to; in the words of Robert Frost, “Nothing gold can stay.”

COMMENT:

My concern is that the essay appears to tell more about “TP” than about Josh Jacobs! I think that the topic of rejection is an interesting one. However, it would have been far better for me to know specifically how “JJ” has “.…become more outgoing and spontaneous…sillier.” The final paragraph is weakened by the use of generalizations. While candid about his relationships, Josh may be too confident about what he perceives as the reasons for the demise of his friendship. (AAF)

*   *   *

In my opinion, this is a very good essay. The organization and sentence structure are first-rate, the vocabulary provocative and appropriate, and the literary allusions are apt and unobtrusive. The writer gives us a lot of insight into the kind of person he is without making himself seem unduly boastful. It is an effective bit of writing. (RCM)

Joseph Libson
College: Princeton University

MY LIFE

Chapter One: I become a truant

The best thing that I ever did for myself was skip nine days of school in a row in the eighth grade. Actually the benedictions did not arise so much from the truancy as from the apprehension. This does not mean that I had been an axe murderer for the previous sections of my life, but rather that an unusual circumstance led to a great improvement in almost every aspect of my life. I was getting mediocre grades (i.e., B’s and C’s) at a mediocre school. I was not taking drugs or doing anything particularly nasty, but I was being incredibly lazy. This sudden burst of lethargy that led to the nine-day truancy overcame the activation barrier that had prevented my parents from taking retaliatory measures in response to all of the smaller things that I had done. Their response was draconian; first they separated me and my brother (we are exponentially more troublesome when together). In addition to deciding to send me to another school to separate me and my brother, my parents also decided that the punishment should extend into the summer since the deed had been done late in April and the school’s punishment of nine Saturday detentions (yes, like the ones in The Breakfast Club) and disciplinary probation seemed insufficient. This planting season sentence consisted of my taking summer courses. Thus, it came to pass that I took algebra II before ninth grade.

When I arrived at Walnut Hills, which is the best academic public school in the city, I knew no one. This temporary exile resulted in a great discovery. Since I had no one to talk to during class, I decided that I would listen to see if the teacher was saying anything interesting. Lo and behold, knowledge flowed into and through me as excellent grades flowed out. At the tender age of thirteen, I had discovered that if I listened, I would understand. I had four straight-A quarters at Walnut Hills and transferred to St. Xavier, an even finer institution. It was closer to home and besides that my parents had heard that it was a “tough” no-nonsense school (good for discipline problems). As an additional plus, due to variances between the curricula of Walnut Hills and St. Xavier, I was able to become two years advanced in mathematics. Thus I was taking BC Calculus during my junior year at St. Xavier. My innovative listening theory still held at St. Xavier although more effort had to be put in to get the same grades simply because St. Xavier was a more difficult school.

Skipping nine days of school made me a better person, there is no doubt about it. Not only did my academics improve, but my devotion to athletics was enhanced to that of a religious fanatic and my sense of morals was even improved. I changed from a selfish rather unfriendly and sarcastic person into a more giving and open (but still sarcastic) individual. But, I was lucky; I got caught.

COMMENT:

The truant manages to show the reader, in very few words, just how much perspective he has on his past experiences. His focus on “getting caught” highlights his obvious self-awareness because it is so “unadolescent” of him to see his “getting caught” and being “punished” as a catalyst to his own intellectual and personal growth of which he is so clearly proud. This anecdote had a strong impact on me because it rings true and because Joe’s tone is very sincere. (AST)

Heather L. Nadelman
College: Yale University

“Coffee or tea?”

A simple enough question, a question that seemingly requires an absentminded, automatic reply. Clearly, in this world one is either a coffee or a tea drinker. I, however, am an exception to this rule; I constantly vacillate between coffee and tea. My enjoyment of both drinks does not stem merely from flexible tastebuds, nor does it originate in a desire to be as little trouble as possible by drinking whatever is available. Rather, this ambivalence depicts two distinct sides of my personality.

Coffee is lively, exuberant, and extroverted: a wild, wet dog show, complete with pouring rain, whipping winds, and a dog who simply will not behave. The ring has become a sea of oozing mud, turning the dog you so perfectly groomed last night into a mud-splattered, bedraggled horror who resembles an alley cat more than a purebred show dog with a pedigree going back to the Mayflower. Animals who never before had shown signs of unstable temperament suddenly decide to be terrified of the wind’s flapping their handlers’ yellow rain slickers. All dogs are quick to take advantage of the fact that their handlers, with fingers numbed from cold and eyes half-blinded from rain, have very little control over them. On such a day, a steaming cup of well-brewed hot coffee is one’s only salvation; only coffee can transform such misery into a memory that will be laughably, almost fondly, recalled.

Tea is sedate, thoughtful, and introverted: a cold November afternoon with a friendly fire crackling in the background. One sits in an overstuffed armchair with an open copy of Wuthering Heights, reading, dreaming, and listening to music that plays softly from the stereo. The novel and music flow into each other, transporting the room to a time that perhaps was, perhaps never was, or perhaps always is. The world’s worries are locked outside, flung to the chilly winds; inside, all is peaceful and relaxed. On such an afternoon, one feels able to solve every riddle that the greatest minds have pondered. Yet oddly, on such afternoons one never attempts solutions. So near the point of understanding, one allows all answers to escape; if the mysteries of life were solved, much of the pure pleasure of thinking would be lost forever. At such moments of partial meditation it is tea, the world’s most civilized drink, that is one’s only conceivable companion.

Although often contradictory, my need for coffee and my need for tea balance each other nicely. The freneticism of the world of dog shows is as important as the quiet reflection of a peaceful afternoon. Perhaps I will originate a new personality classification, the “coffeetean,” roughly equivalent to an introverted-extrovert or extroverted-introvert. Unlike the simple lives of people wholly shy or wholly exuberant, the life of a coffeetean, if a bit complicated, cannot fail to be varied and exciting.

