IDEA ESSAYS
Lindsay Grain Carter
College: Mount Holyoke College
“Southern trees bear a strange fruit,
Blood is on the leaves and blood at the root.”
This work of music is a haunting tale of the old Jim Crow South in the aftermath of the Reconstruction period in America. Unsettling, indeed and that is certainly the point. In 1939, the legendary jazz songstress Billie Holiday recorded this protest song as a way of calling attention to the horrible lynchings of black men. Miss Holiday’s signature tune “Strange Fruit” whispers the imagery of death. The lyrics paint a disturbing scene against the backdrop of the pastoral countryside of old world antebellum mansions with manicured lawns, juxtaposed with scarred human flesh dangling in the trees as a soft breeze rustles and a butterfly takes flight. This strange fruit yields a different kind of harvest, a bitter crop, a human stain amidst refined genteel manners and delightful Southern charm. The significance of this song provokes raw emotion. It captures the unspoken cancer gripping Southern communities infested with hatred against blacks and the racist acts of violence committed during this reign of terror. The madness invokes a portrait of the darkness in humanity. This fruit smells of a nasty stench; charred bodies mangled while buzzards pluck the skin through a noose tied forcibly around their limp frames. Billie Holiday expresses her sorrow and anger against lynching and the perpetrators that committed such heinous crimes against black men. This song unsettles me because it conjures up frightening images of blacks cruelly tortured and the fate to which they succumbed. Listening to the sad melody becomes a harrowing ordeal for the audience and the artist.
Every time I hear this song, I envision the slave shackles of my African ancestors and the price they paid for my freedom. Equality and racial justice are my inheritance in this land of liberty. This song demonstrates the depravity of the Klu Klux Klan and their Southern campaign of terror to annihilate individual freedom. Feelings of frustration, poverty, depression and anxiety offer a sober image masking the torture and heart wrenching pain that segregated blacks endured from the wrath in America. “Strange Fruit” becomes a powerful example of blues music depicting the horrors of lynching, yet the word never appears in the lyrics. It is a poignant illustration of a protest song advocating for social change and human rights. This is no rare feat, as social activism was not promoted or tolerated in the 1930’s. Billie Holiday risked her fame by recording a song that offended the few and raised the consciousness of many.
COMMENT:
The writer critiques a controversial protest song of harrowing subject matter. The writer’s use of the word “unsettling” describes perfectly the emotion that envelops her as she details social injustice conveyed through art. The writer does not rely on the controversy to convey her connection, rather the historical perspective that binds her to the song. The reader is treated to a beautifully written essay that elevates the writer and reveals her pride and heritage. (BLB)
Jennifer L. Cooper
College: Harvard University
I have of late been thinking about numbers quite a lot, the number one in particular. The abstract quality of numbers fascinates me, and I’ve been trying to relate them to other abstract concepts, like wholeness and love and perfection.
For example, a glass—Glass A. If Glass A has a small chip in it, it isn’t less than one glass. If it has a small lump on it, it isn’t more than one glass. The glass is still one; it is one of itself. It is a perfect Glass A.
This inspires further thought. It is impossible ever to have duplicate Glass A’s. The ideal glass exists only in theory. How, then, can two things ever have enough in common to be called two? Put two glasses together and all you have is two ones. The ideal two does not exist. There is no such thing as the ideal two.
I found this concept very disturbing. The ramifications of the nonexistence of the number two would be extensive. How could there be true love without two? I asked friends, teachers; no one had the answer.
Fortunately, I came across a solution to this problem just recently, in e. e. cummings’ poem, “if everything happens that can’t be done.” He sets up the idea of the individual one with lines like “there’s nothing as something as one” and “one’s everyanything.” He then reveals that two ones are involved with each other—in love. He unites these ideas, wrapping it up beautifully in the last stanza:
we’re anything brighter than even
the sun
(we’re everything greater
than books
might mean)
we’re everyanything more than
believe
(with a spin
leap
alive we’re alive)
we’re wonderful one times one
One times one! It makes so much sense. We don’t generally think of multiplication using two objects. Usually, we think, “One apple one time”—equals one apple. However, Punnett squares have shown that multiplying one horse by one donkey will yield one mule. Decidedly different from either of the originals, it nevertheless combines characteristics of both into one being.
