I began to discover political and historical undertones in all of Sondheim’s work. For example, Assassins whirlwinds from the Lincoln era up to Reagan’s Presidency. Originally, I simply thought it was hysterical to belt Lynette Fromme’s love ballad to Charles Manson. Later, I realized how much history I had unknowingly retained from this musical. The song “November 22, 1963” reflects on America’s most notorious assassination attempts, and alludes to each assassin being motivated by a desperate attempt to connect to a specific individual or culture to gain control over their life. Assassins awakened me to the flaws in some of our quintessential American ideals because the song “Everybody’s Got the Right” illustrates how the American individualism enshrined in our Constitution can be twisted to support hate, harm, and entitlement. I internalized Sondheim’s political commentary, and I see its relevance in America's most pressing issues. The misconstrued idea of limitless freedom can be detrimental to public health, worsening issues such as the climate crisis, gun violence, and the coronavirus pandemic. These existential threats largely stem from antiquated ideas that the rights of the few outweigh the rights of the majority. Ironically, a musical about individuals who tried to dismantle our American political system sparked my political interests, but this speaks to the power of Sondheim’s music and my ability to make connections and draw inspiration from unlikely sources.
Absorbing historical and political commentary set to music allows my statistical and logical brain to better empathize with the characters, giving me a deeper understanding of the conflicts portrayed on stage, almost like reading a diary. Theatremakers are influenced by both history and their life experiences. I internalize their underlying themes and values, and my mindset shifts to reflect the art that I adore. I’m an aspiring political changemaker, and Sondheim’s musicals influence my political opinions by enabling me to empathize with communities living drastically different lives from my own.
I sang Sondheim melodies before I could talk. As I grew intellectually and emotionally, Sondheim’s musicals began to carry more weight. With each viewing, I retained new historical and political information. This ritual drives me to continue studying Sondheim and enables me to confidently walk my own path because Sondheim’s work passively strengthens my ethics as I continue to extrapolate relevant life lessons from his melodies. Sondheim’s stories, with their complex, morally ambiguous characters, have solidified my ironclad set of morals which, together with my love of history, have blossomed into a passion for human rights and politics.
招生官点评：
Lauren的文书很有冲击力。
文书开头就以《理发师陶德》为主题的课间游戏中快乐地“谋杀”朋友，欧博abg你就会被深深的吸引住。
这不是一篇普通的个人文书，这是一段对斯蒂芬·桑德海姆痴迷的童年狂野之旅。在这段童年中，“戏剧是一种宗教”，而《Finishing the Hat 》是圣经。
这篇文章之所以引人注目，是因为Lauren毫不掩饰的热情，她不只是喜欢音乐剧。
《West Side Story 》实际上让她产生了内心的反应，塑造了她的智力成长。
Lauren描述了这些音乐剧的政治背景如何点燃了她对社会正义的热情。她还展现了一种既善于分析又富有创造力的思维，将历史歌曲与枪支暴力和疫情等现代问题联系起来。
我们一直鼓励学生这样做——让你的热情闪耀。你的大学文书是让你的真实声音得以表达的最佳场所。因此，一定要选择一个你真正感兴趣并投入的主题。这种热情会具有感染力，并会给读者留下持久的印象。
Lauren还出色地保持了一种亲切而可爱的语气（“我不确定我对上帝的看法，但我相信桑德海姆”）。
她成功地将对桑德海姆作品的热情与成为政治变革者的愿望联系起来。
这种热情和目标的结合令人信服，最终使她成为哈佛大学的一员。
02
Marcus' Essay
Successful Harvard Essay: The Zoo
The Zoo
As late afternoon sunlight danced on my shoulders, I squished my eight-year-old face against the glass of the outdoor tank, eyes wide and searching for any signs of life. There! I scrambled from where I was seated, chasing the flickering sight of my prize. The otter darted away from me, his lithe body disappearing into a crack in the stones. I slumped against the wall, disappointed. Ever the HR representative, my mother saw my face and asked me what was wrong. I explained my frustration with the otters -- they’re so fun to watch, but they refuse to be seen. My mother leaned down, brushing a long lock of hair out of my face, and told me, “Sometimes, the animals get tired of being watched. They just want to be left alone.”
I didn’t think much of the otters after that. Until I became one.
In October of my sophomore year, I was four months into my transition from female to male. I wasn’t out to my extended family, my wardrobe was a haphazard mess of cargo shorts and skirts, and my voice was still, to my distress, annoyingly high. Being transgender at Middleton High School was no small feat -- I stuck out in a sea of over 2,000 cisgender peers, and most of my teachers did not know how to deal with people “in my situation,” as one put it.
One day, as I walked to my bus after school, I heard snickers from behind me. I turned around and saw a rowdy group of boys. One had his phone up, recording me. Everyone was laughing, and in an instant I knew they were laughing at me. I turned and walked away, doing my best to conceal myself from their view. The laughter continued.
