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Colleges & Universities University of Chicago
981

<p>I’d first like to say; some of these are HUGE! and I was worried about mine being too long!
Anyways, I didn’t do the optional prompt. Here’s my “Why UChicago” and Extended Essay (I, like many others, chose the Waldo prompt). </p>

<p>Essay #1 (required): How does the University of Chicago, as you know it now, satisfy your desire for a particular kind of learning community, and future? Please address with some specificity your own wishes and how they relate to UChicago. (Paragraph or Two)</p>

<pre><code>After some experience in mathematics competitions, and also an eye-opening experience learning about real and research math at Canada/USA Mathcamp, I’ve found a passion in pursuing higher mathematics. But I’ve also been looking for a college that will model off of the Mathcamp atmosphere, most notably the freedom to study anything that interests me, and to work with strong peer groups. Through the math department’s IBL (inquiry-based learning) and DRP (Directed Reading Program), the University of Chicago satisfies both. I’ve always preferred learning math alongside my peers above learning it in a high school classroom because I believe that when math is discussed in a group with everyone participating, more people get a greater understanding of what’s going on. I feel like the IBL program can help me both learn how to learn in a different and collaborative fashion, and help me build a mathematical peer group to identify and work with in the process.
The DRP is conducted very similarly to the research project that I did at Mathcamp, but I believe that its format bolsters learning more. The possibility of being able to access and read advanced mathematical texts and papers, led by a mentor, would actively stimulate my mathematical curiosity. The 10-week time frame allows for an extensive learning period, allowing students to have a much better grasp on the topic than the 2-week projects at Mathcamp, and therefore have the possibility of achieving more towards the end of the program. Furthermore, DRP’s are conducted over a quarter, allowing for both multiple explorations each year, and the possibility of building on a previous program’s research. I’m also very interested in studying Combinatorial Game Theory, and am fortunate enough to own the text (“Winning Ways for your Mathematical Plays”, by John H. Conway), so I have an idea where I’d start exploring. All things considered, I believe the math program at the University of Chicago would be an excellent stimulant for my future mathematical education.
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<p>Topic #6: “So, where is Waldo, really?”</p>

<pre><code>Last month, as my English class began our Invisible Man unit, we were asked to rank our classmates from least to most invisible. After ranking about 10 people, I realized that I was listing the people I considered to be most invisible first. I wondered how I’d noticed them first, if I thought them to be the most unnoticeable. As we began reading the book, I began to piece together an explanation.
I believe that being invisible doesn’t mean that people don’t see you, literally. Someone who purposefully avoids eye contact with the teacher is often called on, and the marching band member who doesn’t project his presence is called out for ruining the band’s confident poise. Ironically, it seems as if trying to go unseen is a good way to get noticed. That is certainly the case for Waldo. The only difference is that the people know to search for him.
However, something we may have never considered during our search is: Is Waldo himself in search of something? Ironically, he seems like he’s in search of attention, by trying to remain invisible. This thirst for knowledge leads people to seek him out until they succeed. But what kind of attention does he really get? Once we find him, do we stop and consider the inner workings of who Waldo is, or do we just move onto the next picture to find him again? In the case of the latter, his attention is short-lived, and he’s soon forgotten.
In this way, he’s much like Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. Like the narrator of Ellison’s novel is sought out and used for other purposes, most notably to lead “his people” to the satisfaction of his society’s prominent white members, Waldo is used by artists to provide entertainment for a fanbase. Unlike Ellison’s narrator, Waldo has no ability to make decisions for himself, and is thus easy to control. One doesn’t have to worry about Waldo not following orders, he can be created, moved around, and made to stay put.
However, I believe that Waldo symbolizes something greater than the drawings penned craftily into book scenes. The notion of a character that hides itself among a slew of red herrings relates to the human personality scene. Often, we employ dual personalities and temporary facades to keep people from finding out who we really are. Hiding one’s identity is sometimes useful when we have a facet of our personality that we’d rather keep hidden. In fact, history is full of instances like Stalin’s gulags and Chairman Mao’s iron grip over China, when uniformity and compliance were valued over individuality. The oppression and submersion of the human identity is much older than the search for the storybook Waldo.
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<p>However, keeping parts of oneself a secret can ultimately be self-destructive, which leads to a natural inclination towards self-expression. Ironically, the Waldo inside of us, which we try so hard to hide, desires to be found by someone or another. Historically, this desire has led to revolution when the people’s means of expressions are oppressed. On the individual level, our metaphorical Waldo’s desire to be found is the cause of our search for him.</p>

<p>Ellison’s narrator awakens at one point with a realization that he has been controlled, and “kept running” by others throughout his life. He subsequently grapples with questions of his identity, which leads him to attempt to take control over his life. Likewise, I believe that someone who has yet to come to terms with their identity is subject to being controlled by others, and by natural human desires. The force which controls someone who has failed to decide what to do about their identity comes in to decide for them, and “keep them running”.</p>

<p>By no means do I equate coming to terms with one’s identity with finding one’s inner Waldo. For one, not everyone succeeds in finding their inner Waldo. In fact, not everyone may desire to find their inner Waldo. Personally, I see the whole search as a work in progress, whether or not it’s successful. As we live our lives, our personalities may change and shift, moving around like the Waldo in the books never does. Each different stage of our life is a different scene, with new confounding decoys that have to be seen through to find Waldo.</p>