Those who drink coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, however, are far too schizophrenic for their own good.

COMMENT:

An interesting, relatively original, although somewhat contrived way of presenting two sides of her personality. The purpose of the essay is a good one—to attempt to give a clearer picture of how she sees herself. (JWM)

*   *   *

A rather abstract evaluation of a very simple idea. The vocabulary appears to be forced at times, possibly in an attempt to impress the reader. The well-chosen analogies, however, reveal a very imaginative student who expresses her ideas with both brevity and clarity. (TG)

Travis Hallett
College: Harvard University

LIKE COOTIES

They were unable to hide the fact that they were all looking at me. Some wore expressions of disgust, but I took mental note of the few who seemed to understand. Even the teachers were obvious. Those who knew me stared and the ones who had only heard the rumors nervously looked away. I kept trying to make my way to chemistry so that I could be on time for once, and I watched the other students part around me like the Red Sea. I wasn’t anything close to Moses—I wasn’t even any different than the days or even years before. But everything was different now, without as much as a single change.

It’s not like my closest friends and I haven’t known I was gay since the dawn of time. I mean, I was in love with a guy I barely knew when I was in second grade. And please, my iTunes playlists really don’t make it difficult to tell that I’m gay. When people ask, I tell them the truth. I just assume that everyone else knows. I would never describe myself as a walking stereotype, but usually those who are less than completely naïve can figure it out. So it came as a big surprise to me when I found out that most people who go to my school didn’t know I was gay. The way that they found out, though, makes my surprise seem trivial.

There was this guy. Of course, I was completely infatuated with him. But as all seemingly sad stories go there’s a horrible twist. Rick had been a good friend of mine for as long as my memory holds. He’s into girls. More specifically, one of my best friends, Sarah. The details were furiously text-messaged. The drama that ensued was honestly worthy of bad daytime television. In his complete obliviousness, Rick didn’t figure it out when everyone else did. With some friends rooting me on or pushing me into a pit (I couldn’t tell), I decided to confront him.

It was hard to find time to actually talk to Rick about it what with his grandmother dying and senior week activities. We finally did get a chance to talk one night, after he was finished working, in the Burger King parking lot. I was leaning against my dusty grey car trying to calculate the correlation between Rick’s feelings and how far away he stood. Minutes went by between exchanges of words as I kept searching for the right ones, but to no avail. The omnipresent Maine mosquitoes were swarming the two of us and the flickering parking lot lamp above. All of my internal organs did a few somersaults when he told me how he felt. I had expected him to never want anything to do with me again, but he was okay with my crush. It obviously needed to end for us to have some sort of working relationship, but it was nothing like I had feared. Thank God. When it was all said and done I asked him if we were cool, and as he was walking out to the bus to go on project grad minutes after graduation a few days later, we hugged and then fist bumped. All was well.

When I left my high school after that day with one year still left to go, I felt relieved. After weeks of yelling and then spans of suspenseful silence with all of my friends involved in this one-sided love scandal, everyone’s now-tested acceptance was much appreciated. As I did my speed walk through the Red Sea and all the way to room 118 after the word had gotten out nearly as fast as the speed of light, I knew I was lucky to have such accepting friends. I know for sure now that I don’t need to hide anything around them. It has allowed me to be more like myself around more people than ever. With being gay, there’s definitely a difference between people saying they’re fine with it and their actually being fine with it. I knew I would lose friends in the process. Caribou High’s tolerance was pushed to its breaking point and a few people are now missing from my friends list on Facebook. It’s for the best, though, because I would definitely rather sacrifice some “friends” for my freedom to be me. In a school marred by the intolerance that our civil rights team has tried to combat, I’m now glad to be liberated, being outed to everyone who didn’t know, because no matter if it’s because I’m Moses or because everyone is afraid to catch my gay germs, I’m proud to be the one who now parts the sea.

COMMENT:

I liked this kid. From the moment I started to read I heard his voice in my head, and I wanted to know why everyone was looking at him. He opened with a great hook, continued the story to the conclusion. This student wasn’t looking to be a trailblazer for the community. In fact he rather mundanely detailed a pivotal aspect of his life with subtle bravery. The writer is specific and connects with the reader. Could I see him in a freshman English class at Harvard? I cannot tell from simply this essay; however, I do envision whatever college campus he lands upon will be lucky to have him. Kudos, kid. (BLB)

Phillip Rodgers
College: Columbia College

Demosthenes, Moses, Winston Churchill, and Somerset Maugham. You’re probably wondering what possible link these great men of years past could have to this piece about Phil Rodgers. Furthermore, you’re probably thinking that they have no apparent relation to each other. One was an orator, one a biblical figure, one a statesman, and still another an author. But a little-known fact is that all of these men were stutterers. Add me to the list.

To fulfill your clinical curiosity, I’m classified as a secondary stutterer, which means that I was not born with the malady. At age eight, for some not yet diagnosed reason, I simply began speaking dysfluently. A quick mathematical operation tells one that I’ve been stuttering for nine years. My family seems to prefer to think of it as that I was fluent for eight.

But sometimes I wish that I didn’t have the memories of my period of fluent speech. My mother, whom I love dearly and upon whom I place no blame for my problem, always speaks of me when the subject of children arises. She talks of how bright and intelligent I was, and how I loved to talk and be inquisitive. My big claim to fame was my relative eloquence at an early age. This is why I sometimes wish that I had been born a stutterer. My relatives, my parents, and most importantly, I, know what it was like for me to speak fluently. This knowledge imposes a feeling of guilt along with the other negative feelings associated with my speech problem. Guilt for not giving my parents the perfect son. Guilt for not being what I could have been. Guilt for not being a whole person.