So it must be with people. The love of two individuals, while independent of one another, blends together to form one love—their love. People speak of “our love” or “the love between us” or “the love that we share.” The two ones multiply to equal one, but that final one is different, seems richer, fuller than either of the originals.
The implications are intriguing. I had no idea that numbers could mean so much. It’s a paradox, because mathematics is the ultimately logical system, totally intolerant of interpretation. I think these ideas merit further development—after all, I haven’t even begun to think about zero.
COMMENT:
Good essay in that it demonstrates the mind/thoughts of the author. The structure is well developed and the leading up to and conclusion of and going from cummings’ poem is good style. Having the ending open is also a good idea—it shows that the thought process of this person is alive and still functioning. (HDT)
* * *
The logic is wonderful. So is the citing of e.e. cummings. The originality is superb. (PLF)
Annelise Goldberg
College: Yale University
PERSONAL STATEMENT
At the age of four the fact that I would one day fall from the platform into the tracks below seemed beyond question. The only point which needed further clarification was the exact distance that there would be between the oncoming subway train and me. While keeping a firm grip on my mother’s hand, I thought about my various escape options, for certainly I had no intention of letting the train triumph. The first escape route to be considered was my mother and so, cocking my mary-janed foot to one side, I gazed up appraisingly; was speedy action, saving her youngest child, and only daughter, from the snarling teeth of the train, one of her many virtues? Much as I loved my mother, I thought not—she was much better at reading stories.
Ah, well, if my mother wasn’t going to save me then I’d have to think of something else. Still attached, I ventured a brave toe to the yellow line and, holding my breath, peered down into the tracks. Underneath the platform was a very shallow cavity. Pulling in my stomach, I concluded that a person as small as me might, if she tried very hard, be able to stow herself safely in this alcove until the train had passed. After I was very sure that the train really had passed and wasn’t just lurking close by but out of sight to trick me, I would venture out of hiding, looking brave—a Hero. Heroes, I thought, invariable liked Chiclets. Certainly my mother, wishing to reward me for my great presence of mind, would shower me with Chiclets of every flavor imaginable. Of course, being a Hero, I would only eat them one box at a time.
All of this planning had made me hungry for Chiclets. Glancing up and down the platform, I spied a Chiclet machine and asked for a penny, which was given to me. The next problem that I had was that of choosing a flavor. Settling on Tutti-Frutti, I carefully put my penny in the proper slot and got a small pink box containing two Chiclets.
The chasm which I would have to cross in order to board the train seemed big and black—perhaps I would fall through. My mother said that she didn’t think so but still I lingered; I felt pleased with where I was and thought that perhaps it would be all for the best if I stayed with my Chiclet machine. I hadn’t figured the chasm into my escape plans. But my mother was stepping aboard and, just to keep track of her, I decided to go along, my mother being one of my more valued possessions.
Once aboard I totally forgot about the train’s sinister side and became fascinated with the other people in the car. One lady had purple shoes and a fake leopard skin vest on. Another had a hat with artificial fruit on top. A man slept, snoring, and another man was picking his nose. Where were they going? I stretched and my feet almost touched the floor…soon I’d be grown up.
After counting the number of red shoes in the car I got bored and went to look out the back window at all the tracks that we were leaving behind us.
At that time subways were connected with Chiclets, shopping for winter coats, trips to the Central Park Zoo, and my mother’s job. I liked the idea of having a job and hoped that I’d get one that was fun, like being a zookeeper. (How did the zookeeper get in the cage without the lions getting out? How many baby aspirins does a sick walrus eat?)
Later on I discovered that some of my friends came to school on the subway. For me, school and the dentist were both in bus territory. People on the buses were different and not as many of them slept.