<p>The decision of what to do with our inner Waldo is what’s crucial in determining who we are. Establishing control over one’s identity leads to establishing control over oneself, because our identity lies at the heart of who we are. Even if one doesn’t find, or even search for their identity, simply knowing that they have the ability to shape and shift their identity gives them control over their lives. And once an individual realizes that they have a say in determining their identity, suddenly they become the artist, and can paint the characteristics of their Waldo (he doesn’t have to have red and white stripes!). While they may not be able to, or choose to find their Waldo, they can determine his personality, something that we cannot do for the storybook Waldo. While we may not be able to find our identity, we can create one.
Finding Waldo’s location within oneself is still not a definite task. But I believe that knowing who Waldo is is much more important. That’s where his true value lies. And in my case, I’m determined to have a say in the latter.</p>

<p>I showed my essay to 10+ people, and all of them said it hit the mark. So, when the deferral came, it was especially hard to take it. Hopefully the admissions committee looked over it more carefully, come Regular Decision time.</p>

982

<p>Well, I don’t know what you guys ( or a UChicago admissions officer) will think about my essays, but I love them to death. For my favorite’s essay I discussed my love for everything Middle-Earth! I talked about the first time I heard about UChicago and their quirky essay topics for the Why UChicago essay and emphasized my love for the unconventional. Naturally, I had to write the where’s Waldo essay. I basically depicted Waldo as an idea that is present in our daily lives and in everything around us. My essay basically said we have to keep searching for the Waldo in everything. March 15th is approaching too fast for me! Good luck to all!</p>

983

<p>So here is mine. I am getting really nervous these days as the 15th is approaching, and I start to doubt whether I wrote the right essay. Really love UChicago. It’s always my top choice. </p>

<p>Silence essay:</p>

<p>When the ancient poet Tao Yuanming encountered that view of sprouts swinging slightly in the breeze, it was impossible to use “joyous”, “comfortable” or any other words to describe his emotions fully. Narrating feelings with words will never be accurate, because words are solid and visible, but feelings are intangible and imperceptible to the eye; because words are limited and intermittent, but feelings are infinite and constant within our hearts. Tao Yuanming was wise enough to not make any useless effort to depict his feelings with dry words, and instead, chose to stay silent like a mirror. “The sprouts wave with the wind from the south like wings of birds.” With only eight words, Tao succeeded in keeping that moment forever.</p>

<p>I felt grateful to those silent writers who, rather than impose their own feelings with inaccurate words, bestowed upon their readers the valuable chance to ruminate, develop, and form complete feelings for themselves from their own perspectives. And gradually, I discovered that silence’s power was revealed not only in art, but also in my daily life.</p>

<p>In 10th grade, when I sobbed and told my Chinese teacher how desperate I was at losing this chance of studying abroad, he nodded and looked at me with care; when I complained indignantly about how unfair everything was, he listened carefully and smiled. No consolation, no suggestions; he said nothing but listened to me. In his silence and through my own words, I could think rationally again: I reflected on the whole experience to determine if it was truly unfair, I asked myself what this chance actually meant to me, and I thought that the best remedy for this loss should be composure and confidence towards the future. </p>

<p>Enjoying the feeling of being superior, some people fundamentally insist that their authority should be obeyed. No matter if they actually understand or not, they rashly speak out to prove their intelligence. These poisonous interactions appear commonly among teachers and students, parents and children or even peers. But my Chinese teacher recognized that he could by no means understand my true feelings which were absolutely personal. So instead of making any judgment that could be wrong or offering any advice that could be useless, he chose to stay silent. Through the hustle and bustle of today’s society, a quiet mirror is extraordinarily valuable. Silence is not indifference, but a kind of purer gaze, a more genuine reflection, a more lasting care, a more merciful understanding and a wiser humbleness. Good listeners are like clear mirrors, waiting patiently for us to meet ourselves in our own words. </p>

<p>Months after the meeting with my Chinese teacher, I put that lesson to use. At the school for the blind where I tutored, one of the girls had a hard time concentrating in my English classes. The sudden urge to order her to listen carefully almost overtook me, but I waited until the class was over and instead asked her what was wrong. She said plainly that she found English of no use. Then she said her parents didn’t have any hopes for her, and she just wanted to be an ordinary girl. Her facial expression was blank, lacking the vividness of children her age. </p>

<p>Most people might just say ‘Study harder”; but did I really understand the use of English to them, a special group of people whose chances of the future were restricted? Personal assertion and harsh criticism had no place in our talk, and instead, there was only silence. As I listened carefully, sympathy and the urge to help her rose in my mind. At the end of our talk, I light-heartedly shared with her my childhood hatred for the violin. She laughed when I told her how I’d used recordings to pretend I was really practicing.</p>

<p>The next class, the same girl, though still hesitant, began to participate in our games and discussions. I don’t know why; maybe it was because she gained some new insights through our talk, or maybe, silence has its own magic.</p>

<p>Why UChicago:</p>

<p>“Debate keeps us alive.” My team wrote this in bright colors on our T-shirts to show how debate intrigues and inspires us. However, it always takes new debaters time to realize this fact.</p>

<p>“What if the argument of the other side is right?” This is the question that new-comers often ask.</p>

<p>“Prove that your arguments outweigh theirs.” I’ll respond. </p>

<p>As a debater, I always defend my side confidently and boldly. Even though an argument provided by the opposite team may be right and convincing on an emotional level, I will always weigh the effectiveness and justifications of my ideas against theirs, and provide reasons why my side can be believed. People are inclined to judge in clear black and white; they will think that the “right” side is irrefutable and rest comfortably upon their feelings. I once believed in this as well, and would pray that I would get to argue the side I believed in personally. But gradually debate taught me a valuable lesson: only by continuously challenging our beliefs and thinking critically can we come closer to the ultimate truth. Debate distances me from conventions, from established assumptions, and from settled beliefs; it transforms me into an active thinker and learner who always returns to question the unquestionable. This is what I want from my undergraduate education as well: an inspiring academic environment that will continuously challenge me and fill my mind with new insights.</p>