But the guilt is only part of it. The more dominant feeling is frustration. Frustration perhaps about what I’m not to my family, but more importantly about what I’m not to myself. I want nothing more in this world than to make my family, and myself, proud of me. I want to make a contribution to somebody or something that will make a difference. But when the situation is such that I encounter an opportunity to make a contribution that may be hindered by my stuttering, my initial response is to shy away. And if the hindrance will burden others, I back off completely. As far as I see it, the problem is mine and I have no right to impose upon others to any greater extent than that which is necessary in verbal communication. As a result, I don’t experience all that life has to offer. Frustration.

This is not to say that I’ve withdrawn from society. I truly believe the old maxim that whatever can be conceived and believed can be achieved. And if I attain nothing else in my life, this is what I want to do. Perhaps this sounds like a rather trivial goal, but what I desire most is to be fluent. I want nothing more than to express my feelings, thoughts, opinions without the ugliness of my stuttering in the foreground. But if I can’t make my contribution to the world fluently, then I’ll have to do it as I am.

However, contributing can get painful. Every time I open my mouth I take the risk of being jeered, laughed at, labelled “retarded,” and so forth. And the hurt that I’ve experienced has stayed with me. All of the jokes, the insults, and the feelings of inferiority rarely expressed remain in my memory as clearly as yesterday. And I’m glad they do. They give me the strength to cope with what to me is a serious shortcoming. When I’m up against a situation in which I might be vulnerable, all I need do is recall the pain and almost desperate loneliness, and somehow I draw strength from it. The strength that I need to achieve all that I want to achieve. The strength to survive.

I recall a drawing I did in sixth grade. I composed it after being physically and emotionally humiliated in a brawl by three older boys who said that they didn’t want a “retard” in their school. The drawing was a tear-stained image of a butterfly in a cage. That’s a metaphor for who I am. I am a person wanting to share so much with the world, but encircled by a barrier stronger than that of any steel. I am a person wanting to express every thought, every emotion, but stymied by a force that is out of my realm of control. I am a person wanting to be able to speak without fear of ridicule or ostracization, but restrained by a weight greater than that of any physical burden. I am a person wanting to be freed from a perennial hindrance. I am a butterfly who has broken through his socio-erected limitations, but not his own intrinsic weakness.

COMMENT:

My reaction to this essay is one of sympathy for the writer, as much for what he appears to have endured from his family’s reaction to his stuttering as for the suffering he has endured as a result of the stuttering itself. His latent handicap seems to have all but engulfed his consciousness to the point where everything in his life is measured in terms of what he cannot do, rather than what he can do. I found myself wanting to say, “It’s not your fault AND I really don’t hold it against you.” Somehow I don’t think saying anything would help. (AST)

Sara G. Silver
College: Columbia University

It was a beautiful day and my mindcleaning was proceeding nicely. I generally despise any sort of cleaning and avoid it whenever possible, but mindcleaning is different; it’s much too important and delicate a job to delay. And it was doubly important that day, for I was debating starting my life anew in New York and I needed to rid my mind of old prejudices to make room for fresh ideas. So I ascended the stairs armed with garbage bag and duster, opened the door to my mind, and went in. Now, everyone has their own particular taste and everyone arranges their mind differently. In mine, all the rooms are arranged on different levels according to category around a big winding staircase done in red velvet plush, and it was to the first level of this staircase that I was ascending on that bright, clear day. Everything on the first level is memories of some type. They are easy to clean because there is nothing to throw away. True, I sometimes push a bad one behind the shelf or sweep it under the rug, but most memories take root too deeply and quickly to be disposed of, although I do misplace quite a few small ones between cleanings. So I just dusted them all off, arranged them neatly in rows, and proceeded onward. On my way up I wrote a reminder to myself to add on a new wing, as the existing rooms were becoming quite crowded, and if there is one thing I can’t stand in a room, it’s clutter.

The second level is for talents and impulses. Many people think that these are things which come spontaneously and therefore just let them wander freely, but I find it much easier to have them categorized. For instance, how many times have you missed a train because the impulse that should have warned you to arrive at the station earlier was nowhere to be found? And if someone should ask you to show off your singing talent, what if that talent is hiding in a corner and refuses to reveal itself? That’s why I categorize mine. Upon going through them, I found a misplaced unfinished thought and carried it up to the third level with me.

The third level is a bit different. It has only two rooms: Miscellaneous, and the Day Room. After I placed the thought safely in Miscellaneous, it was the latter room to which I turned my attention. The Day Room is where all the daily traffic collects to be sorted out each night: with whom I met that day, what each person said, and everything else that transpires. After having attended to this daily task, I sent everything to where it is supposed to be stored via a special elevator I had installed for the purpose and, hopping a ride myself, arrived at the fifth floor. On this level I don’t dare to enter the rooms unless there is a pressing emergency, but just peek through the little glass windows to ascertain the working level, for here is the crux of my brainpower—the delicate processing and reasoning machines. I possess only the latest models but I am a terrible novice around such machinery. So with resolutions to gain more experience and then tinker, I just checked a readout or two and went on.

The last level, my favorite, is my knowledge level but I prefer to call it my library. This is also a most important level, although not quite as delicate as the logic machines below. Here, every little thing I learn is recorded and kept safe. After dusting all the shelves, I leafed briefly through a few of the latest volumes to be sure that yesterday’s history lectures had been duly recorded. I then hefted my garbage bag under one arm, my duster under the other, and started back down. But as I turned to leave, a door at one end of the library caught my eye. Strangely, I’d never seen it before. I put down my bundle and strode forward to take a closer look. As I opened the deceptively shabby door, a burst of light and color streamed out! Curiously I entered the room—and stopped short, unable to believe my eyes. For beyond the dusky, stately, library lay a wonderful room, a room filled with hope and joy of every color, with sunshine playing gaily over it all. Across the gleaming floorboards I spotted an evanescent figure dressed in red, gold, and white sequins beckoning to me and sparkling until I was nearly blinded. But before I could recover from my surprise enough to wave back, the entire room disappeared and I was left standing in the shadowy library once more.