More time passed and I found myself going to dance classes on the subway. My parents split and my brother and I became experts on the West Side line. At least three times a week I’d ride on the subway en route to my father’s house. Waiting for the train I’d marvel at the once beautiful mosaics, now caked with dirt, that lined the walls. Once New York had been very proud of its subway system. This made me feel sad. Beggars would come through the cars and Wall Street executives would board the train, going home after a “hard day at the office.” I became skilled at reading the newspaper over other people’s shoulders and discovered that the numbers accompanying graffiti names referred to the streets that the artists lived on. Sometimes someone would strike me as interesting, or sad. Often people looked as if they were thinking hard. On some trips I thought hard and on others I read the posters and faces. Sometimes I slept and my fear of falling between the platform and the train lessened as I grew larger. However, the empty tracks still looked ominous and I retained healthy respect for the yellow line. Gradually, I started to cross chasms alone. I had heard that if you took a pee on the third rail you’d be electrocuted. I wondered what I’d do if I saw a hundred dollar bill lying in the tracks.
Going to a friend’s house in Chinatown I would take the Lexington Avenue line and get off at Worth Street, a station which is housed in a Romanesque building. Wondering when the building had been erected, I gazed up at numerals which I was unable to decipher. Finally I came into the knowledge that x is not only the last letter of lox but also the numeral ten.
Often, I pretend that I’m someone else when I ride the subway. Sometimes people talk to you or you to them and sometimes you just stare at each other, each feeling that you are absorbing the other’s soul.
On the way home from Sloan-Kettering the apparent normalcy of the subway and its passengers soothes me. I have just seen the cells and face of a girl no older than I who is dying of cancer. Would I be able to work with terminally ill people every day?
My blood boils when my ass is pinched. When I get off at the recently retiled 49th Street station, on my way to Schirmer’s for flute music, my stomach gives a funny turn and I feel protective toward my dirty mosaics.
When I read about Odysseus, I look around to see who resembles Poseidon. Othello once rode across the car from me. Last week, in response to a poster, I decided to leave my organs to medicine.
I look at the waterfall in a glossy advertisement for KOOL cigarettes which reminds me of the sea, keeper of my other loyalties. The beaches on Cape Cod are rather deserted in October. Only a few fishermen are out fishing from the shore at that time of year. In I plunged, clothes and all, remembering the summertime taste of salt water.
Once I tried to compute the number of hours that I had spent on the subway but got tired before finishing. I’ve seen a lot of things and people that I would never have encountered any other way. My background contains European Catholic and Jewish forbears and New England stepparents, but no “believers”: It was the smudged foreheads on the subway that introduced me to Ash Wednesday.
I’m glad that I have grown up in New York, but I think that it’s time for me to leave for a while, to live in other ways and in other places, even if I eventually wind up returning to this one. I’d like to stay somewhere else for long enough to lose the feeling, which I have had when travelling across the United States and on my brief visits to foreign countries, of being a foreigner in a foreign place.
Wandering through the Met, I can be a coatless child or a Bendel’s lady. I value the feeling of uniqueness and the power to choose how I live, both of which my environment has nurtured as inalienable rights. Living amongst many people of different professions, viewpoints, and origins has exposed me to multiple insights and perspectives and made me realize that there are many Answers. All lifestyles and professions have their own depths of competences and responsibilities. I am looking for my own blend. Many options are attractive to me.
I look at things and wonder how and why they work. What are the intricacies, how is the effect achieved? With these questions forever in my mind I, like many others, seek an education.
The subway is a small-scale version of what I find exciting and special about New York City. I can ride it to go see Goyas or simply to watch the tracks that I’m leaving behind…I do both.
COMMENT:
What is remarkable here is her ability to string the beads of memory into a lovely necklace. She re-creates a child’s perception of the subway and then takes the subway through the rest of her life. She takes a simple aspect of her life—riding the subway—and uses that to thread the beads into the necklace. (PT)
Colin Hamilton
College: Amherst College
LOOKING AT HILLS
It’s mid-August, around 95 degrees in the shade. I’m tired, stiff, and riding my bike through Iowa. I’m not alone; there are nearly 9,000 people for company. Every year about this time, people gather from around the country to join in RAGBRI—the Des Moines Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa. People with no experience with RAGBRI may be quick to ask the question why, for there are no rewards—none that can be pinned or shelved. But what I’m gaining is immeasurable. The bonds I’m forming with my friends will keep us together no matter where we may be taken in the upcoming years. I’m learning about the generosity of rural Iowans who feed and shelter us. And riding, sometimes eight hours a day, I’m learning to look at hills.