<p>Chicago, in my eyes, is like a constant and eternal debate floor. Everyone brings both expertise and a contagious vitality of thoughts: I want to actively engage in Professor Rouse’s class discussion of a six-word autobiography; I dream of working with inspiring professors such as Professor Cathy J. Cohen, whose research on New Media and Youth Political Action exposes ethical and racial themes; and I am eager to join and exchange ideas with Leighton Huch, an expert debater and the Vice President of Operations of Chicago Debate Society, who fearlessly tackles difficult social issues. These people are admirable, yes, and their ideas may lead to new insights, but Chicago’s free environment does not force me to believe one thing or another; instead, like a debate, it provides all these thoughts and urges me to present my rebuttal or argument. </p>

<p>Journalism is my ultimate goal and aspiration, and the most important character for a journalist is to select the useful parts out of a huge mass of information and present issues as truthfully as possible. Therefore, critical thinking and the habit of actively seeking for the truth are crucial. This is precisely what life and studies in Chicago will offer. United by the Core Curriculum and the many chances Chicago provides, I will be able to plunge into the sea of great minds and become part of their endless flow of thoughts, adding my concerns about China’s current social reality and the careful observations I’ve trained through debate. And just as debate nourished my intellect, Chicago, through the challenges and inspiration it provides, will surely become an ideal place to keep me constantly alive.</p>

<p>Optional:</p>

<p>When I first opened The Little Prince four years ago, I was delightfully surprised. I loved the little prince’s loyalty to his rose, and his confusion at why the narrator only pays attention to what he considers “matters of consequence”.</p>

<p>Then on a recent television show, a little boy was asked what car he loved best. Guesses like Ferrari, Lamborghini and other luxury cars fell into silence when the boy answered, “The garbage truck! Because there is always music when it passes.” In the figure of that boy, I suddenly saw the little prince. And from the audience, I saw the grown-ups mentioned in the book who pay attention only to matters of consequence. They aim desperately to earn reputation and money, but fall to silence when asked why these things are important to them. They are busy all the time, but can no longer appreciate the beauty of the starry night right above them. </p>

<p>In The Little Prince, it is the reflection of materialism that travels across continents and lives to touch my heart today. Isn’t it amazing that a French pilot born in 1900 can write words that will be echoed in the thoughts of a Chinese boy born after 2000? Literature has a lasting and ubiquitous vitality: authors die, eras end, and countries develop, but themes like chasing after liberty, the criticism of tyranny and the search for happiness never change. For example, Orwell’s 1984 continues to be popular today because the pursuit of freedom and the censure of autocracy are eternal; they are deeply rooted in our inner hearts and will never vary with time and place. </p>

<p>Literature has the magic of constantly developing but staying forever young. I am enchanted by the themes lying under the words, by the different approaches and perspectives and by literature’s character of being eternal. Like a treasure hunter, every new discovery of literature thrills me and urges me to seek more. The Little Prince won its place as my favorite book because it succeeded in uncovering the beauty of literature right in front of me. </p>

<p>Tell me how you feel about my essays plz. I myself really love them.</p>

984

<p>It’s breathtaking. good luck.</p>

985

<p>Invent a Past for a Present Prompt:
The cold metal brushed against my skin, and my fingertips felt the soft curves of the indentions on the quarter’s surface. Scratches crisscrossed the coin as it caught the reflection of the light, and at a specific angle on this coin, George Washington’s cheek had a scar.
“Lib-er-ty. 1967.” At eight-years old, I passed through a phase in which I read everything in sight. My aunt had given me this quarter as a token of thanks for my help at her restaurant. I had swept the floor; I remember my pride tripling as she praised my “good work” in her slightly broken English. Later that night, I told my mother that I was rich.
At that age, a quarter was a fortune. Each bit of money made me a millionaire, even if it only consisted of pennies from the floor and the seats of the restaurant. I was a treasure hunter; I searched on counter tops and brick floors for companions I could call my own for my mother was working, my father, in another state, and my brother, eleven-years older in his own social circle. The quarter, despite its value, was a jewel to me. The quarter had felt the warmth of its previous owners’ hands, and in my palm, the quarter gleamed with the vitality of the hundreds of lives that had once touched the same scars on the same metal coin.
I added the next scar, a single mark among the sea of memories.</p>

<p>New York City, New York, 1969.
“Greedy pigs!” A roar of raucous agreement echoed through the air. “Here’s the money you want so much!”
A man jerked me out of his pocket, threw me upwards, and in the darkness of the June morning, I saw a crowd of humans pounding irate fists into the night, shouting viciously at uniformed humans. Suddenly, something struck my ribbed metal side with a sharp clang, and we bounced off of each other into a storm of coins that descended upon the officers. As I hit the ground, Washington’s face-side up, the air thickened with tension, anger, and frustration. Above my circular form, the humans stood tall, eyes gleaming with determination for justice. </p>

