This Is My Brain on Personal Statements

JOCELYN

Perry High School has a Rising Stars of Business club that’s basically composed of tools. To the best of my knowledge, it’s an all-white group of six boys and two girls who sit around playing at being grown-ups. They wear ill-fitting business suits to their meetings and tote around giant flip boards so they can brainstorm shit and talk about “economies of scale,” play with imaginary money, and brag about how much they won in the Stock Market Game. I am never going to fit in with that group and don’t want to try.

What my dad wants me to do is the University of Utica Junior Business Program, which allows high school students to take a college course each semester during their junior and senior years. A lot of people get into the program—basically, it seems like if you can pay tuition and string together sentences for an application essay you are in. What interests my dad, of course, is a scholarship program where the person who plans the best business project gets free tuition, not to mention access to a faculty adviser and $5,000 seed money for their proposal.

I know at least one of the people applying, this guy Geoff from my school, who is student council treasurer. He’s apparently trying to start up a solar power assessment company.

As it turns out, Geoff is dating Priya’s friend Sophia, so Priya was able to give me intel. “Basically Sophia tells me that his parents told him to play up the clean energy angle because it’s hot now, not because he’s really interested in it. It’s all just résumé fodder for him; he doesn’t actually want it.”

I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse, to feel like some scrappy underdog battling a faceless group of overachievers. Actually, there’s no question. It makes it worse. I know the people applying for these honors—I pirated the frosted polypropylene report covers that one of them bought for our group project, for God’s sake—and they are not to be underestimated. They probably have recommendation letters from VPs of Fortune 500 companies or something. Who am I supposed to get my recommendation from, my amah?

Just scrolling through the application for the scholarship gives me hives. The program’s general application just requires a transcript, a statement of purpose, and two recommendation letters, one from a teacher and one from another supervisor or counselor. But the scholarship application asks questions like, “Tell us about a leadership position you have volunteered for.” and “What was the most challenging ethical dilemma you’ve ever had and how did you resolve it?” It also calls for a third recommendation, from a colleague or someone else who has witnessed me in a leadership role.

I reluctantly admit that this third letter is going to have to come from Will. He’s the obvious choice, not only because he can string more than five words together in a sentence. I’m already stressing out that my “supervisor” is also my dad, until I realize that I can probably ask my middle school librarian, Mrs. Morgan, whose media section I reorganized and curated.

My biggest problem is that it’s going to take me at least a week to produce enough bullshit to populate a seven-hundred-word statement of purpose. “My dad’s making me do it” probably isn’t going to cut it.

“I don’t get it,” I whine to Priya as I pump her for more information about Geoff and his project. “What do these admissions people really expect from these essays? I mean, isn’t it obvious that people’s purpose when they go into business is to make money?”

“Maybe this is the part of the application where you have to do some ego stroking. I mean, you have to appeal to their idea of B-school having a higher purpose. You can spout off about how prosperity brings growth or something like that. I don’t know, talk about how thriving companies mean thriving communities. I think I’ve heard that on a commercial somewhere.”

“I guess I need to watch Wall Street again.” I sigh. “Greed is good.”

“No, just google ‘best business school essays,’” Priya says. “Find the one that least makes you want to vomit into your own mouth and model it after that.”

“Ugh, why do these sites all give you advice that essentially amounts to ‘be yourself’ and ‘just remember not to be a jerk’?”

“It’s good practice for college admission essays. It took my brother seventeen drafts before he came up with one that my dad approved of. He basically became the king of the humble brag.”

“A lot of people say you should mention your failures,” I note, browsing through a few summaries. “That’ll be kind of easy.”

“Yeah, schools like you to show that you have ‘grit,’” Priya says vaguely. “It’s like in interviews where you have to talk about your biggest weakness and somehow make it into a strength.”

“Hey, I think I asked Will that one,” I exclaim. “Maybe I am meant to go into business after all.”

“Of course you are,” Priya says, like it’s completely obvious. “You’re the OG get-shit-done-woman. I’d want you to be CEO of my company any day.”

It’s such a Priya thing to say. I love that about her. “You’re just saying that because Excel gives you hives.”

“No, I’m not,” she insists. “Stop deflecting, or I’m going to make you do your daily affirmations again. University of Utica is going to accept you because you’re ridiculously organized, have experience with creative ways to run a business, and because you’ve been raised to have an unreasonable work ethic that will probably give you a heart attack before you’re thirty.”

When I don’t say anything, Priya grumbles, “Jocelyn Wu, don’t make me ask you to repeat after me.”

I laugh so I won’t cry. “I don’t know. Will I even make the cut for an interview? My GPA isn’t exactly stellar.” It’s not the worst. I don’t take enough honors classes to get above a 4.0, so it’s a 3.8, which sounds good but is basically an Asian C.

“Hey, it’s better than mine,” Priya says cheerfully. She loves that her parents have already given up on her and labeled her The Child Who Will Not Get into MIT. “Seriously, don’t stress out about the app.”

It’s the only time Priya’s advice ever chafes me, really. Because it’s like she doesn’t even know who I am, to think that there’s ever a moment in my life when I’m not bummed out over one thing or another, or stressed in some way.