I was the star of a humiliating show that I never asked to be a part of. I had become the otter. Their laughs kept ringing in my ears as I sat alone on the bus. I wanted to crawl inside myself and implode rather than think about going back to face them again the next day. My phone kept buzzing, but I refused to check it. It was only when I arrived home and checked those messages that I found that the video had been posted across social media for hundreds of my peers to see. It seemed like nothing, just a video of me walking, turning, and looking away. But their laughs were clear in the background, and I still understood the point of the video -- look at the freak. Look at the new zoo exhibit.
Seeing that video, I realized that I couldn’t allow myself to turn into what they saw me as. They wanted an otter, a punching bag that wouldn’t fight back. I was not going to be their otter. The next day, I went to my first Sexuality and Gender Equality club meeting. I spoke to the administration about what had happened. I saved the video and showed people. I took control.
Those boys wanted me to believe that I was merely an exhibit to be laughed at, but now I know I live for greater things. I live for lattes, for courtroom closing arguments, for the pesto I make at work. I live for Black Lives Matter and #enough and Pride. I live for kayaking and summer camp, for the kids in SAGE and my younger sister. My classmates tried to dehumanize me, trample me, and mold me into their image of transgender people. Maybe they’ll never see me as an equal, but that is their blindness, not mine. I do not live on display. I do not live in a zoo.
招生官点评：
这篇文书非常的发人深省。
Marcus出色地创作了一个深刻、内省和成功的个人发展故事，重点关注“身份”和“克服障碍”。
尽管讨论两个主题可能有点冒险，但她完美地将它们串联在一起。
每一段都独具匠心，以优美的创意散文形式，讲述了Marcus的旅程——从童年的困惑（与水獭的相遇）到未来的自我发现和孤立（她成为水獭），再到自我接受和决心（她不会被欺负），最终走向胜利（她对生活的热情和热爱）。
在第1-2段中，Marcus关于动物园水獭的个人轶事非常有效地构成了她从顺性别到跨性别的艰难转变的更大讨论框架。
她母亲关于水獭自我隔离原因的智慧闪闪发光，为接下来的内容奠定了基础。
Marcus将自己与她曾经在动物园见过的水獭进行了比较，欧博官网这激发了我继续阅读的兴趣。
第3段有效地突出了她在高中转型期间所经历的困难——出柜、着装、尖锐的声音和学术能力的挑战。这些例子有助于读者理解她的困境。
第4-5段描述了Marcus的自我意识，她现在已经成为动物园里的水獭——一个摆设，一个“怪胎”，一个她从未想过成为的人。
她编织了一段悲伤而又令人不安的高中经历，欺凌和公开羞辱让她感到悲伤、孤立，并质疑她的自我价值。Marcus的诚实唤起了真实的情感，我真的为她感到难过。
第6段出现了“顿悟”时刻，Marcus进行了令人愉悦的深刻反思，意识到她不会成为笑柄，而是变革的推动者。她通过参加俱乐部会议和与学校教职员工交谈来“掌控局面”。
第7段体现了胜利的喜悦，因为Marcus详细描述了她的喜悦、自我接受以及她现在的样子。她喜欢咖啡、法律、工作、皮划艇、她的妹妹、黑人的命也是命和性别联想。
她通过理解分享智慧，她明白自己无法改变他人的无知，但可以作为新的自我过上有意义的、充满激情的生活——这是对读者以及其他像她一样的人的真诚信息。
总的来说，这篇文书带领读者踏上一段生动、感人且结构良好的旅程，分享作者独特的经历以及这些经历对她的成长和成熟为何如此重要。
03
Daniella's Essay
Each time I bake cookies, they come out differently. Butter, sugar, eggs, flour — I measure with precision, stir with vigor, then set the oven to 375°F. The recipe is routine, yet hardly redundant.
After a blizzard left me stranded indoors with nothing but a whisk and a pantry full of the fundamentals, I made my first batch: a tray of piping hot chocolate chunkers whose melt-in-the-mouth morsels comforted my snowed-in soul. Such a flawless description, however, belies my messy process. In reality, my method was haphazard and carefree, the cookies a delicious fortuity that has since been impossible to replicate.
Each subsequent batch I make is a gamble. Will the cookies flatten and come out crispy? Stay bulbous and gooey? Am I a bad baker, or are they inherently capricious? Even with a recipe book full of suggestions, I can never place a finger on my mistake. The cookies are fickle and short-tempered. Baking them is like walking on eggshells — and I have an empty egg carton to prove it. Perhaps beginner’s luck had been the secret ingredient all along.
Yet, curiosity keeps me flipping to the same page in my recipe book. I became engrossed in perfecting the cookies not by the mechanical satisfaction of watching ingredients combine into batter, but by the chance to wonder at simplicity. The inconsistency is captivating. It is, after all, a strict recipe, identical ingredients combined in the same permutation. How can such orthodox steps yield such radical, unpredictable results? Even with the most formulaic tasks, I am questioning the universe.