Bewildered, I picked up my load and descended the stairs, still deep in thought as I left my mind and shut the last door, my task completed. I was filled with a deep fierce longing, for in the one glimpse into that room I had felt more love and color than I had ever dreamed existed within me, and I knew the room’s contents were the reason. From then on, I yearned for another glimpse of what I could become. Not until my plane was circling over New York City in the ever-deepening sunset and the city’s lights began to twinkle on did I fully understand what that one secret room contained. And it was with hope and relief blossoming anew that I opened the room forever, a small secret smile lingering on my lips.

COMMENT:

An interesting idea for a personal, revealing essay. It starts off slowly, and seems too “cute” to be effective, but the ending saves it and leaves the reader with an overall impression of a successful piece of writing. (HDT)

*   *   *

This is a wonderful essay with a few basic grammatical flaws. The progression is clear, and the imagination wonderful. (PLF)

Dawn N. Skwersky
College: Mount Holyoke

TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF

Q: What is so great about being deaf?

A: Hey, I can’t believe someone finally asked me that! Ok, here’s a list:

—If someone is singing off key I can turn them off with a switch.

—Airplanes aren’t so loud.

—In the morning when my dog wakes everyone up with his barking—I stay asleep.

—People can yell in my ears.

—Music sounds great without my aids because I have low frequency hearing, which is what most music is.

—Nothing is too loud. If, in a rare instant, something is too loud, I can switch the noise off.

—I learned to read lips; I usually have face-to-face contact with people when I talk.

—I developed a predilection for watching subtitled movies and close-captioned TV shows.

—I am a lifer at a school for the hearing.

—Um…

Q: WHOA! A school for the HEARING? How did you end up there?

A: My parents placed me in the school. The funny thing is that I never thought I was any different. My parents raised me as if I were a hearing kid.

Q: Wasn’t it tough?

A: Yeah, especially when I got older, the guys think I like them because I’m always looking at them, but that’s how I read lips.

Q: Hey, but that’s still a good excuse to use to stare at guys anyway.

A: Yeah.

Q: How did you take notes in class?

A: That was tough, but I was able to handle that. You see, my success in taking notes depended on

a) my lip reading skills

b) the professor’s voice and enunciation skills

c) my position in the classroom

d) all of the above

However, if the teacher was too hard for me to understand (enunciatively) then usually a friend of mine took notes for me.

Q: Did you take any foreign languages?

A: Why do you ask?

Q: I was wondering if you could lip read in other languages.

A: As a matter of fact, I’ve taken French for five years. In the third year the classes were conducted tout en français. It was hard at first, but I was able to adapt to this situation. I guess I have a gift in lip reading languages.

Q: That’s awesome. What is bad about being deaf?

A:—Phone conversations are difficult. Not too many people have TTY’s (Teletypewriters) or TDD’s (Telecommunications Device for the Deaf).

—I can’t hear everything around me. For example, it is hard for me to keep up with everything that is said in a social discussion, unless I can see everyone so I can lip read what is being said.

—People usually need to repeat things for me.

—I hate to do the dishes.

Q: Wait a moment! Dishes are irrelevant!

A: That’s true, but I said that because doing the dishes bugs me and there is one thing that really bugs me about being deaf.

Q: What is that?

A: I don’t like it when people turn their backs to me because they think I may be dull or because they hate repetitions. How can a person judge me who doesn’t know me? As for repetitions, the more I talk to a person the fewer repetitions there are. In any case, I’ve learned through experience that those people who don’t take their time when they talk to me aren’t true friends.

Q: One last question, is there anything you really want to do in life that you just can’t keep secret any longer?

A: Yes, there is.

Q: Ok! let me hear—no, on the other hand, let me lip read it!

A: I WANT TO SPEND MY COLLEGE YEARS AT MOUNT HOLYOKE!

COMMENT:

Let’s forgive the ending. It shows a nice sense of humor and much maturity and self-awareness. The writer exhibits good control. (JMcC)

Julia Marie Smith
College: Bowdoin College

‘Orphan’ best describes my outward appearance at the beginning of my ninth-grade year at Annie Wright. My plain white blouse was more frequently than not untucked; my Campbell plaid skirt hung randomly from nonexistent hips; and my yellow class-tie, which kept unknotting by itself, gave my face a distinctly hepatitic cast. To complete the picture of a lost child, my navy blue socks resisted all efforts to remain below my knees, preferring to bunch down over scrawny ankle bones. This was Julia Smith, new student, adrift in the awful experience of her first school uniform. Not only did I learn to manage my uniform as I grew into it and myself, but I found that this seemingly dreadful mandatory outfit was to become a catalyst for individuality, mine and that of my fellow students. Just as in science sulfuric acid brings about the conversion of butane to isobutane, a school uniform stimulates the development of a set of characteristics which make a specific person unique among others without contributing to that uniqueness. Because everyone looks alike on the outside, uniforms force the emergence of distinct inner qualities. Individuality, thus, cannot be and is not expressed by a superficial style of dress; people at Annie Wright become themselves just because they don’t have to, and because they don’t want to reflect the mundane nature of our required attire.