The American Heritage Dictionary sums up a hill as “a well-defined, naturally elevated area of land smaller than a mountain.” That doesn’t give them enough credit. Hills are as diverse as those who wish to conquer them, each hill posing a unique problem. Each hill makes the rider calculate his speed and endurance, to focus his mind on a strong approach. Each hill will force the rider to respect it.
Iowa’s hills, in particular, are misunderstood. To believe the media would be to believe Iowa is one flat cornfield, occasionally graced with a pig or cow. Instead, the cows and pigs, which are frequent enough, stand on plenty of hills, rolling and mounded.
As we left the western border, we encountered short, steep hills which demanded a racing start so we could easily climb at least the first half. Then a struggle ensued while I hoped my momentum would carry me to the top. More often, I was left inching up the final yards.
East of Eldora, we faced curved hills, on which I could never see if I was at the beginning or the end. On these I had to constantly adjust my speed to respond to the terrain, conserving my energy in case I was suddenly struck with a sharp incline with no chance for a running start. But I also wanted to maintain an intense pace because ahead lay rest, drinks, food, and showers.
Eventually these hills softened into long, mild inclinations which dragged on for a mile or more. In the beginning, the inexperienced rider, like myself, welcomed these hills, anticipating no rushing, imminent challenge. Before long though, I respected their ability to sap my strength. On the third and fourth days of the ride, it was far more common to see people walking these hills than the steep ones which we topped in only a minute.
Maybe more frightening than any hill is its antithesis: the decline. Rushing down a slope at 30 miles an hour with only two thin, floppy strips of rubber between me and a serious accident gave me a perspective far more real than any dictionary definition. On these slopes balance is everything, but at such high, unsteady speeds so little of it remains I could barely risk my head to see what I was riding from; I could only look dead ahead to where I was riding to, very quickly.
Occasionally, as we pedaled across the state, we met a hill which could be seen from miles away, looming menacingly, glaring down at us even as we crested the surrounding hills. These are the hills that festered in our minds, always influencing our conservation of energy and the planning of our rests. I learned to establish an equilibrium between preparation for these hills and putting them out of my mind. If I became too obsessed with them, I lost my concentration and with it my ability to conquer the smaller hills. But if I ignored the monstrous hills until I was suddenly on one, I was mentally and physically unprepared for the challenge. Sometimes the hill was more gentle than expected, other times far worse. And sometimes, as I approached, the path turned to the right or left and I’d be on the next stretch.
* * *
It is now December and I’m standing at the base of what appears to be a formidable hill, one which has dominated my horizons for a long time. The road into it seems to head east, but it is curved and I can’t tell how far it will take me. There are many paths which would allow me to turn off, but they too are curved and hilly, although they may appear at first to be flat.
This is a hill almost all my friends have come to. Some have chosen to turn off; many are struggling with it now; many are forced to walk. Some will turn back and others, through hard work, preparation, and skill, will climb to the top where the views are good and there are endless roads to choose from.
I know it will be tough, but I have a running start and am usually a strong rider.
COMMENT:
At first glance, long, but I was fascinated with this wonderful ability to bring the reader along. Colin has a real ability in written expression, and even though lengthy the essay works well. (JLM)
* * *
Long. A bit tedious in the telling, but a clever idea; a unique way to reveal Iowa, biking, and the author’s approach to life and future goals. Seems worked on, fabricated, rather than spontaneously, naturally creative language. But good. (MAH)
Alan P. Isaac
College: Williams College
PERSONAL STATEMENT: RUMORS OF INNOCENCE
STAGE: Lighting is dim. Soft spotlights on characters onstage. The two characters, racially indistinguishable, sit on a church pew downstage center. Upstage is completely dark.
B: Does it hurt?
A: Not anymore. Not too much, at least.
A: Not really, but once in a while, I would get snatches of memory, then a pang would suddenly surface from some well inside, cause a splash, then quietly die down.
B: Any regrets?
A: No, just second thoughts.
B: But, how do you feel? What do you do?
A: I sigh, then go with the next task.
B: It’s not so bad, is it? I suppose every turning point makes you the person that you are. The self is formed this way, the mundane experiences are nothing more than the self expressing itself. But, really now, how much time do those turning points take when you put them all together?
