| Junior Member
Join Date: Mar 2009 Location: MD----> Penn 2013
Posts: 140
| Posting my Penn + Chicago Essays for all to see (yes, accepted ED and EA)
I dont care anymore. This should help prospective applicants:
Common App (Topic of your Choice)
Hi. I’ve written sixteen drafts. None of them sound like me. I’ve written sixteen opening hooks. None of them sound like me. I cover my eyes as I click DELETE again. The sight is just too painful. Hours of writing, and I’m back at square one, staring blankly at an empty word document. It is two in the morning, and needless to say, I’m tired. At the moment, I need something clever, something to hook the reader with. But my audience isn’t a fish. Plus it is late, and I lack the energy to continue trying to be clever and cute. The reader will just have to understand that I don’t talk in metaphors or begin my daily conversations with clever anecdotes. I put my fingers to my keyboard and type the most straightforward opening I can think of. Hi.
I’m not trying to be Shakespeare; I don’t throw around big words. I’m not trying to be Socrates; I have no keen philosophical insights to offer. But after reading my sixteen drafts, one would get the wrong impression. Through my witty attempts to elevate and fluff my writing, I hid my own style, settling for a one that sounded both foolish and forced. I write about Socialism and invent bizarre stories only Lewis Carol can understand. I don’t do well with constricting topics. I never have.
It was my seventh grade summer, and I had registered for a creative writing seminar. That July I spent thirty-five hours a week hidden in a windowless trailer set in the heart of rural Maryland. There I sat, staring at the burgundy colored walls lined only with motivational posters. Every class began the same way, with brainstorming. Somehow I was expected to convert my thoughts into words with only the aid of a picture of Mount Everest and the word “Success.” Mr. Scriven, our teacher, cared about the class very little and taught us even less. Excluding lunch, we had two fifteen-minute breaks, one in the morning and one in the afternoon; the rest of the day was spent brainstorming, writing, and editing. I felt as if I were in a RandomHouse sweatshop.
I took the term “creative” literally, and for my final piece blatantly disregarded the assigned topic. Rather than describe a lake our class had frequented, I wrote an eleven-page narrative about the Jabberwock after reading an analysis of the poem. I invented most of the words. It was upon completing my nonsensical story that my teacher, expecting a descriptive essay, told me on the last day of class that I was a failure (as a writer). This criticism has stuck with me ever since. An essay that I had thought was perfect had been viciously shot down in front of my peers. I was embarrassed.
Five years later and I still prefer loose narratives over structured essays. For me, writing is a vehicle of expression. I write when I’m angry. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m nervous. I don’t write because someone tells me to write. Who am I trying to fool by adhering to a bland five-paragraph template? Don’t tell me how to begin my essay. I don’t need your fishing hooks.
It’s late, but I’m no longer tired. As of now, I have written seventeen drafts, but only one of them sounds like me. I have written seventeen openers, but only one of them sounds like me. If I begin a conversation with Hi, it would be rude of me not to say Goodbye, and I’ve been told that my writing can be rude, so I’ll just leave it at that.
Penn
Page 217 (Optional)
sprawled out on a futon and laid my crossword puzzle on an adjacent three legged coffee table. My friends find it odd that none of my furniture has four legs; I find it odd that none of theirs has three. Three legs are just as stable four, the only difference being the price. Years ago, I stumbled upon a quaint little pawn shop on Mass. Ave that, after much bargaining, sold me a three-legged set of furniture for 25% off. Quite a deal, indeed.
I again reached toward my coffee table, this time picking up a red ballpoint pen and a pad of yellow lined paper. Then scribbling down some numbers, I divided by zero.
It’s really a neat trick. During my long metro rides home, I’ll pull out a piece of scrap paper and pass the time by dividing numbers by zero, chuckling to myself as fellow commuters look on with bewilderment. But I pretend not to notice. Sometimes when I go to my neighbor’s wine and cheese parties, I’ll bring along a small pad of paper to liven things up. While guests are nibbling on wedges of Roquefort and sipping vintage port wines, I’ll be busy gathering an audience around an uninhabited corner of the apartment. By the time I actually finish dividing by zero, gasps of disbelief fill the room as spectators are unsure whether to harbor feelings of deep terror or unbounded respect. I just smile. Usually, a member of the audience will scream in pain as his head implodes, collapsing upon itself like a super massive black hole from a sheer inability to comprehend such a concept. The crowd is whipped into a frenzy and cries are made for medical assistance. I still just smile. 1/x is now a continuous graph. I have disproved the entire operation of limits and consequently the branch of mathematics known as Calculus. I’ve been urged to publish my findings in obscure math periodicals; however, why bother when I’m having so much fun at these wine and cheese parties? A magician never reveals his secret. 5/0 is 2. Give me a pen and paper and I’ll prove it.
Chapter 13
People call me Superman, but please, just call me super. I hate the crime-fighting implications that such a title carries. I don’t want to come off as arrogant, but I am a big deal. There, I just did it again. I can’t stop myself! But at this rate, why would I want to?