I have worn my Campbell plaid skirt for four years and its effect on me will remain with me for the rest of my life. My uniform has caused me to grow into myself as I grew into it, and has caused me to discover my quirks, my druthers, my strengths, and my weaknesses. I am a perfectionist, and yet, if I had those druthers, I would rather spend a lot of time outside enjoying nature or reading a book. I have great determination and perseverance, and yet I am still shy in new situations.

As one member of a school which includes some three hundred students dressed alike according to size, I can attest to my independence from the mob. I have learned to look beyond the uniform in others, eager to search out their special qualities. Pleated polyester in blue and green has enabled me to ignore the outward and superficial appearances of people and has allowed me to treasure their differences. The students at Annie Wright may look like lemmings, but they do not behave like them.

My uniform now fits me, and I no longer look like a neglected orphan. My skin has gradually accustomed itself to the color yellow; the hours spent ironing the rumples the washing machine inflicted on countless pleats and my struggles with recalcitrant socks have been worthwhile. I have accepted my uniform as I have grown beyond the need for a catalyst for individuality. I am Julia Smith, a distinct person, about to begin the next stage of my life adventures.

COMMENT:

The first paragraph is interesting, but the topic doesn’t milk well. The essay is cliché-ridden. (JMcC)

Dimitri Steinberg
College: Princeton University

“It is a truth universally acknowledged” that things which come hardest taste sweetest and thus make all the difference. At the beginning of tenth grade, I was, in all honesty, a porker: not obese, perhaps, but definitely overweight. I was also not as popular as I would have wished. I doubt that there was a direct correlation, but I’m sure that my self-esteem was affected by this weighty problem. Although I knew that one’s essential substance is more important than superficial show, I could not deny that I was showing more substance, physically, than was desirable. I had carried this burden, on shoulders and hips, since I was eight. In short, at eight, I ate. After several fruitless (but cake-filled) attempts at dieting, I found myself thirty pounds on the wrong side of 140 at age fifteen. I still vividly recall my sincere desire to lose weight, my great love of food, and my frustration.

I needed an incentive to diet. As many previous attempts to shed pounds had gone awry (along with pastrami), a diet seemed a doomed and discredited project. Nevertheless, my parents wisely proposed that all three of us go on a diet and by four weeks the one who had lost the most would be paid $10.00 per pound for each pound the others failed to match. I accepted the challenge. A fierce battle of weights ensued. My chief weapon in this struggle was the 250 callorie Dannon Light strawberry yoghurt. That, and a glass of orange juice was all I consumed until dinner each day. The three S’s became my deadliest enemies: starch, snacks and seconds were banished from sight and stomach. The possibility of financial renumeration on one hand or monetary loss on the other overcame my urge to rush the refrigerator. At the weigh-in four weeks later, the scale shoed me minus 13, my mother minus 5, and my father minus 8. I thus extracted a poundage of $130.00 and at the end of the contest I felt as if a huge weight had been shifted from my shoulders to my wallet. What happened afterwards was even more palatable. I had so conditioned my appetite to a glass of orange juice, a cup of yoghurt, and a small dinner that I maintained those eating habits for the rest of the year and thus continued to lose weight until I tipped in at a truly healthy number. I felt better about myself during the second, stabilized phase because I was deriving my pleasure from results gained without ploys or programs.

Before this success, I had often felt myself to be an outsider, looking enviably upon one clique or another. This situation changed quite dramatically. Over the next two years I made many new friends. Just as importantly, I stopped viewing those who weren’t my real friends as somehow unapproachable. The inner clique that exists in all high schools and which most everyone aspires to be part of now seemed unappetizing because, having made my own friends, I no longer craved to sit at their table. Losing weight and keeping it off was an accomplishment that allowed me to feel more self-confident. As a result, I was better able to deal with my peers. I got more out of the last two years in and out of school than from all the ones before. The ability to have the discipline to overcome this obstacle has meant a lot to me, not only because of the immediate benefits, but also because of the evidence it gave me about my internal fortitude.

COMMENT:

This essay shows an excellent writing skill and a good analysis of a marvelous undertaking with positive results to the body and psyche. However, its introspective content suggests a selfish person. (PLF)

*   *   *

Content/idea for the essay is a good one—misspellings detract from it as do all the cute puns—better to stick to the facts and simply tell the tale. The merit lies in the truth, not in the style. (HDT)

Jo-Ellen Truelove
College: Columbia College

From somewhere deep inside the earth’s surface, analogies are produced. They seep through the molten lava and the rocks and the soil. They leak into the air and are spirited about like autumn leaves. Eventually, they are seized by English teachers, or solitary philosophers, or those persons who write the verbal section of the SAT, or by people like me: college applicants who, by the light of a fluorescent lamp, hope to structure a profound essay on a comparison. One such analogy has settled upon my own desk, just between the Diet Pepsi can and my lint brush.

I am malleable. I have a tendency to adopt the ideas of others. My philosophy varies with every new author that I read. When I emerged from the theater after seeing Chariots of Fire, I was determined to become a sprinter, and ran down the sidewalk in slow motion. After I read Sherlock Holmes, I began studying people while I rode the subway. I tried to uncover bits of their lives by studying their shirt sleeves.

However, like a blob of Play-Doh, I always return to my can with the air-tight lid. Once I ease back into my natural cylindrical shape, I experience my own bursts of creativity. From one such spurt came forth my plan to keep pies fresh in diners. [I believe that if the rotating dessert cases in diners were spun at the speed of light, the pies inside would (in accordance with the Theory of Relativity) actually grow younger as the patrons outside aged normally.] But once I encounter a fresh perspective, I am molded once more.

There are certainly advantages to having an easily sculpted mind. Concepts are more readily understood when they are fully embraced and analyzed. I am also more receptive to new ideas and experiences than many people. In fact, the only real disadvantage is the lack of strong core of self-consciousness. I do not want to go through life with my self-definition being a hodge-podge of outside influences. What to do?