Chemistry explains some of the anomaly. For instance, just a half-pinch extra of baking soda can have astounding ramifications on how the dough bubbles. The kitchen became my laboratory: I diaried each trial like a scientist; I bought a scale for more accurate measurements; I borrowed “On Food and Cooking: the Science and Lore of the Kitchen” from the library. But all to no avail — the variables refused to come together in any sort of equilibrium.
I then approached the problem like a pianist, taking the advice my teacher wrote in the margins of my sheet music and pouring it into the mixing bowl. There are 88 pitches on a keyboard, and there are a dozen ingredients in the recipe. To create a rhapsodic dessert, I needed to understand all of the melodic and harmonic lines and how they complemented one another. I imagined the recipe in Italian script, the chocolate chips as quick staccatos suspended in a thick adagio medium. But my fingers always stumbled at the coda of each performance, the details of the cookies turning to a hodgepodge of sound.
I whisk, I sift, I stir, I pre-heat the oven again, but each batch has its flaws, either too sweet, burnt edges, grainy, or underdone. Though the cookies were born of boredom, their erratic nature continues to fascinate me. Each time my efforts yield an imperfect result, I develop resilience to return the following week with a fresh apron, ready to try again. I am mesmerized by the quirks of each trial. It isn’t enough to just mix and eat — I must understand.
My creative outlook has kept the task engaging. Despite the repetition in my process, I find new angles that liven the recipe. In college and beyond, there will be things like baking cookies, endeavors that seem so unvaried they risk spoiling themselves to a housewife’s drudgery. But from my time in the kitchen, I have learned how to probe deeper into the mechanics of my tasks, to bring music into monotony, and to turn work into play. However the cookie crumbles in my future, I will approach my work with curiosity, creativity, and earnestness.
招生官点评：
Daniella的文书写的可爱、有趣而且很有效。
真实而自然地展示了她的不同方面、她如何处理问题以及她所看重的东西。这个话题的平凡与她的结论、见解完美契合。
她运用幽默，表现出坚韧、创造力、求知欲和对哲学思考的真实倾向。
她的“声音”充满自信，用词富有创意，每一段的词汇都深刻地反映了她的不同方面（科学家“记录每一次试验”；音乐家试图创造“狂想曲甜点”）。
有几段详细描述Daniella制作饼干过程的文字也非常有力。
她用感性的细节来描述，让人产生共鸣（你可以闻到、尝到和感觉到那些巧克力），而不是在文章中塞满各种资历或经历。
这种结构大胆而谦逊。它让Daniella向读者展示而不是告诉他们她是如何思考的、如何解决问题的、如何坚持不懈的。这非常有力。
04
Sarika's Essay
I, Too, Can Dance
I was in love with the way the dainty pink mouse glided across the stage, her tutu twirling as she pirouetted and her rose-colored bow following the motion of her outstretched arms with every grand jeté.
I had always dreamed I would dance, and Angelina Ballerina made it seem so easy. There was something so freeing about the way she wove her body into the delicate threads of the Sugar Plum Fairy’s song each time she performed an arabesque. I longed for my whole being to melt into the magical melodies of music; I longed to enchant the world with my own stories; and I longed for the smile that glimmered on every dancer’s face.
At recess, my friends and I would improvise dances. But while they seemed well on their way to achieving ballerina status, my figure eights were more like zeroes and every attempt at spinning around left me feeling dizzy. Sometimes, I even ran over my friends’ toes. How could I share my stories with others if I managed to injure them with my wheelchair before the story even began?
I then tried piano, but my fingers stumbled across the keys in an uncoordinated staccato tap dance of sorts. I tried art, but the clumsiness of my brush left the canvas a colorful mess. I tried the recorder, but had Angelina existed in real life, my rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” would have frozen her in midair, with flute-like screeches tumbling through the air before ending in an awkward split and shattering the gossamer world the Sugar Plum Fairy had worked so hard to build.
For as long as I could remember, I’d also been fascinated by words, but I’d never explored writing until one day in fourth grade, the school librarian announced a poetry contest. That night, as I tried to sleep, ideas scampered through my head like Nutcracker mice awakening a sleeping Clara to a mystical new world. By morning, I had choreographed the mice to tell a winning story in verse about all the marvelous outer space factoids I knew.
Now, my pencil pirouettes perfect O’s on paper amidst sagas of doting mothers and evanescent lovers. The tip of my pen stipples the lines of my notebook with the tale of a father’s grief, like a ballerina tiptoeing en pointe; as the man finds solace in nature, the ink flows gracefully, and for a moment, it leaps off the page, as if reaching out to the heavens to embrace his daughter’s soul. Late at night, my fingers tap dance across the keys of my laptop, tap tap tapping an article about the latest breakthrough in cancer research—maybe LDCT scans or aneuploidy-targeted therapy could have saved the daughter’s life; a Spanish poem about the beauty of unspoken moments; and the story of a girl in a wheelchair who learned how to dance.