My neighbor hates me, but he is yet to ban me from one of his wine and cheese gatherings, so I will continue making appearances until my presence is unwelcome. I think, deep down inside, he is grateful that I liven them up. He’s not the kind of guy I would imagine
Professor
I hope to study with Dr. Marsha Lester, the chairman of the Department of Chemistry. Her discovery of the elusive OH-HONO2 molecule opens the door to a better understanding of the reactions that occur in our natural atmosphere, mainly those that break down pollutants. Once this process is fully uncovered, a catalyst can then be applied to increase the reaction rate, purging nitric and sulfuric acids from the atmosphere on a grander scale. I was attracted to Dr. Lester’s work at Penn because of its potential to prevent the root cause of acid rain and global warming. I find that such promising meteorological endeavors often go overlooked as medical and technological research is, more often than not, given a priority. But at Penn, research isn’t limited to just a few select fields. With over 4,000 total faculty and unparalleled resources, there is bound to be an ongoing project on anything and everything.
Why Penn
Ten years ago the idea was thought to have been impossible, yet at the present, engineers are designing what may be a prototype for the first invisibility cloak. Engineering implements new ideas and improves upon old ones. Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton was the one who asked why. I don’t want to pursue a chemistry major; rather, I want to pursue a chemical engineering one. To some the difference between the two is only that of a word, but to me such is not the case. Engineering trains thinkers. It produces problem solvers who in turn use their abilities to change the world. The results may be as simple as a toilet or as revolutionary as an invisibility cloak, but the skill set is the same.
After spending four weeks of my sophomore year summer at Penn working in labs, sitting through lectures, and wandering about the many academic buildings, I know firsthand that Penn’s engineering facilities, like the GRASP Lab, are topnotch. Throughout my four years in high school I have tried as much as possible to immerse myself in math and science. I have put every effort forth to take full advantage of all possible opportunities, and I hope to further my interests by studying with world-class professors and researchers such as Dr. Marsha Lester.
The best education is one that challenges both hemispheres of the brain. After taking Latin as a freshman, I wanted, at the time, to pursue a Classics major. Since my school didn’t offer an option for taking Greek, I registered for a three week summer course in Lancaster, PA. Like that of many engineering students at Penn, my intellectual curiosity is not limited to the fields of math and science. That’s why the One University policy is so appealing. Along with a chemical engineering workload, I wish to take Dr. Struck’s classes on Roman Art and Architecture and Intermediate Greek Prose.
Penn’s urban location provides me with the opportunity to continue my service with Habitat for Humanity. The many clubs and intramural sports available on campus present me with the option of continuing old activities or taking up new ones. Coming from a high school with fewer than five hundred students, I can truly appreciate sense of community the housing system fosters among the freshmen. Even after my university studies, I would like to join the DC Penn Club and remain active with fellow alumni. I’ve explored campuses and flipped through pamphlets, and I know without a doubt that Penn is where I fit best. I hope that one day I will have an opportunity to proudly don the familiar red and blue colors and call myself a Quaker.
Chicago
Option 1: "At present you must live the question" (more of a statement than a question. but I did my best)
The aged gypsy sat directly in front of me, her thoughts lost deep in a crystal orb. I had come to her with a question; she had yet to give me an answer. Half an hour passed in this silent manner. Our hands rested on the circular table, clasped around the misty ball. I began to suspect that she was simply a kook. She couldn’t be trusted; she had no intention of returning my wallet. Perhaps I should have listened to my roommate. Then again, my intuition had served me well up to that point. It had gotten me through college, brought me to Chicago, and landed me my first, and only, job which included a 43rd floor suite overlooking Lake Michigan. I needed an answer right now, not regrets. I needed this shriveled tramp to speak to me, to tell me what I wanted to hear. Finally the statue came back to life, and as if reading my inner thoughts, slowly enunciated six words.
I hadn’t gone to church that previous Sunday, the Sunday before that, nor any of the past Sundays for the last nine years. I went to a Catholic pre-school, a Catholic elementary school, a Catholic middle school, and a Catholic high school, but, unlike my brother, flatly refused to attend a Catholic college. I simply couldn’t bear listening to the incoherent ramblings of nuns any longer. Six months ago, I was planning a wedding. Four months ago, I was planning a funeral. My fiancé had died of what the doctors called a “complication,” of what I called “carelessness.” I have since stopped trusting my roommate; I locked my laptop to my desk and hid my wallet in my sock drawer. I had spent sleepless nights staring at my ceiling asking one question. Where? Where is she? Some nights I walked over to my roommate’s bedroom and watched him as he slept, pondering his motivation. Everyone on the streets of Chicago has his own motivation: power, family, wealth, an afterlife. At the time I had none. I had stopped collecting my six figure salary months ago. My days and nights were spent in my apartment. I no longer wandered the streets. Rather, I wandered the dimly lit recesses of my mind.
The question was trying to kill me. And yet I created the question, so was I trying to kill myself? Maybe. I frantically searched for the answer, but only returned with more questions. My search eluded the laws of reason; it carried me beyond the conclusions of three thousand years of philosophy. No spoken or written record holds the answer to my question. That’s all philosophy is: speculation. That’s all religion is: an opiate of the masses.