Will Jo-Ellen forever be an impressionable lump? To answer this question, please permit me to stretch my analogy a bit further. When one shapes a Play-Doh masterpiece (a breathtaking likeness of Carmen Miranda, for example) one leaves it on one’s bedpost to become more permanent. One might add another fruit to Carmen’s hat now and again, but basically, it is set.

At Columbia, I hope to shape myself into a masterpiece that will transcend my humble Play-Doh origins. I want to take advantage of all that the classes, faculty, students, and the City have to offer. Using the insights that I will have collected, my own interpretation of a variety of views, the whole of what I will have gathered from the humanities, and all that I have lived, I will shape myself. And there I will sit proudly on my bedpost—a masterpiece created by the joint efforts of Jo-Ellen Truelove and Columbia College.

In conclusion, I would like to note that some dissimilarities do exist between myself and a can of Play-Doh. So saying, I release my analogy. I send it off, so that it may be used again, to the Analogy Recycling Plant (located in a brownstone just outside of Jersey City).

COMMENT:

This essay teeters back and forth between being cleverly outrageous and self-consciously cute. Unfortunately, it seems to me that the final paragraph falls into the latter category. There are, on the other hand, some original concepts that are fresh and informative—for instance, the idea for keeping pies fresh in diners and the notion of sticking Carmen Miranda on the bedpost. Technically, the writing is fine. Furthermore, reading the essay gives a clear idea of how the writer views herself in some very important regards. So, on balance, it is a fairly good effort; I just wish she had stopped one paragraph sooner. (RCM)

*   *   *

Shows creativity, imagination, ability. She skillfully carries through her comparison in an engaging lighthearted fashion. I enjoyed it, along with her flashes of humor. Weakness? I thought the essay was a trifle self-conscious—a “quality” she says she lacks. (AAF)

David C. Weymouth
College: University of North Carolina–Chapel Hill

Four-thirty A.M. and the sun was just a sliver of golden promise far to the East. As that sun rose, I began the first day of my summer job. In the fall I would start my first year at St. Paul’s, but it was during that summer that I was able to undergo some great changes as a human being. To start with, I was entering the world of lobstering, Maine’s oldest and most famous industry. I soon learned there was much more to lobster and lobstering than melted butter and brightly painted buoys. I was aboard a boat ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week, and the work was really hard. This was one thing I learned.

“Sternman” was my official title, a designation which enabled me to do most of the work while the captain (also the owner) would navigate his boat from buoy to buoy. Aside from a ten-minute lunch break, we worked nonstop hauling traps aboard, emptying them of their catch, baiting them, and finally, resetting them. The meaning of “exhaustion” was one more lesson of the summer.

Still, it was not the physical labor that provoked the major change in me. I liked physical labor and was proud of my ability to accomplish so much of it. Rather, it was my introduction to my fellow workers that changed me. Many, if not most of these people, lacked high school diplomas. Surely none had, or would ever receive, a diploma like the one I will earn in June. This is what I discovered that summer; this is what I hauled up in my own personal, metaphorical, lobster trap—the joy of meeting people who, for me, had never before existed.

It was a good joy to experience, and it was a good experience with which to start St. Paul’s School. Already, I was coming to St. Paul’s much changed from the person who had applied for admission the year before.

Prior to my arrival on the grounds I had been somewhat one-dimensional. Athletically, I was a hockey player, and a hockey player only. I had played other sports, but only rarely and halfheartedly, and only because ice was not available year round. When I came to St. Paul’s, I couldn’t go out for hockey in the fall. Consequently, I went out for cross-country, figuring, of course, that all the running made it the best sport with which to get in shape for the hockey season. The track on which the cross-country team ran encircled the gridiron, and after several days of running around…and around…and around it, longingly watching the football practices, I decided I would go out for a different sport and see if my hockey experiences would help me in getting on a football uniform. Since I had never played the game before, getting into my pads was only the first of many lessons I had to learn.

Because the team already had an excess of running backs, or perhaps the coach had seen me running daily on the track and not been as impressed with my speed as I was, I became a lineman. At that time I weighed only 160 pounds, and I can best and with least embarrassment describe the first couple of weeks as…“The Time I Learned to Protect My Body.” I found myself going up against a defensive lineman referred to only as Hambone. He had slimmed down to a mere 220 pounds over the summer, he rarely shaved, often drooled, and never spoke. Needless to say I picked myself up off my backside more than once during those first few weeks. But I did improve. That year, I played junior varsity. Last year I started on the varsity and was elected to the Second All-League Team. This year I was co-captain of the team and was elected to the First All-League Team.

I still play hockey, and love it, too. But I no longer feel one-dimensional as an athlete.

Academically, I have also arrived at St. Paul’s somewhat one-dimensional. I had taken a very ordinary program of math, science, English, and Spanish as my foreign language. Upon coming to St. Paul’s, and inspired, perhaps, by too much lobster, I was temporarily insane and dropped Spanish in favor of taking Chinese, which was being offered for the first time.

I must admit that, especially at the beginning, the language was very difficult for me. It was completely different from anything I had studied or spoken before, and, while being new and exciting, it required some major adjustments in study habits. Since first or second grade, my teachers have not only complained, but have yelled and screamed about my handwriting. If one can’t master 26 English letters, imagine trying to learn several thousand Chinese characters. If I could barely write my name in English legibly, what was I supposed to do with my name in Chinese?

Well, I am now three years into Chinese. I am cofounder and president of the Chinese Society, which meets regularly to discuss China and to learn about its culture and customs. One-dimensional no more, I have discovered a subject that has truly captivated me and which I will continue to pursue.