<p>Kansas City, Missouri, 1981.
A stream of light engulfed the inside of the leather coin purse, blinding me before the shadow of a woman covered the hotel’s spotlights. I could hear a faint voice singing, the melodies muffled as they passed through the fabric of my temporary home and into the grandiose space of the Hyatt Regency. Behind the vocals, I heard loud cracks. Drumsticks pounding on plastic drumheads, I assumed. Nothing significant.
Yet the cracks continued, slower than the metronomic beat of the music, living in the background as if sneaking up on the humans. Abruptly, a snap sounded. The floor jerked downwards. The wallet was still open, but the woman had stopped hovering over my line of vision, her attention drawn elsewhere. I stared upwards at the spotlights and felt the distance between them and me growing. The music froze. Screams erupted. The floor lurched as gravity pulled. The woman let go of the wallet, and I, along with a shower of pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, fell out into the light. Both debris and humans joined us as we plummeted through the fourth floor walkway and the second floor walkway, eventually landing onto the lobby of the hotel; this was the longest distance I’d ever fallen. </p>

<p>New York City, New York, 2001.
A piece of paper caught onto my metal surface, pulling me out of a man’s pocket. I fell onto the carpet of an apartment, and the man, dressed for work with a briefcase in one hand and the paper in another, pressed his lips against the lips of a smiling woman, ruffled the light brown hair of a boy no older than seven, and left the sanctuary of the sixth floor home to brave the early morning rush.
While his mother left the room, the boy’s gaze fell on me. With curious eyes, he picked me up from the ground, grinning slightly as he set me on top of a toy race car and slid the plastic wheels back and forth on a wooden table. His attention abandoned me as he ate breakfast, but eventually returned as his mother sat down to watch the morning news, his small body at her feet.
“Vroom, vroom.” Wind grazed my surface violently as I bounced between the plastic of the car and the soft skin of the child’s palm.
“Honey, sit still for a second,” the woman said, eyes staring at the television. The wind stopped blowing.
“A plane has crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center…”
…Later that day, the child’s soft hand lifted me from the table, this time hesitant and timid. Again, the fingers closed above me, and the hand strangled my form with a rigid grip. When light filled my vision again, green eyes gazed onto my metal surface, terror blazing behind the saturation. He blinked, and a tear splattered on me, filling my scars.
Behind the child, the door lock turned.</p>

<p>Oklahoma, 2003.
A woman lifted me from her purse, and I smelled aromas of meats as they clashed against the smell of freshly cooked rice. We were in a restaurant. Perhaps this woman was hungry. Yet, she held me in front of a child whose glimmering dark brown eyes were only eight-years old. This girl looked at me as if I were a diamond, my militant past transparent to her gaze.
As the small hands touched my silver surface, another scar formed, and the child’s fingerprint fell in line with that of the world that had lived before her.</p>

<hr>

<p>I’m terrified of tomorrow, but at the same time, I’ll be relieved once I find out; I basically decide where I’m going to college tomorrow.</p>

986

<p>I got into the University, so I thought I’d share my essay. I chose the where’s waldo prompt (obviously the best) and I had a lot of fun writing it. I had just been playing stalker a few days before and was into the whole chernobyl thing, so that influenced it a tonne. </p>

<p>Where’s Waldo
He stroked the trigger patiently while gently shifting his shoulders to shake off the stiffness that had crept into his body. His condensed breath rose out across the desolate cityscape, fleeing the bleak and empty wasteland. For a moment he considered hiding his breath to avoid attracting attention, before deciding against it. Covering his mouth would entail an undue amount of movement that was far more likely to reveal his hiding place. Besides, he doubted whether anyone was watching the dilapidated high rise building that he had chosen as his firing spot. From his room on the 15th floor, he had a clear view of the square below. The peeling wallpaper with pictures of faded princesses and the pile of old dolls in the corner covered by a blanket of dust suggested that the room was once home to a little girl. Her hollow, long-forgotten laugh seemed to linger in the air, giving the room an eerie atmosphere. He glanced to left of his rifle and shuddered at the thought of seeing the ghost of the girl still playing in a corner of the room. Her little hands stroking the hair of the old dolls. Innocent eyes looking questioningly at the strange man in her room. He shook himself out of the trance and instead listened to the slow regular tick of his Geiger counter and the lifeless wind that blew past the shattered window he lay behind. The fatigue from lying in the same position for two days was setting in and he knew that he had to focus in order to stave off the wandering thoughts that accompanied it. He looked out across the crumbling city, scanning the square below to note any changes. There was nothing, no people, no animals, no life. Even the rustling of the leaves in the trees was but an accompaniment to the overbearing orchestra of desolation that pervaded the empty streets. </p>

<p>Pripyat was a ghost town. Built to house the workers of the nearby Chernobyl power plant, the city was abandoned when the disastrous meltdown occurred twenty years ago. Once home to thousands of families, many of whom had strolled through the square below, Pripyat was now a radioactive wasteland inhabited only by the forgotten memories of the past. An old Soviet flag lay torn in a puddle like the crippled body of an elderly man longing for the days of youth that had long since passed. The rusting swings in the square creaked with the wind as if trying to remember the children that once swung from them. All that remained of the once prosperous city was the crumbling skeletal buildings that would continue to stand as a reminder to all of what human folly can cause. </p>

<p>Getting to the city had been straightforward. His journey through the exclusion zone was marked only by the utter silence that characterized the alien world. The dead air was occasionally disturbed by the ticks from the Geiger counter warning of the invisible danger that permeated almost everything in the zone. He had been contracted to assassinate Pavlov Mykola, a corrupt Ukrainian official that had been selling nuclear waste to terrorist organizations. Cash for spent fuel rods: a real recipe for disaster. After the infamous Moroccan bombings, the British government had traced the radioactive substances used in the dirty bombs to Pavlov, or as he was more commonly known in criminal circles, Waldo. Failing to secure appropriate action from the Ukrainian regime, the British had decided to handle Waldo by themselves. They could not, however, send in a regular SAS team due to the political fallout that a discovery of the operation would entail. They needed someone who had no affiliation to a particular country and knew the zone inside out. So they had contacted him. His ruthless efficiency and detached nature made him the ideal candidate for the job. According to intel, Waldo was supposed to meet with a group of Albanian ultra-nationalists in Pripyat on the 14th of November to carry out an exchange, hence the reason why he was lying in the abandoned room. The only question that remained: where was Waldo?</p>