As the world sleeps, I lose myself in the cathartic cadences of fresh ink, bursting with stories to be told and melting into parched paper. I cobble together phrases until they spring off my tongue, as if the Sugar Plum Fairy herself has transformed the staccato rumblings of my brain into something legato and sweet. I weave my heart, my soul, my very being into my words as I read them out loud, until they become almost like a chant. With every rehearsal, I search for the perfect finale to complete my creation. When I finally find it, eyes dry with midnight-induced euphoria, I remember that night so many years ago when I discovered the magic of writing, and smile.
I may not dance across the stage like Angelina Ballerina, but I can dance across the page.
招生官点评：
这篇文书，欧博Sarika巧妙地描述了她想像虚构角色安吉丽娜芭蕾舞者那样跳舞，到通过写作找到深刻的满足感和表达自己的方式。
文章开头详细描述了Sarika早期对舞蹈的迷恋，这种迷恋是由她在电视上看到的动画表演激发的。
然而，我们了解到，她第一次尝试模仿这些舞蹈动作时，由于身体限制而受到阻碍，这使她年轻的目标变得复杂和受挫。
尽管困难重重，Sarika的故事仍然充满着坚韧和独创性。她在绘画和钢琴等其他艺术媒介上的经历也遵循着类似的模式：最初充满热情，随后意识到自己的身体局限性。
然而，这些努力被视为垫脚石，每一个都增强了她的动力，引导她走向一个她真正能够取得成功的领域。
当Sarika发现写作时，她的故事发生了戏剧性的转折。这一认识不仅是一种安慰，也是对自己声音的一次胜利发现。
写作就像她的舞池，文字使她能够优雅地移动，用舞台表演者所展现的优雅和流畅讲述故事和表达概念。
Sarika用与舞蹈相关的意象来描述她的写作过程，比如她的铅笔“旋转”和她的叙述“跃然纸上”，有效地将舞蹈和写作进行了比较。
Sarika的深刻反思和成熟的认识，即艺术表达可以有多种形式，使她的文章如此感人。
她传达了一个强烈的信息，欧博娱乐即接受一个人的能力，并探索艺术表达的多种途径。
在文书结尾，Sarika已经接受了自己的命运，甚至开始喜欢它。
她在深夜有节奏地敲击键盘中找到了快乐，创作的故事有着经过精心编排的舞蹈般的优雅和复杂性。
05
Michelle's Essay
Fish Out of Water:
idiom. a person who is in an unnatural environment; completely out of place.
When I was ten, my dad told me we were moving to somewhere called "Eely-noise." The screen flashed blue as he scrolled through 6000 miles of water on Google Earth to find our new home. Swipe, swipe, swipe, and there it was: Illinois, as I later learned.
Moving to America was like going from freshwater into saltwater. Not only did my mom complain that American food was too salty, but I was helplessly caught in an estuary of languages, swept by daunting tides of tenses, articles, and homonyms. It’s not a surprise that I developed an intense, breathless kind of thirst for what I now realize is my voice and self-expression.
This made sense because the only background I had in English was “Konglish”--an unhealthy hybrid of Korean and English--and broken phrases I picked up from SpongeBob. As soon as I stepped into my first class in America, I realized the gravity of the situation: I had to resort to clumsy pantomimes, or what I euphemistically called body language, to convey the simplest messages. School became an unending game of pictionary.
Amid the dizzying pool of vowels and phonemes and idioms (why does spilling beans end friendships?), the only thing that made sense was pictures and diagrams. Necessarily, I soon became interested in biology as its textbook had the highest picture-to-text ratio. Although I didn’t understand all the ant-like captions, the colorful diagrams were enough to catch my illiterate attention: a green ball of chyme rolling down the digestive tract, the rotor of the ATP synthase spinning like a waterwheel. Biology drew me with its ELL-friendliness and never let go.
I later learned in biology that when a freshwater fish goes in saltwater, it osmoregulates--it drinks a lot of water and urinates less. This used to hold true for my school day, when I constantly chugged water to fill awkward silences and lubricate my tongue to form better vowels. This habit in turn became a test of English-speaking and bladder control: I constantly missed the timing to go to the bathroom by worrying about how to ask. The only times I could express myself were through my fingers, between the pages of Debussy and under my pencil tip. To fulfill my need for self-expression and communication, I took up classical music, visual art, and later, creative writing. To this day, I will never forget the ineffable excitement when I delivered a concerto, finished a sculpture, and found beautiful words that I could not pronounce. If biology helped me understand, art helped me be understood.