A: No, we can’t stop too long for anything…But innocence is so hard to sacrifice without some regret.
B: Everything we choose to make holy was never ours in the first place. Time comes when we have to give it up.
A: I suppose…I often wonder: What is there after innocence?
B: (Pauses to think) Why,…I guess, your whole life.
A: It was so safe in that bubble. When I was a child, in church I used to look up at the ceiling and stare at the lights up there. Each light was surrounded by all sorts of colors. They were all so pretty, I thought. I picked the three biggest and prettiest. They were Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. They were all up there protecting me. I was happy they did.
B: So, are they still up there?
A: I found out that it was just my eyesight failing me at such a young age. I needed glasses, that’s all. It was my body’s promise to gradually waste away. It was a nice thought, anyway. I still take off my glasses to see them now and then. (Looks up.) They look different now.
B: Are you still a Catholic?
A: (Smiles.) Yes? No? In my sense, yes. In my parents’ pre-Vatican Two sense, no. But I found that Catholicism was one way. You can’t follow The Way if the self is not filled with it. Each person has to find his or her way.
B: A way to what?
A: (Pauses.) I don’t know…Salvation?
B: If there’s no salvation? What then?
A: (Pauses) Well,…I guess there’s nothing left but compassion…and God, maybe?
B: You still believe in God?
A: Yes, but I had to kill God before I could even begin to believe in a god. Empty myself of Him. What was left was…me. I had to realize myself first before God, since God will always be. I, on the other hand, will not. I have time, nothing else. Remember? We had to kill Christ first to gain eternal life.
B: But against God, don’t you feel insignificant?
A: But, I don’t hold myself against God, but with God. I don’t try to objectify a deity. I don’t make a box to deposit all my morals in.
B: How was it when you killed God?
A: Frightening. It wasn’t God that I killed, though, but an idea of a god. I had to break that idol like I had to break the world my heritage had built for me and around me. One time my mother and I were having an argument. In the middle of it, she demanded: When are you going to start thinking and acting like a Filipino? I thought that a better question to ask was: When am I going to start thinking and acting? You see, I didn’t want a world that was built for me, but a world built by me.
B: It’s pretty scary out there. What do we have?
A: Choice.
B: Control.
A: Dreams.
B: Compassion.
A: And when all else fails, try dignity. It works sometimes.
(Silence.)
Are you finished praying?
B: I don’t think I’ve ever stopped. How about you? Does it still hurt?
A: No. Not too much.
B: So,…what is left after innocence?
A: Why, your whole life.
(They look at each other, rise from the pew. They slowly part still looking at each other as
Lights fade.)
COMMENT:
An excellent, rather unique portrayal of this student’s philosophical and religious views. It is a bit risky—as essays for college admission go—certainly not standard. At times, it seems too narrow; at other times, too abstract. Actually it is probably both. The essay reveals a very clever, perceptive, mature author. (TG)
* * *
A creative, powerful essay—a beautiful handling of the “loss of innocence” or “quest for independence” theme. Another common subject matter presented in a crisp, clear, individual manner. (JWM)
Ameen Jan
College: Princeton University
THE TRAMP
The river is cold as fall changes to winter, and its water glides softly over the sharp rocks on the bed. The bank on both sides is pebbled, and further up gets forested with willows; the leaves have turned through orange and red to brown at this time of year, and each minute adds to the collection of these on the ground underneath. Chill winds blow in the early morning, when the sun is not strong enough to break through the clouds, and a light drizzle starts to fall on the downy leaves up the bank. Soon droplets begin to form on the leaves still attached to their boughs, and as they collect, the foliage starts drooping lower until the accumulated water drops off the ledge.
The tramp gets up at this time, for his face is cold. He quickly gathers his meager belongings in the bundle of tattered clothes that he carries with him, and makes his way to the bank of the river. He quickly rinses his face with a handful of water, for it is freezing cold, and runs his fingers through his matted hair (or at least makes an attempt of it). The morning ablutions are done.
Under a spreading willow, which still retains some of its foliage, a few yards up the river he seeks temporary shelter. He reaches into his coat pocket and draws a half-eaten can of beans and a bent spoon. He crumples the lid over with the utmost care, for its edges are sharp, and reaches into its contents. The congealed mass of food is slowly dislodged from the sides of the can, and the tramp starts to chew on the cold morsels.