<p>As if to answer his question, the silence was shattered by the engine of a dark green jeep that rolled across the debris-strewn tarmac, stopping at centre of the square. Four low-browed men carrying russian assault rifles stepped out of the vehicle and positioned themselves to await the other party. Shortly, another jeep drove in from the opposite direction and stopped a few meters from the Albanians. The unmistakeable red and white striped t-shirt that had earned Waldo his name appeared from the jeep and approached the Albanians.</p>

<p>He measured the temperature and humidity before checking the wind strength by looking at the leaves in the tree. The weather was perfect: low humidity, mild temperature and a light breeze would ensure that the bullet would fly straight. However, despite the ideal conditions, the shot was going to be difficult. The target was over 1.5 kilometers away, meaning that the bullet would take over three seconds to reach its target and aiming even a tenth of a radian too high would result in a wide overshoot. With a shot of this distance the bullet arc would be substantial and the Coriolis effect would have to be taken into account. He adjusted the scope on his rifle after making the necessary trigonometric calculations in his head. Looking through it he saw Waldo standing next to the hood of one of the jeeps, haggling with the Albanians. The positioning was perfect, he had to take the shot. He slowed his breathing and relaxed his body in order to steady the gun. He fixed Waldo in his sights. His concentration was impenetrable. Everything except Waldo and the rifle fell away. Then he pulled the trigger.</p>

987

<p>This is my second essay (prompt- Where is Waldo?)</p>

<p>Shawn Harrison was perusing all the strange comic book shops, leaving me standing outside watching the oddly dressed people go by. My first time away from my parents in a foreign country, and this is what I’m doing? I swore that the moment he got back I would hail a cab to hightail it out of here. I came here for adventure, not to idle around in some weird shopping district.
Has it already been 30 minutes? Oh well, it doesn’t look like he is coming back any time soon, might as well look around myself. There has to be some appeal to this stuff? I wandered into the only shop with an English name, “The World’s Greatest Mysteries.” Flustered from the variety of novels, I picked up the only book I recognized Where is Waldo? I remember easily finding him when I was a kid.
The book was small, only four pages of the actual game. So I thought that I might as well find Waldo to pass the time. I opened the first page and smirked, of course it was set in this city. I went to purchase the book, it wasn’t too much. Surprisingly, the shopkeeper spoke English well. He told me that this was a custom made copy; he personally designed it back in 1987, and re-wrote it every five years to keep up with the changing environment. “No one has been able to find Waldo” he said, “the problem is they don’t know what to look for.” Told him that I would definitely find Waldo, I use to stroll through these with ease as a kid. “If you are serious then I will give you one hint” he said with amusement, “Each page has multiple Waldos. To find the right one, you have to use the hint given on the previous page. The first hint is: a popular local restaurant. You should be able to solve the first page relatively easily with that.” I thanked him and walked away. This book was going to be interesting. </p>