There’s something human, empathetic, even redemptive about both art and biology. While they helped me reconcile with English and my new home, their power to connect and heal people is much bigger than my example alone. In college and beyond, I want to pay them forward, whether by dedicating myself to scientific research, performing in benefit concerts, or simply sharing the beauty of the arts. Sometimes, language feels slippery like fish on my tongue. But knowing that there are things that transcend language grounds and inspires me. English seeped into my tongue eventually, but I still pursue biology and arts with the same, perhaps universal, exigency and sincerity: to understand and to be understood.
Over the years, I have come to acknowledge and adore my inner fish, that confused, tongue-twisted and home-sick ELL kid from the other side of the world, which will forever coexist within me. And I’ve forgiven English, although I still can’t pronounce words like “rural,” because it gifted me with new passions to look forward to every day. Now, when I see kids with the same breathless look that I used to have gasping for home water, Don’t worry, I want to tell them.
You’ll find your water.
招生官点评：
Michelle的文章为读者呈现了一段生动有趣、引人入胜的旅程，讲述了他们作为移民适应伊利诺伊州新生活的经历。
虽然有些移民经历文书可能显得平淡无奇，但Michelle巧妙地利用“鱼离开水”的习语，构建了一个延伸的隐喻，将他们对生物学和艺术的热爱与他们掌握英语的不断发展联系起来。
这篇文书的独特之处在于坦率而幽默地描述了Michelle每天与语言斗争的经历，从最初用“笨拙的哑剧”来表示想上厕所，到找到美丽的新词来表达自己时“难以言喻的兴奋”，展示了Michelle最终成长为一位完全掌握英语的能言善辩的作家。
这篇文书充分展示了Michelle对音乐、艺术、生物学等各种兴趣的热爱，但最令人印象深刻的是Michelle对适应美国生活和文化的细致入微和内省的记录。
显然，Michelle真的很喜欢写作，喜欢用合适的词语来表达自己的想法，展现出他们的坚韧和对学习的热爱。
Michelle对成长为作家和艺术家的真诚热情贯穿了整篇文书，温暖而幽默，极具感染力。
06
Clara's Essay
My nightstand is home to a small menagerie of critters, each glass-eyed specimen lovingly stuffed with cotton. Don’t get the wrong idea, now – I’m not a taxidermist or anything. I crochet.
Crochet is a family tradition. My grandmother used to wield her menacing steel hook like a mage’s staff and tout it as such: an instrument that bestowed patience, decorum, and poise on its owner. During her youth in Vietnam, she spent her evenings designing patterns for ornate doilies and handkerchiefs. Then the Vietnam War turned our family into refugees. The Viet Cong imprisoned my grandfather, a colonel in the South Vietnam Air Force, in a grueling labor camp for thirteen years. Many wives would have lost hope, but my grandmother was no average woman. A literature professor in a time when women’s access to education was limited, she assumed the role of matriarch with wisdom and confidence, providing financial and emotional security. As luxuries like yarn grew scarce, she conjured up all sorts of useful household items – durable pillowcases, blankets, and winter coats – and taught my mother to do the same. Because of these bitter wartime memories, she wanted my handiwork to be of a decidedly less practical bent; among the first objects she taught me to crochet were chrysanthemums and roses. However, making flowers bloom from yarn was no easy task.
Even with its soft plastic grip and friendly rounded edges, my first crochet hook had a mind of its own, like the enchanted broom in “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” It stubbornly disobeyed my orders as I impatiently wrenched it through the yarn. My grandmother’s stern appraisal of my efforts often interrupted this perpetual tug-of-war: My stitches were uneven. The edges curled inward. I would unravel my work and start anew.
I convinced myself that cobbling together a lopsided rectangle would be the pinnacle of my crochet prowess but refused to give up. Just as a diligent wizard casts more advanced spells over time, I learned to channel the magic of the crochet hook. The animal kingdom is my main source of inspiration; the diversity and vivid pigmentation of life on Earth lend themselves perfectly to the vibrant and versatile art of crochet. Many of the animals I make embark on migratory journeys, like their real-life counterparts. Take Agnes, for example, a cornflower-blue elephant named after mathematician Maria Gaetana Agnesi who lives in my calculus teacher’s classroom, happily grazing on old pencil shavings and worksheets. As I fasten off the final stitches on every creature, I hope to weave a little whimsy and color into someone’s life.
Each piece I finish reminds me of the network of stitches that connects mother and daughter, past and present, tradition and innovation. In this vast cultural web, I am proud to be my family’s link between East and West. As I prepare for adulthood, I am eager to weave my own mark into the great patchwork quilt that is America.