The end of morning meal signifies the start of a day-long trek upriver to the town. Perhaps he can get a job there, maybe as a laborer, for the harvest is over and so is his last job as a picker at a farm. He would wake up early if he had a warm bed to sleep in and a roof over his head; he would work hard all day, laying bricks or carrying luggage at the railway station or running errands for a store. He would work hard if he could get a proper meal at a proper time, and have a routine set for him. Maybe he could even have a few friends, others like him roaming the country in search for jobs, and landing the same employment. He could progress, if given the chance, and prove his worth to the world…
By around noon the sun breaks through the clouds and the drizzle stops; the wet leaves and the soggy ground start to dry, and the atmosphere assumes a slight degree of warmth. The leaves on the ground start to scatter as they dry, for the tramp’s shuffling footsteps dislodge them from their bed. The river sparkles up ahead as the sunlight is reflected off its surface, but underneath it is cold and forbidding. There is nothing to be seen in the distance, but for the naked willows and the interminable river.
COMMENT:
An excellent essay if descriptive writing is the object. The essay is especially good as it conveys the thought that this situation will continue as it is—as does the river—the use of nature as a dominant element in this essay is effective. Enough of the tramp carries arrows to get the idea—and nature and its continuance dominate the mood and thought of the tale. (DT)
* * *
The description of the physical surroundings is great, but the direction of the narrative is fuzzy, leaving a sense of confusion. (PLF)
Anne M. Knott
College: Yale University
TEN WAYS TO CELEBRATE LIFE
Set aside the homework long enough to go outside and smell the sweet springtime and see how blue the sky can be.
* * *
Take a walk in the greening woods and fields, make boats to float down the swollen creek, and listen to the birds singing.
* * *
Sit with a friend in a restaurant booth and order a chocolate milkshake with two straws.
* * *
Go to the arboretum and run through the woods and meadows until you collapse, climb trees, sing, roll down hills until you are dizzy, and let loose all that pent-up energy.
* * *
With the sun beating overhead, dive down down down into the clear cold lake and come back up slowly through the fractured sunlight.
Sleep out on a summer’s night and count shooting stars and constellations. Wonder at life so small in a universe so big.
* * *
On a crisp fall day, go with many friends to roam the apple orchard, climbing trees and finding the biggest and best apples, tasting them all, and afterward of course getting fresh hot cinnamon doughnuts and cider.
* * *
Put on all the warmest clothes (not forgetting boots and mittens) and venture out with friends into the swirling blizzard to build a snowman and tackle each other in the snow.
* * *
Come in all ruddy-cheeked, put on warm dry clothes that are too big for you, and curl up by the fire with popcorn and hot cocoa while the snow melts on the kitchen floor.
* * *
Crunch through the snow with frosty toes caroling with friends, make sugar cookies, smell the evergreen, keep secrets, and sing out the Christmas cheer.
COMMENT:
I want to really like this essay answer of Anne’s, but am not sure that her attempt works that well. The person she is indirectly describing here (i.e., Anne herself) is probably a warm, sensitive young woman who does indeed have a special zest for living; but we aren’t convinced of that because the message of this “poetry in prose” is rather detached from a description of self. I suppose as a reader (and maybe an all-too-cynical one), I’d find myself asking, “Is she ‘for real’?” If the essay question had asked the applicant how to best celebrate life, the answer would be a truly marvelous one. (RJO)
Zoe Mulford
College: Harvard University
Belgians grow in circles
like mushrooms in the rain.
Looking down from a window
on a schoolyard at recess
the girls appear in little rings
like a yeast colony—
conversational huddles
that grow and regroup
and divide like cells.
To enter a circle
you go around and kiss each person
even the ones you don’t know.
Always kiss
hello goodbye goodmorning goodnight.
As cheek brushes cheek
you verify
I am a person
You are a person
We have a basis for communication.
It took me a while to catch on,
coming from a world of determined individuals
who disdained cliques,
studied at the lunch table,
looked up suspiciously
if you said good morning.
Here the girls thought I was standoffish
when I only said it once.
My host-mother shook her head.
Well, she’s an artist.