<pre><code>The first page showed a bunch of comic shops and video game arcades. Tucked away in between two comic shops though was a restaurant. Sure enough, one of the Waldos was there. This was too easy. I turned to the next page I realized that there was more than one Waldo. What hint did the last location give? I scoured the details of the restaurant but the name and features were purposely blurred. How was I supposed to find the clue? I was scanning the page for five minutes when an idea came about. What if I visit the restaurant?
The two stores adjacent to the restaurant had perfectly legible names. I held the page up like a map and located where I was standing, the shops seemed to be right down the street. Since I still didn’t see Shawn I decided to go by myself. The restaurant turned out to be a popular food café. I was hungry so I opted to figure out the clue over lunch.
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<p>Slurping down my meal I looked around for a clue that could relate to the next page. After a few seconds I found it. The logo of the restaurant was a picture of the palace; that exact building was on the next page, surrounded by a moat and capped off with the bridge! And sure enough, standing on the bridge near the palace was a Waldo. I quickly finished and ran straight for the nearest subway; this was going to be fun.
I paid the entry fee, but opted out of a guided tour, I didn’t have patience for something like that. I scurried on over to the bridge, badly wanting to find the next clue. Standing on the steel bridge I looked around for some type of logo. Maybe something etched or pasted onto the bridge? I couldn’t find anything though. Where was it? Maybe if I matched something on the next page to something that you can see from the actual bridge… There! I found it! The steel was constructed in a flower shaped pattern, the same pattern found next to a shrine on the next page! This was getting good.<br>
I ran east to the local subway to check for the quickest way to the temple. The Z-line seemed like my best option, but it would not drop me as close as I needed to reach the shrine, plus there were a lot of stops. So I checked the map and ran north. I just made it in time to take the G-line. At the gate to the shrine, I quickly scanned for signs of the pattern found on the bridge, there were none. Dismissing the line of shops leading up to the temple, I ran inside. Thinking the next clue had to be in the inner garden, I bolted straight for it. Lucky for me there was no admission fee, as I was too keyed up to stand in line. Inside I was greeted to an open space. Outside there was so much activity and vibrancy; in here though, there was simple serenity. I sat down to check the last page. I realized that it was almost identical to the first page! It was just drawn in a different angle, with more stores labeled.
Thinking that the Waldo’s might provide some kind of hint, I did a quick page scan. Wait…there weren’t any more Waldo’s? This was odd, there had to be at least one. I rechecked the page multiple times, but found none. There had to be a way to finish this, I didn’t just spend whole day running around the city for nothing! So I looked closer, if the Waldo’s on this page couldn’t help me, then maybe there was something about the picture of the temple on the previous page that might. If I compare the picture of the shrine with information given from a pamphlet then maybe I could find the clue.
I picked up a pamphlet for information about the shrine. It was rebuilt after being bombed in WWII… It had a large pagoda next to it for worshipping… There were two main entrances, the front “Thunder Gate,” and the inner “Treasure-House Gate” with two large Nio statues… There was another shrine located in the precinct…This was tough. It didn’t seem like any of the information in the brochure would help me. But I kept trying; maybe there was more to the clue on the previous page. Let’s see…the location of the pattern was in the line of shops that led from the front gate to the inner gate. Wait! That was it! The pattern was in between the two gates! Maybe Waldo would be somewhere in between the symbols of two gates on the next page! The symbol of the “Treasure-House Gate” was Nio, so maybe I should look for a depiction of Nio. I scanned the page, but couldn’t find a statue of him, so I started looking at the shops; maybe if I could match up the names…
It took some time, but I was able to find a store that had Nio’s name in it. Now I only needed to find a symbol of Thunder. I found the symbol almost immediately, a thunderbolt logo on a shop a little south of the shop with Nio in its name. If the pattern was in the middle of two gates, it must be in the middle of two symbols. Tracing a path between my clues I stood up in shock: the only place in between those two signs was the shop I started at! Waldo was in the mystery shop! Wait a second… Waldo was in that shop? Hmmm.
On the train ride back to the store I called Shawn, he was worrying about me. I told him to meet me where we had planned to rendezvous hours ago that morning. Reaching the store I felt in awe, if my hunch was correct, then I might have just solved one of the greatest mysteries of the modern era, and it all made perfect sense. I opened the door and walked straight to the register, “Waldo, I found you.” He looked up at me and beamed in perfect English “I have sold iterations of that book to people throughout the years, but in 25 years, you have been the first to actually solve the puzzle! Incredible!”
Had I done it? Had I really solved a mystery that millions before me had tried and failed? I probed him for information on how he was able to stay hidden for so long. “I used to be a wanderer”, he explained, “travelling to different countries, scraping by. When I came to Tokyo, the animation capital of the East, I thought it would be a fun place to settle down and test the limits of my hiding expertise. By hiding in the most obvious of places I was able to avoid standing out. The Akihabara district, the Imperial Palace, the Shinjoshi Temple… By using famous places from around the city, I made sure that the clues didn’t vary much from year to year (though I did have to change the clues in the first and last page from time to time, as the store names did change)”. A master stroke from the master player! He gave me permission to relate this story to any news outlet … and to you. It is time for the world to know that Waldo has been found.
Giddily I met Shawn. I held back my excitement as he told me about his day: he did absolutely nothing of importance, just shopped. When I couldn’t contain myself, out spilled my story, heck, it was a lot more interesting than his day of shopping. He almost fell over after hearing what I did. “That was a real adventure!” I told him that he should have spent his day with me. “You’re so right,” he agreed. “Tomorrow I’m going with you.”</p>

988

<p>Admitted RD International student. I didn’t think my essay was overly good!</p>

<p>Essay Option 1: “A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.” -Oscar Wilde.
Othello and Iago. Dorothy and the Wicked Witch. The Autobots and the Decepticons. History and art are full of heroes and their enemies. Tell us about the relationship between you and your arch-nemesis (either real or imagined).</p>

<p>One would find it difficult to come across a child who doesn’t have an arch-nemesis or rival. It is one part of childhood which I believe to be crucial in the development of the individual. Throughout my time in school I had one particular arch-nemesis. Let’s call him James.
From the moment James and I sat beside each other in English class at the age of 11, I knew we would become strong adversaries. Children of that age often seek to gain the attention of their peers and teachers and we were no different. Even in the earliest of vocabulary tests in French and Latin, we became incredibly competitive. We were constantly vying to see who would get that extra half mark and so push ahead of the other.
After three years in secondary school I met my arch-nemesis outside of the classroom. James had decided to start playing field hockey. Of course, I took this as a tactical move on his part and was not best pleased. My arch-nemesis had now infringed on the one part of my school life in which I was free from him. The rivalry on the pitch started to flare, goals were scored, tackles made and bitter looks were exchanged.
Our relationship became rather strange for two apparent arch-nemeses when James and I became a part of the same friendship group. Having mutual friends inevitably meant spending time together. Times when we were together as part of a group resulted in incredibly tense and awkward situations for both James and me, and our friends. We could hardly spend thirty minutes together on a field hockey pitch let alone hours together with friends.
I believe my relationship with James brought out both the best and the worst in me. Seeing the negative side of my personality has taught me to hold back on my emotions in certain situations and therefore look at a situation holistically. Jumping in with an automatic retaliation when antagonised can be harmful to others. Our relationship has taught me to be more patient and tolerant of others. It is important that if something or someone irritates you, not to let it get the better of you as this can reflect badly.<br>
The competitiveness within our relationship made me strive further in my school work and extracurricular activities. It gave me another end goal to work towards, even though trying to beat someone through whatever means necessary isn’t a very good goal. Ultimately, in striving to be better than James the quality of my work improved. This is something for which I am very grateful.
My relationship with James has taken an unlikely turn; a turn that is often seen in stereotypical movies, where two arch-nemeses become the closest of friends. At the beginning of Sixth Form we were placed together in three out of four of our classes. We soon learnt that we had similar interests but contrasting views, particularly in politics and economics. Often views such as these pull people apart but in our case, it allowed us to have many spirited but good-hearted debates. James and I became close friends and remain so to this day. This may come as a shock when speaking of an arch-nemesis but I am actually thankful for mine. He has improved me as a person and has made me someone who strives for the best and I have been left with an incredibly close friend.</p>