招生官点评：
Clara的文书将她的声音、家族历史和当前角色无缝地融入到动人且有效的叙述中。
她以完美的开场开始。通过生动、具体的词语选择（床头柜上的“玻璃眼标本”）展示了Clara的声音和幽默（“不是标本剥制师”）。
同时，这篇文书很快引入了主题：钩针编织。
然后，文书“缩小范围”以增加赌注。钩针编织不仅仅是一种爱好：这是Clara一家在越南战争中赖以生存的传统。
虽然Clara提到了她家人经历的残酷现实，但她很快又把焦点转移到自己身上。许多学生都忘记了这一点：无论你过去经历了什么，你的文书都必须是关于你现在的。
文书让我们深入了解了她的性格。Clara不会因失败而气馁，不会因为困难而放弃。通过专注于提高钩针编织技能的努力，Clara展现了申请文书中经常缺少的成熟、毅力和自我意识。
Clara的文书一鸣惊人。
我们教学生在文书中链接过去、现在和未来。Clara做到了这一点：写关于钩针编织的文书让Clara能够以一个复杂的讨论结束，即她的家族历史不仅影响了她现在的生活，还影响了她未来的大学目标。
07
Orlee's Essay
I’m hiding behind the swing door of the dressing room when I text my mom just one word: “Traumatizing!” I’m on a bra-shopping expedition with my grandmother, and just in case it’s not abundantly clear, this trip was Not. My. Idea. Bra shopping has always been shrouded in mystery for me, and growing up in a household with two moms and two younger sisters hasn’t helped one bit: One of my moms doesn’t wear bras; the other proudly proclaims that her bras are older than me. A two-mom family without the faintest idea what a teenage girl needs—par for the course around here.
So when my 78-year-old grandmother volunteered to take me bra shopping, my moms jumped at the chance. Here I was with my frugal grandmother, outlet-shopping among the racks of intimates that aren’t sized quite right, that have too much padding or too little…You can see my predicament, and it’s no surprise that my younger self was confused by the words “wire-free,” “concealing petals,” “balconette.”
The saleswoman called to my grandmother from across the store, “What cup size is she?”
“I don’t know,” my grandmother screamed back. “Can you measure her?”
Measure me? They have got to be kidding.
“I just don’t want her to feel different,” I heard my grandmother say later that day. “Kids this age can be so mean.”
I love my grandmother, but she believes the world is harsh and unforgiving, and she thinks that the only path to happiness is fitting in. My grandmother had taken me bra shopping in a last-ditch attempt to make me “normal” because I was entering 9th grade at Deerfield in a few weeks, and she worried that I would stick out worse than the underwire of a bargain basement bra.
It’s true—I’m not your typical Deerfield student. I’m a day student with lesbian moms who have several fewer zeros on their bank account balance than typical Deerfield parents. I’m the kid with a congenital foot deformity, which means I literally can’t run, who will never be able to sprint across campus from classroom to classroom. I’m the kid with life-threatening food allergies to milk and tree nuts who can’t indulge in the pizza at swim team celebrations or the festive cake and ice cream during advisory meetings.
But fitting in was my grandmother’s worry, not mine. What my grandmother didn’t consider is that there’s no single way to fit in. I might be two minutes later to class than the sprinters, but I always arrive. I might have to explain to my friends what “having two moms” means, but I’ll never stop being thankful that Deerfield students are eager to lean in and understand. I may not be able to eat the food, but you can count on me to show up and celebrate.
While I can’t run, I can swim and play water polo, and I can walk the campus giving Admissions tours. My family might not look like everyone else’s, but I can embrace those differences and write articles for the school newspaper or give a talk at “School Meeting,” sharing my family and my journey. Some of my closest friendships at Deerfield have grown from a willingness on both sides to embrace difference.
On one of the first days of 9th grade, I sat down to write a “Deerfield Bucket List”—a list of experiences that I wanted to have during my four years in high school, including taking a Deerfield international trip and making the Varsity swim team. That list included thirteen items, and I’m eleven-thirteenths of the way there, not because I have the right bra, but because I’ve embraced the very thing that my grandmother was afraid of. Bra shopping is still shrouded in mystery for me, but I know that I am where I should be, I’m doing work that matters to me, and fitting in rarely crosses my mind.