“You need to live the question,” the gypsy said. I understood what she meant. She was telling me there was no answer. She was telling me that I should take time to enjoy the enigmatic nature of the question I had asked rather than destroy myself by seeking the impossible. But I found no joy in the question. Every question had an answer. Big Foot isn’t real, but people still search for him. People don’t like to be told what to do, and the gypsy’s warning only strengthened my resolve. I hadn’t previously realized it, but I had a motivation. It was finding the answer to my question. I now understood why I had insisted upon continuing my second-rate existence.
What happens when we die? When I was young, I was taught that only two outcomes existed: heaven or hell. Like the narrator, I went to a Catholic pre-school, a Catholic elementary school, a Catholic middle school, and, am currently attending, a Catholic high school. I served as an altar boy throughout middle school and ever since I can remember had attended mass regularly, often twice a week, with my mom. When I entered high school, I began studying both the history and traditions of the Catholic Church in depth. Rather than coloring renderings of Noah’s Ark and memorizing biblical passages, I was challenged to understand the meanings behind the words that I had so thoughtlessly spoken for fourteen years. However, I was not satisfied; if the Creation story was not meant to be taken literally, then perhaps neither were the ideas of heaven and hell. I stopped going to mass two years ago. Overlooking the expressions of pain on my mom’s face wasn’t easy. Then again, revising my life views wasn’t either, and by that point I had accepted the fact that sometimes mother doesn’t know best.
Most cultures agree that selflessness is the path to eternal happiness. What happens when we die? No matter what religion one subscribes to, the idea of an afterlife appears to be a masked attempt at justifying our existence. I find that contemplating a possible afterlife is made easier after answering the latter question of why we are here.
I don’t pretend to know why I am here. I don’t pretend to know where I will be after I pass. I find incessant brooding on these dead-end questions leads only to madness. Like Rainer Maria Rilke said, “At present you need to live the question.” I contemplate these questions only to enjoy their enigmatic nature and nothing more. Some mysteries are best left unsolved. Some questions are best left unanswered.
Why Chicago
Throughout my four years in high school I have tried as much as possible to immerse myself in math and science. I have put every effort forth to take full advantage of all possible opportunities, and I hope to further my interests by studying with world-class professors and researchers such as Dr. Michael Hopkins. However, I find that the best education is one that challenges both hemispheres of the brain. After taking Latin as a freshman, I wanted, at the time, to pursue a Classics major. Since my school didn’t offer an option for taking Greek, I registered for a three week summer course in Lancaster, PA. Like that of many chemistry students at Chicago, my intellectual curiosity is not limited to the fields of math and science. That’s why the University of Chicago’s interdisciplinary emphasis is so appealing. Along with a chemistry workload, I hope to take Dr. Alain Bresson’s class on Greek epigraphy.
The University of Chicago trains thinkers. Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton was the one who asked why. Universities should be forums for scholarly studies; however, all too often a pre-professional emphasis is given priority. Chicago’s Common Core maintains a balanced education that favors discussion over lecture. Like the Renaissance Humanists before, Chicago seeks to educate the whole man. It is for this very reason that I hope to attend the University of Chicago. Sure, I could easily spend the next four years of my life completely immerse in chemistry and all things related to chemistry, but I don’t want to emerge from college another texture-less science grind.
Chicago’s urban location provides me with the opportunity to continue my service with Habitat for Humanity. The many clubs and intramural sports available on campus present me with the option of continuing old activities or taking up new ones. Coming from a high school with fewer than five hundred students, I can truly appreciate sense of unity the housing system fosters among the undergraduate student body. Even after my university studies, I would like to join the DC Alumni Club and remain active with the community. I’ve explored campuses and flipped through pamphlets, and I know without a doubt that Chicago is where I fit best. I hope to find myself on Chicago’s campus come September; however, this time as a student.
Optional (topic was about your favorite book, art piece, music, etc)
The movement known as Dadaism was known for its distain towards intellectual conformity. The fact that one could deface the Mona Lisa with a pencil mustache and call it art or take a urinal, flip it on its back, and call it a Fountain challenged the traditional value placed on art. The absurdity Dada artists and writers employed was not only witty, but also a means for which to express an anti-culture, anti-tradition attitude. I find that whenever I write or shoot videos, whether it be for school or for personal enjoyment, I often emulate this attitude of absurdity. My greatest moments of triumph are those when I am alone with my thoughts, editing short, high-contrast movies, and listening to my favorite band, Black Moth Super Rainbow. As a child, I remember reading Alice in Wonderland and thinking to myself how magnificent it would be to fall into a similar rabbit-hole. Like the Dada artists of the early 1920’s, I am constantly in search of new ways to view old ideas. Rube Goldberg machines fuel my imagination with their impractical, yet cleverly designed mechanisms. They lend a refreshing perspective in a world dominated by utilitarian ideals. Dadaism is something that I have admired for the longest time. I’ve been told that my taste for art is eccentric. I’ve also been told that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
Last edited by nobromo; 03-10-2009 at 03:10 PM.
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Cafesimone knows who you are mwahahaha (this essay is still in my inbox after you sent it to me)