Her mind is elsewhere.
She’s ignoring us.
Now I kiss
hello goodbye goodmorning goodnight.
Cheek brushes cheek.
really wanting to know.
I learn people’s names
who they’re related to and how,
what they’ve been doing.
In a room cold with grief
the family circle gathers to kiss for the last time
an uncle dead of leukemia.
Women weep together.
I stand bewildered with the close relatives
as all I can offer is respectful silence
filling a space in the ring.
In a room warm with birth
they gather to kiss for the first time
a long-awaited nephew.
I smile and coo with the rest
and study this new little foreigner
who will learn
as I am learning
by watching.
In kitchens full of soup-smells
where the steam from the pressure-cooker
condenses on the windows
and November’s nasal-drip
spatters on the red roofs.
Circles of old women gather for coffee
to talk birth and death and weather
mothers and daughters and women’s work,
and I sit with them listening
and asking questions.
I piece together the cycles,
marking the place I would fit in
were I not flying away again in July.
Letters from my mother
talk of adapting the tribe for modern life,
forming supra-family neighborhood support networks.
I am taking notes for her.
as well as protecting.
They’ve burned witches here.
Strong women have been broken over the dishpan,
noble men stifled in the mines.
Kristen Mulvihill
College: Brown University
CONFIRMATION (FAITH JOURNEY?)
All of the other little angels were wearing white. Why wasn’t I?
To be honest, it didn’t much concern me. I felt I was worthy of the color; however, it was not symbolic pageantry that mattered, but rather good intention. Who ever said white made one holy? Besides, it was past Labor Day and I didn’t want to commit a “sin” in the name of the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit.
You may have surmised by now that I am entering into a realm, sometimes better left untouched, as I reflect upon an event, which although performed with good intention, served only to overshadow the true significance of the occasion, as well as to challenge my personal beliefs.
I remember Confirmation. How could I ever forget it: the long ceremony, the dignified bishop, the parishioners at their holiest.
But what was most important on that auspicious occasion was the true meaning of Confirmation, the “for what” and “for whom” it was intended. As to just what the exact purpose was, I am still pondering. However, as to “for whom” it was meant, the answer is as clear to me today as it was then: for the parents, of course, and for the Church that took the opportunity to show its holiness and to demonstrate humility.
For the parents, it was a sign of hope. The mothers were so proud, their eyes filled with tears of joy. And why not? Each of their daughters were wearing white, a color most suitable for their sixteen- and seventeen-year-old “innocent girls.” The fathers were also elated. For many of them it was a first: “the first Sunday Mass in seventeen years.” It was, too, a chance to rename their sons, to give them holy titles other than doctor or counselor. They were so proud of their sons-—so proud in fact, it’s a wonder none of them chose the name Jesus for their son. Then again, humility is a characteristic common to all good Christians.
This humility was best exhibited by the bishop, God bless him, who wore a large ring, which he, out of graciousness, permitted all to kiss. He wore a robe, laden with gold. However, it too was quite modest, as it had no waistline and was anything but revealing. He brought with him an assistant, a middle-aged, rather handsome priest. Looks did not go to his head either, as he was sure to smile at each female candidate as she approached the altar. He too was most humble. Upon numerous occasions, he helped the bishop straighten his foot-tall crown, handed him his long gold staff, and generally did anything his excellency requested, as long as he could look holy doing it. Undoubtedly, he eagerly awaited the day when, after the requisite period of study in Rome, he could fully relieve his excellency of his duties and assume the role of imparting the Holy Spirit into another generation.
The highlight of the event was the bishop’s address, his words of divine advice to the “children” of our parish. It was indeed a speech I will never forget or forgive. He was especially kind to the female candidates as he spoke of “the grand future” ahead of us, of which he seemed to feel we were most worthy—“the vocation of wifedom and motherhood,” as he so graciously phrased it. Deeply moved by this statement, I noted, with not too little irony, that chauvinistic stability that has characterized Holy “Mother” Church since the days of Peter and Paul. Isn’t it nice to know some things never change.
The male candidates, of course, fully appreciated the speech. They seemed to be completely relaxed, brought to such a deep state of religious contemplation that they closed their eyes in silent, sleepy meditation.