招生官点评：
Orlee在文书中分享她正在买胸罩，身边还有溺爱她的祖母，出乎意料地将我们带入了她勇敢选择分享尴尬、“令人痛苦”的时刻。
几秒钟后，我们还认识了她自称对时尚一窍不通的两位妈妈。这只是第一段，我已经喜欢上她了。
平均每篇文章只有几分钟的阅读时间，招生读者会想知道这篇文章的走向。
一开始，我们就知道Orlee的祖母对世界的看法是“严厉和无情的”，这使她保护Orlee，而她提出的解决方案是帮助 Orlee融入社会，这样她就会被视为“正常人”。
起初，我们认为这篇文章是关于青少年焦虑的，但出乎意料的是，Orlee很快让我们知道，她祖母对她融入社会的担忧既不无道理，也并非毫无根据。
Orlee透露，她患有先天性足部畸形，这限制了她跑步的能力，并且患有严重的、危及生命的食物过敏症。
现在她引起了我们的注意，她巧妙地编织了她日常生活的更多快照，展示了她如何勇敢地选择在困难时刻出现。
她直截了当的描述并不具有操纵性，相反，她的态度是乐观的。我们了解到她的毅力，以及她总是迎接挑战。
她展示了她如何找到为自己创造空间的方法，以便她能够被包容，她理所当然地不会为她的身体挑战请求许可或道歉。
考虑到其他人可能因为她明显的身体缺陷而迅速将她归类，Orlee立即将重点放在了她在校园中可以贡献的众多优势上，并提供了几个清晰的例子来说明她如何全身心投入并克服他人的负面看法。
她向我们讲述了她作为一名团队成员丰富学校的无数方法，以免我们陷入低估她能力的不幸陷阱。
Orlee设定了鼓舞人心的人生目标，她可爱的高中愿望清单也即将完成。这位学生不怕努力，不怕实现，她过着最好的生活，我发现自己为她欢呼！
这篇文书之所以成功，是因为它告诉我们Orlee 是谁，她是如何成长起来的，她重视朋友和队友，并将把同样的能量带给她的大学社区。
她聪明、好奇、自信、善良。她设定目标，规划愿景来支持她的世界观。“她很少考虑融入。”这是她的品牌故事，我来这里就是为了这个！
08
Billy's Essay
As I rode up and down the gentle slopes of the Peabody skatepark, I watched my younger brother race down from the highest point on the halfpipe and fly past me at the speed of light. I wish I could do that, I thought, eyeing the enormous curve that towered over me. But I didn’t dare make my way up to the top. Instead, I stuck with the routine I was comfortable with, avoiding the steep inclines at all costs.
Each week during the summer before my fourth grade year, my brother and I would visit that same skatepark, and I would take my mini-BMX bike to the bottom of that monstrous ramp, ready to attack the giant. I started off low reaching only a quarter of the way up at first, too scared to go any higher. But each week, I gained more confidence and kept reaching greater heights. Halfway there, two-thirds, three quarters. Until finally, I mustered up enough courage to complete my final challenge.
With my brother’s shouts of joy ringing in my ears, it seemed as though the concrete mass was calling my name, drawing me closer and closer, until I couldn’t resist its pleading any further. I walked my bike up the stairs and approached the steep drop off. My hands started to sweat and my legs began to shake as I inched toward the edge, staring in the face of doom. Finally at the lip of the ramp, I paused briefly, took a deep breath, and moved forward just enough to send myself speeding downwards. I couldn’t contain my excitement as my, “Woooo!” echoed around the park. I had finally ridden down the tallest ramp!
Throughout my life I have enjoyed having a plan and being in control. When working in a group, I make sure that everyone knows exactly which aspect of the project they will complete. I organize all my homework in a planner so that I never miss a due date. Each night, I outline my schedule for the following day so that I know what meetings, sports events, and other activities I have to attend. When I visited New York City over the summer, I prepared a detailed itinerary to follow. Rarely is there a day when I don’t have a general idea of what I’m going to do, but sometimes my plan doesn’t correlate with how the day truly plays out.
Over the years, I have learned to adapt when situations take an unexpected turn, and, similar to that time at the skatepark, I have been able to step out of my comfort zone more often. It isn’t the end of the world when things don’t go exactly as planned; often times, sudden changes and new experiences make for a more enjoyable and interesting time. As much as I enjoy a strict itinerary, some of my best nights have begun by hopping in the car with my friends, picking a direction, and going wherever the wind takes us. As hard as I try to plan out my day, an unforeseen event is almost inevitable. Although this can bring about some stress, scrambling around to figure things out is not only an essential skill, but can be a fun challenge, too.
I can’t imagine a completely organized life without a little uncertainty. Unexpected circumstances are bound to occur, and making the most of them is one of my favorite parts of life. Regardless of how much I love having a plan, my flexibility and willingness to step out of my comfort zone is something I have and will always take pride in.