In June the sun will set for me at St. Paul’s School, and though I will miss the place, I will not regret leaving it. St. Paul’s has made me want to go on. It has provided me with an atmosphere of opportunity. Equally, I have taken full advantage of that opportunity, and I hunger for more.

It is the appetite for new experiences, even more than football or Chinese, for which I am grateful. I am looking forward to more sunrises in my life.

Joanne B. Wilkinson
College: Brown University

HANDS

My father has always said that I have “brain surgeon hands,” probably because they’re rather large with fingers so long and thin that my school ring has to be held on with masking tape. Those who knew less about my ambitions tend to call them “basketball player hands.” Of course, there is always that small minority that persist in calling them “ballet hands.” (Although I danced for nine years, I no longer harbor dreams of Nutcrackers and Swan Lakes.) Under it all, I am primarily a writer; writing has allowed me to express my thoughts and ideas in every discipline, and in the words of Carl Van Vechten, “An author doesn’t write with his mind, he writes with his hands.”

Often, when I have a free moment, I find myself looking bemusedly at these hands of mine, and reflecting on the many things they have done. When I was a child, these hands curled themselves around a crayon to scrawl my first letters; they clutched at the handles of a bicycle, refusing to trust my training wheels; they arched delicately over my head in pirouettes and slid, wriggling, into softball gloves. Later, they held a pen ready to express all the ideas and questions and answers that bloomed in my mind. These hands once plunged deep into the pinafore pockets of my candy-striping uniform, emerging to write messages and lab orders, punch telephone numbers, steady syringes—all with growing ease and authority. They went with me when I babysat to earn pocket money and volunteered in my pediatrician’s office, and they touched feverish foreheads and held smaller hands, trying to comfort and cheer.

They graduated to a white lab coat’s pockets and learned to inject mice and create lab charts for lab data. They supported my chin during late-night studies. They hoisted my increasingly heavy knapsack to my shoulders and toted it back and forth to literary editing sessions, Spanish dinners, and council meetings. They donned white gloves to ring handbells with the Lambrequins, and twisted nervously behind my back while I performed; they adjusted colored lights for school performances and learned to pluck a microphone from its stand with apparent ease. They dissected pigs and worms and cows, and thought they would never be rid of the smell of formaldehyde, but they survived. They have endured mouse bites, chlorinated water, chemical spills, and poison ivy; when they needed to retreat, there was always a plush teddy bear to cuddle.

Someday, these hands will grip forceps and retractors, tense and slick; they will rake through my hair with fatigue as I sit in library carrels studying graphs and figures. Someday soon, they will hold a daisy-adorned diploma from Lincoln School, and they will hold again, as they have in the past, trophies and book awards and certificates. I have confidence that they will become the hands of an M.D., with the power to heal and comfort solemnly implicit, and I have every hope that these hands will someday, thrilled and proud, touch the opened Van Wickle Gates as they enter.

COMMENT:

Excellent, creative, original, and beautifully written! This is a student I would like to meet and know. She has a wonderful facility with words, the perfect ones to describe her thoughts. (NA)

*   *   *

For clarity, this essay has to be considered as one of the best. The individual is described to a “T.” The reader is able to understand the maturation of the writer, see the ambition, and gain a good grasp of the strength of character. (JLM)

*   *   *

An excellent essay. Great image carried through in multiple instances with interesting and varied use of words and ideas that express not only her activities and goal but her philosophy of life and values. (MAH)

*   *   *

Compliments on taking on the risk of a difficult extended metaphor. It is consistently done, even if it becomes slightly tiresome. The playful self-deprecation of the first several paragraphs is entertaining. (TH)

Srinivas Ayyagari
College: Harvard University

A few months ago, I looked in the mirror and saw, as usual, a youngish face, which I perceived as about twelve, maybe thirteen years old. But this time I realized a deeper reason for that perception: I actually identified myself, my mind and personality, with the boy I was at that age. So, I struggled with the question, “How do I differ from that seventh-grader?” Distinguishing between my thoughts then and my thoughts now perplexed me: I recalled a similar way of working, intellectual capacity, and motivations. Yet the problem gnawed at me because I knew something fundamental had changed in me. After all, I was looking on that seventh-grader as a distinct personality. But why did I? What distinguished him from me? I realized eventually that the difference between that seventh-grader and me was that, since seventh grade, I had gained an outlook, a way of examining the broader world I had never considered before. The separation was clear: before the spring of tenth grade, I had lived but had never really examined life. Nigel Calder’s Einstein’s Universe finally ignited my mind with ardent inquiry.

Calder’s lucid but mentally taxing explanations of Einstein’s theories forced my perspective to dilate many times over. Instead of thinking in feet and miles, suddenly my fifteen-year-old mind was trying to consider millions of light years, curved space, hopping from star to black hole and back to Earth. Naturally, I was not entirely successful, but more important, the experience plunged me into a new realm of thought, visions of the vast universe floating in my mind. At first, thinking of the astronomical expanse, I delved into the obvious (and, as I quickly found, irresolvable) questions of ultimate meaning, an exceedingly elusive goal. Yet because of this errant speculation, my mind was still churning with my new view, an extremely expanded perspective about life on earth which impelled me to find out about the universal principles of existence.

Now, more than ever, I gravitated toward science. Before reading Einstein’s Universe and undertaking my mental voyage, I had been interested in science because it was tidy, neat. Suddenly, that interest was ablaze with a passion for truth, knowledge, and not just in science. The hazy ideas that history was a study in human failure and triumph, that literature laid bare the human experience, and that science, science would reveal unifying principles of our chaotic, swirling existence burst from mist into light. In eleventh grade, the logic of evolution, the wonder of genetics, the grand design of physiology all seemed the more magnificent because they were natural consequences of chemistry. That year, inspired by the potential of biology for finding truth about man, I made my career choice: genetic research, the area in which I think I could make the greatest strides in doing the highest good as a human being, contributing to society. My physics teacher this year has taught me an even greater principle: science merely describes the real world and cannot be mistaken for absolute truth.