989

<p>Originally did the past/present prompt. After being deferred, submitted this as an optional essay.</p>

<p>I have spent my life moving around the country fitting in by simply being myself and doing what came naturally. I suppose that is why for my first choice of essay I went with a personal memory. There was no deep hidden philosophical meaning, just a small piece of me on paper. It was an introduction of sorts between two hopeful friends, my past and my future. At the same time however, there was something inside that felt I had missed an opportunity to make an observation. A feeling that can be likened to the realization of a witty retort hours after a confrontation takes place. Most of us never get a chance to follow through on our, “If I had only” moment. Fortunate or not, I am getting that opportunity with you, University of Chicago; and in an ironic twist, my unused words could not be more fitting. As such I will tell you once and for all, where exactly Waldo can be found.<br>
Waldo is hidden on the college admission roller coaster. It lives in being able to stand out and be found among the thousands of other applicants. Waldo is being the answer to an unknown question. It is making yourself noticeable and catching the eye of someone desperately scanning the crowd. Waldo is fitting into the picture, being able to blend into a patchwork quilt of original faces. It is the desperation to find and be found; existing in the hope that we can connect in a glance. Waldo is keeping a sober expression as the world changes around you. It is putting on a shirt and nerd glasses and anticipating you will be the man they need. Waldo is being moved around, accepting a place in the lead but being just as valuable pushing up from the rear. The real trick to finding Waldo is adapting but staying true to your character. It is being able to understand that what makes you unique does not disappear because you are passed over for the similar. Waldo is persistent, ready to catch your attention on the next page if you miss him on the first. It is being puzzled, excited, hopeful, and anxious. Waldo is putting all of your experiences on paper for a stranger to analyze. It is reevaluating, perhaps overlooking an element or two and returning to find that something special.</p>

990

<p>For my original essay I did the “pick any present you have ever received and invent a past for it.” I used the time my grandparents took me car shopping with them. There was a buy a car get a kids battery operated jeep promotion going on…</p>

<p>We had set out to the dealership that morning to pick up my grandparents’ new Hyundai Accent. It was going to be the first car that they had ever purchased brand new. They had been saving for quite some time and were very excited. The salesman greeted us in the lot with a bad suit and an artificial smile. We did the customary introductions and headed inside to fill out paperwork. </p>

<p>I spotted her as soon as we entered the dealership, painted hood glistening in the sunlight shining through the display window. I could hardly believe my eyes; yet there she was sitting within arm’s reach. The first time I had ever laid eyes on her, she had been featured in a magazine just a few years earlier. Placing first in the Daytona 500 had gotten her career off to a furious start. I had fantasized about driving her out on the open highway, but never in a million years would I have anticipated that the dream was about to become a reality.</p>

<p>As I sat by my grandfather’s side, I was vaguely aware of the bustle of paperwork being exchanged. At that moment reality could not have been further from my mind. I was focused on the exquisiteness parked on the opposite side of the room. She was able to accelerate to speeds only angels could fly, stop on a dime and leave her challengers in the dust. Her pristine paint gave no indication of her wild past. She had been the queen of NASCAR for years, and her celebrity had been well deserved. Prior to her retirement in the spring, watching her speed around the track had been a delight for admirers around the world. Now there I sat, my imagination making my hands her driver and my heart her slave. </p>

<p>“She is a beauty, would you like to take a closer look?” asked the salesman breaking into my thoughts. I could hardly believe my ears, I wanted to sprint to her, but simply nodded and allowed him to lead the way. As we converged upon her the salesman offered me the key; I could no longer hide my elation. I turned on the ignition and listened to her 6-volt purr. My grandfather spoke to me, “Would you like a car like this?” he asked. I laughed and explained that I could never afford something this extravagant. Conspiringly, my grandfather gestured to the salesman with a nod and a wink. “So, how much do you have?” he asked. I pulled out the measly coins that lived in the pocket of my overalls. “Well, seems it is your lucky day,” said the salesman, “as it turns out this can be yours for the exact amount you have in your hand.” Stunned, I turned to see the smiles dancing in my grandparents’ eyes and realized that this had been their plan all along. It was no lucky break that brought me to that car. It was the love of two people, who wanted to share their happiness with me by making my dream come true. </p>

<p>We left the dealership with two vehicles that day; them in their brand new silver Hyundai Accent and me with my flawless red Power Wheels. In hindsight, I suppose if I had not been napping on the ride to the dealership, I may have noticed a plan was afoot. They had been making arrangements for weeks to put those keys in my hand. Given I was merely four years old, I suppose I can’t be faulted for my lack of perception. Now 13 years later, my grandparents still have their car. My Power Wheels has long since passed on; but never will I forget the excitement of the day I was presented with my very first car.</p>

991

<p>sname2013, I enjoyed your essay, it brought tears to my eyes. As a parent, I remember those Power Wheels and how much I wished that I could afford one for my kids. I found it to be a very sweet and moving essay.</p>

992

<p>Please comment on this as a piece of writing…I know I was rejected from UChicago, but I really loved my essay. Feel free to let me know any reason which might have led to the rejection.</p>