招生官点评：
Billy征服皮博迪滑板场巨大坡道的故事不仅仅是通过增加风险来拓宽自己的舒适区。要真正理解这个小插曲如何提高他被录取的概率，我们必须考虑其更大的背景。
Billy承认自己是一个高度有条理的行程制定者，一直喜欢掌控一切。
四年级的Billy骑着BMX自行车来参加比赛的形象与他广泛的课外领导能力和雄心勃勃的环境工程抱负所描绘的形象完全相反。
虽然没有明确说明，但Billy的文章向我们展示了他自由自在的童年夏天与他严格安排的高中时代有多大的不同。
虽然感觉就像是一辈子以前的事了，但Billy并没有忘记向边缘一步步靠近、直面厄运并心甘情愿地放手是什么感觉。
事实上，八年后的今天，每当Billy按下暂停键，暂停目标，抛开谨慎，与朋友一起踏上即兴的公路之旅时，这段记忆依然清晰。
Billy的U字型滑道的故事平衡了候选人资格，如果没有它，候选人资格可能会显得谨慎或不灵活，这表明他意识到了过于执着于游戏计划的机会成本。
09
Francisco's Essay
Three days before I got on a plane to go across the country for six weeks I quit milk cold-turkey. I had gone to the chiropractor to get a general check up. I knew I had scoliosis and other problems; however, I learned that because of my excessive, to say the least, intake of milk my body had developed a hormone imbalance. I decided it would be best for my health to completely stop drinking milk and avoid dairy when possible. Little did I know, this was only the start of a summer of change; three days later I got on a plane to attend the Minority Introduction To Engineering and Science (MITES) program in Massachusetts.
I assumed that most of the people were going to be unhealthily competitive because of my past experiences. I thought I would keep to myself, do my work, and come back no different. Living in a building with 80 people I’ve never met in a place I’ve never been while making a significant life style change was not easy. The first few days were not kind: I got mild stomach ulcers, it was awkward, and I felt out of place. That first Thursday night however, all of that started to change. On Thursday evenings we had “Family Meetings” and on this particular Thursday part of our Machine Learning class was working together when the time came to go to the dining hall for whatever this “Family Meeting” was. Honestly we dreaded it at first, “I have work to do” was the most common phrase. We learned that “Family Meeting” was a safe space for us to talk about anything and everything. Today’s theme was, “what’s something important about your identity that makes you unique?” but the conversation quickly evolved into so much more. People spoke about losing family members, being shunned at home, not feeling comfortable in their own skin, and more. So many people opened up about incredibly personal things, I felt honored to be given that trust. The room was somber and warm with empathy as the meeting concluded. Out of my peripheral vision I saw Izzy, one of my Machine Learning classmates, rushing back to the conference room. I realized something was not right. Instinctively, I followed her back to where we were working. Izzy sat down and immediately broke down, the rest of us filed in as she started to talk about what was wrong. It felt as though an ambulance was sitting on my chest, my breaths were short and stingy. I was afraid; afraid my support wouldn’t be good enough, afraid to show that I cared, afraid they didn’t care for me. In this one moment all my insecurities, some I didn’t even know I had, came to the surface. The heavy silence of hushed sobbing was broken by an outpouring of support and a hug. We all started sharing what we’re going through and even some of our past trauma. Slowly that weight is lifted off my chest. I feel comfortable, I feel wanted, I feel safe.
This is the first time I truly felt confident, empowered, and loved. I am surrounded by people smarter than me and I don’t feel any lesser because of it. I have become the true Francisco, or Cisco as they call me. I now, at all times, am unapologetically myself. The difference is night and day. As the program progressed I only felt more comfortable and safe, enough so to even go up and speak at a family meeting. These people, this family, treated me right. I gained priceless confidence, social skills, self-worth, empathetic ability, and mental fortitude to take with me and grow on for the rest of my life. Through all of this somehow cutting out the biggest part of my diet became the least impactful part of my summer.
招生官点评：
Francisco的文书《我上飞机前三天》描述了他参与麻省理工学院的少数族裔工程与科学入门 (MITES) 项目的经历，这也是他内省之旅的背景。
故事从一个看似微不足道的决定开始——出于健康原因放弃喝牛奶——但很快就变成了改变生活的事件的隐喻。
这篇文书巧妙地利用了这种内在的转变，安排了一个夏天，从根本上改变了Francisco对自己和与他人互动的看法。
他一开始对 MITES 项目感到紧张，因为他预计这是一个竞争非常激烈的环境，会让他感到更加孤独。
他在项目初期遇到的身体和心理困难——例如轻微的胃溃疡和强烈的疏离感——加剧了这种担忧。
但在该计划每周举行的“家庭会议”上，故事发生了戏剧性的转折。
会议旨在鼓励成员之间坦诚对话和支持。此时，Francisco经历了重大转变。
一次会议的主题是“你的身份中有什么重要的东西让你与众不同？”，后来逐渐演变成越来越详细、亲密的揭露，使聚会变成了一个充满同情和脆弱的环境。
Francisco被他的同龄人分享个人问题的坦率所深深感动，这促使他重新考虑他如何对待该计划和他的同龄人。
Francisco 的文书出色地说明了社区和坦诚的对话如何对个人发展产生重大影响。他的经历证明了学习环境中安全空间的价值以及同理心的变革潜力。
文书结束时，Francisco 已经成长为一个人，并承认他现在是“真正的 Francisco”，或者用他朋友的话说是“Cisco”。
他强调了这段经历如何让他有信心做真实的自己，并给了他无价的社交技能、自我价值和情感坚韧，这些都将在他的一生中用到。返回搜狐，查看更多