Ultimately, experiencing Einstein’s Universe incited me to contemplate truly for the first time, to reevaluate my fundamental beliefs and form those which have made me more confident and peaceful than ever. Recently, I looked in the mirror at a youngish face, still a boy’s, but now that face conceals a vision more expansive than the seventh-grader ever imagined.

COMMENT:

In this short but powerful essay, the writer reveals much about himself and his motivations as both a learner and a maturing individual. The seventh-grader, now several years older, is impressionable and eager to grow as a scientist, as his evolving mind and sense of inquiry enable him to begin to see the connections to other disciplines. “How do I differ from that seventh-grader?” he asks, as he returns to the mirror in a compelling final paragraph. While his understanding of science has been strengthened by Calder’s book, the greater achievement, he now recognizes, has been the substantial growth of his own self-awareness. While seeming somewhat idealistic, this essay is convincing in portraying the writer as a passionate student of science with realistic goals, but also as an individual earnestly in search of universal truths. (RK)

William Couper Samuelson
College: Harvard University

It is a truth universally acknowledged that weird things happen at hospitals. From the moment the automatic doors open, you are enveloped in a different world. A world of beeps, beepers, humming radiators, humming nurses, ID badges, IV bags, gift shops, shift stops, PNs, PAs, MDs, and RNs. Simply being in a hospital usually means you are experiencing a crisis of some sort. Naturally, this association makes people wary. However, I have had the unusual experience of being in a hospital without being sick—well, I did for a while.

In May 1995, I began working once a week at Massachusetts General Hospital. I imagined myself passing the scalpel to a doctor performing open heart surgery, or better yet stumbling upon the cure for cancer. It turned out, however, that those under age eighteen are not allowed to work directly with patients or doctors. I joined a lone receptionist, Mrs. Penn, who had the imposing title of “medical and informational technician.” My title was “patient discharge personnel.” Mrs. Penn had her own computer and possessed vast knowledge of the hospital. I had my own personal wheelchair. Manning the corner of the information desk, my wheelchair and I would be called on to fetch newly discharged patients from their rooms.

This discharge experience taught me lessons—both comical and sad—about hospital life. On one of my first days, I was wheeling out a woman when I noticed an IV needle still pressed in the back of her hand. I returned her to the nurse’s station where the needle was removed without comment or apology. Another time, an elderly man approached the information desk and threatened that if I didn’t let him see his wife, he would take a grenade out of his pocket and detonate it. I didn’t really believe he had a grenade, but who could be sure? When the man repeated his words to Mrs. Penn, she knew exactly what to do. An immediate call for security was sounded. Sad to say, that man was not the first or last unbalanced individual to frequent Mass General while I worked there.

Nor would this be the last time I relied on Mrs. Penn. Some months later, a thirty-something man came to the desk asking for his father’s room. When I looked up his computer entry, the father’s name came up with the code for the morgue: deceased. Not knowing what to do, I told him my computer was down and directed him to Mrs. Penn’s terminal. She broke the news and directed him to the attending physician.

Last spring, I handled the discharge of Oliver, a twelve-year-old boy undergoing chemotherapy. When I asked how he would be going home, he replied, “How do I get to the nearest subway station?” Apparently, Oliver’s parents were busy and couldn’t bring him home from the hospital. I gave Oliver 85 cents and walked him to the Charles/MGH subway stop. After explaining what inbound and outbound meant, I watched a frightened little boy board the train. Teenagers in my town have one thing in common: Our parents lavish us with attention, even spoil many of us. But what I saw that day opened my eyes to a life wholly different from my own.

Then life changed. On a beautiful, hot, August day, my lung collapsed. I was at a basketball camp in Cambridge when I felt a searing pain through my upper back and chest. Anyone who has had a pitchfork driven through his shoulder knows exactly how I felt. The camp trainer said not to worry; at worst, I might have an enlarged spleen, a telltale sign of “mono.” The trainer had no idea what he was talking about. Next stop, the hospital.

I spent one night at Mass General, sleeping with an oxygen mask to pump my lung back up. The doctors sent me home the next morning with a sore back and no sleep: This collapsed lung was just a singular event, a one-hit wonder. Wrong. In October, my lung collapsed again. This time I spent two nights with the oxygen mask. This time when I left I was scheduled for surgery a week later. The day of surgery I saw Mrs. Penn behind the desk, but she didn’t wave. I realized that with my oxygen mask I was about as recognizable as the face behind Darth Vader’s mask.

Though I knew I was in good hands, my main feeling as a patient was helplessness. Nonetheless, I experienced one small triumph near the end of my stay. On the way to the CT scan, my wheelchair attendant had no clue where we were going. Not only did I know the way, I knew a shortcut. The attendant was impressed. For a moment, I was not a patient, but again part of the invisible fraternity of hospital workers.

The most consistent component of my life during that year was the hospital. When I see someone with an oxygen mask wheeled by my desk, I don’t assume an attitude of indifference. I know what it is to push—and be pushed in—the wheelchair. An extended stay at the hospital helped me realize and appreciate what a normal life is.

COMMENT:

A strong introduction launches this essay effectively. The writer vividly describes his experiences as a volunteer, ranging from the moving instance with the young chemotherapy patient to other alternately routine and bizarre moments in the daily life of a major hospital. This readable and engaging essay becomes more compelling because of the writer’s collapsing lung and the ensuing circumstances he himself experiences as a patient. However, it lumbers down in the closing, which unfortunately doesn’t do justice to the strength of the better part of the essay. The last sentence, while an appropriate conclusion, still seems anticlimactic. (RK)