Perhaps the parents related to the speech best of all, as they had experienced all of the self-fulfilling, religious experiences of which his excellency spoke: marriage, penance, and naturally planned parenthood.
Yes, Confirmation was for me a “true awakening.” I regret to say it was neither what I expected nor desired.
Ironically, it contradicted rather than reinforced the values taught to me in Confirmation class. Yet, somehow, the disappointment of that day has taught me to rely upon my own beliefs. It has caused me to appreciate further the difference between the shallowness of pompous pageantry and the depth of simple ceremony.
COMMENT:
She hits much too hard at times (such as in criticizing the priest for smiling), but overall the essay succeeds because it brings out her personality. She takes quite a chance in writing this essay, but one which I believe is worth taking. This is a person I would like to meet.
This is a rare example of a cynical or sarcastic essay that succeeds as a college application essay.
James P. O’Rourke
College: Harvard College
PERSONAL STATEMENT
“Is this a high school or a museum?” I wondered. I had just walked through the doors of Regis High School and formed my first impression of the institution. The impersonal hallways and stone staircases gave me a cold feeling of insignificance. The sounds of the city outside came in through the walls and I realized I hadn’t just chosen a school to attend—I had changed my way of life. Gone was my placid grammar school, set in the midst of acres of rolling Pennsylvania farmland. I would only continue to eat and sleep in my relaxed town of Titusville, New Jersey. My daily reality would now be a hurried four-and-a-half-hour commute to and from Manhattan, and the rigorous demands of an intense curriculum.
Almost four years later, I emerged from the daydreaming en route to Manhattan, amused at my freshman misgivings. The 6:59 express train had just departed from Princeton Junction, New Jersey. On board, I took in the familiar surroundings. Like every other day, the commuters had jammed through the doors to get seats for the long ride. After folding raincoats and stowing briefcases, the commuters settled themselves with their newspapers.
I too settled into my seat and reviewed my Classical Political Thought assignment. I began to read Plato’s Republic. I was fascinated by Plato’s ideas. He masterfully expressed much of what I found or suspected to be true in life. I read over the section on the education of the philosopher-ruler. Plato was so right…dialectic and rational discussion will always be important for those who want perspective and truth. But how many people share Plato’s view in life? How many commit to the same priorities?
I sat there feeling something between despondency and frustration. Perspective was vitally important to me, and the challenge of communicating it to those seated around me seemed impossible. My mind began to shift from the analytical to the imaginative. I began to fantasize that the time had finally come to share my philosophy of life.
I imagined turning to my right. My first partner in enlightenment would be the kind-looking, middle-aged commuter seated next to me. I would begin confidently, picturing myself as Socrates questioning Cephalus or Thrasymachus.
“Do you know there are 130 people in this car…most of whom sit merely a few feet away from us. We sit next to these people every day. Do you realize that Plato—one of the greatest thinkers of all time—believed that dialectic could eventually lead people to the discovery of ultimate reality…The Good. Through the virtues of wisdom, justice, and discipline we attain knowledge of this Good. It, the Good, then permeates one’s entire life, enabling him to do everything better. His whole person with all his faculties are raised to a higher level. If all this can happen through rational discussion of significant ideas among men, can you imagine the enlightenment potential just sitting in this one car? We could all be so much better off if we only conversed with each other on important issues.”
I had made my pitch, I had taken my risk and shared with this decent-looking fellow what was important to me. Plato would have been proud. I awaited his reaction and response with eager anticipation as I studied his facial expressions. He looked at me quizzically, quickly but politely excused himself, stood up, grabbed his raincoat, and left the car. He did though continue to look back over his shoulder.
I came back to reality. The decent-looking commuter was still seated beside me, now showing signs of an impending morning nap. No damage done, but no meaningful communication effected in reality.
COMMENT:
I would give this student an “A” if I were grading this as an English composition. It is cleverly conceived and well written. It wouldn’t impress me, however, as an admissions tool in that it fails to reveal much about the author. (TG)
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A “catchy” opening that immediately draws the reader into the life of Jim O’Rourke. References to Plato could have come off as forced and pseudo-intellectual, but the clear descriptions of the train and daydreams pull it into a well-written essay revealing an inquisitive mind. (JWM)