<p>My Relationship with my Arch-Nemesis</p>

<p>He was old and shrivelled by the time I was born. He was as kindly and wise as one expects someone of his age to be. Yet he was childlike at heart – youthful enough for me to say that we grew up together.
He would cradle me in his debilitated arms and croon over me ever since I came into this earth. As I became a toddler, he gradually took to rocking me back and forth on his knees; with him around, the passing hours never seemed too long. He induced in me the ability to discern the beauty in minuscule entities. It was from him that I learnt my alphabet and how to count.
As I matured and found companionship in others as well, there would be phases during which he was excessively possessive of me. I was too young to realize that he was encroaching on my time, but I gladly assimilated the perfectionist attitude he instilled in me.
Then came the stage when the hours passed, indifferent of his existence. The desire to make his presence felt was perhaps fuelled by my nonchalance.
It is said –“The best friends make the worst enemies.”
His desire for recognition eventually led to Time transforming into my arch-nemesis.
I must acknowledge that I did not notice him distancing himself from me. I would unconsciously lose track of him as I read a storybook, and he would reappear only to make me trip on my way to school. The bitterness in our relationship was then at its zenith.
As I grew older, and projects and papers became the call of every day, procrastination became my theme song. I would almost always have to stay up late the night before project submission deadlines. I have never been able to estimate the time in my sleep; now my inability to wake up on time got worse. With the onset of my illness, Sleep partnering with Father Time threatened to take over my life.
At this point of time, I came across the words of wisdom –“Time is a great teacher, but it kills all its pupils.” Should I say that was the turning point of my life?
Apparently not.
I had been thwarting his efforts unconsciously all these years by putting a bit of my heart into everything I undertook. Once the thrill of success ran through my veins there was no stopping me from endeavouring.
By loving life I was not only more eager to be awake, but also initiated my efforts much earlier.
My relationship with Time had matured significantly. Today, Time is as chary of me as I am of him.
I will humbly acknowledge that Time will be the winner in this inequitable battle; unless, of course, I can steal a drink from the Philosopher’s Stone.</p>

993

<p>I’m really sorry you didn’t get in. Time is a super common essay and you didn’t have a wildly unique spin but it was still very well written and very…personal. I’m sure you weren’t rejected because of the essay.</p>

994

<p>Thanks a lot! That helps me feel somewhat better :slight_smile:
My fingers are crossed for the rest of the decisions! Good luck to everyone :)</p>

995

<p>Does anyone know when next year’s essay questions come out?</p>

996

<p>I received them on 8th June last year because I was on their mailing list. Good luck! :)</p>

997

<p>Thanks! :)</p>

998

<p>I’m a transfer applicant, so I still have several weeks to go! But here’s one of my essays (Where’s Waldo of course).</p>

<pre><code>You glance around as you briskly walk into the library. No one acknowledges your presence. Maneuvering to the computer lab, you pull on gloves and take a seat in the corner farthest from the view of others. You log onto the server with an out-dated library card and a name that has long since run away with your past. Your eyes take a sweep around once more to check if any one’s interest in you has been piqued. You mouse over the Word icon and click it open, with the desire to inscribe multiple coordinates, so track of progress is not lost. A message pops up. There is a saved document. Odd. You were not on the computer at the stated time and certainly not in the vicinity of this library for at least several years. Paranoia tickles the back of your mind, but you push the apprehension aside. You double-click out of an anxious-born curiosity.
</code></pre>

<p>It opens. The document reveals coding.</p>

<p>C://save/Document1/unread message: 1</p>

<pre><code>Unsure of what this means you move the text pointer to the end of the line and hit ‘ENTER’.
</code></pre>

<p>C:/ALERT!!
C:/ WALDO MIA
C:/File name?
C:/access request: file:WHERE IS WALDO
C:/access granted: file:run
Opening case file…
Opening case file…
C://CLASSIFIED: WHERE IS WALDO</p>

<pre><code>The report continues to detail many facets of information including name, known physical description, last spotted, familiars, etc. One line catches your interest in particular.
</code></pre>

<p>C://data:Postulations and Theories.</p>

<pre><code>There is a plus icon next to it. You click it and suddenly, hundreds of essay titles flood beneath. You briefly skim and scroll through them, laughing quietly at some of the titles.
</code></pre>

<p>“Waldo, the Quest for Inner Purpose”
“The 12th Doctor: Waldo”
“Fictional Man, Contrived Goals”</p>

<pre><code>One catches your interest and you open it.
</code></pre>

<p>(this was in italics) I find it to be quite engaging to think about the endless search for this Waldo. Although some may say he wears stripes because he doesn’t want to be spotted, (Pun intended) the ridiculous amount of photo-bombing he engages in has led me to believe that this is quite the contrary, and most importantly, more than just a coincidence. (/italics)</p>

<pre><code>Your eyes continue to trail.
</code></pre>

<p>(italics)…an endless game of cat and mouse. Every here and there, a presence … “Waldo was here”, so the pursuit may counter back… I figure this is the point. (/italics)</p>

<pre><code>The essay continues to discuss the chase and a goal born from an exuberant game. This surprises you. Out of the hundreds of theories, it seems this one in particular arrives at a tangible person. It speaks of a motivation that strikes close to home.
</code></pre>

<p>(italics)And with such said, I won’t be as easily be fooled or deterred into thinking that this ‘Waldo’ is not a real person at all. I have my speculations and I will find them. (/italics)</p>

<pre><code>You stare as the gears turn in your head. You thought any strong leads were lost long ago, but it looks like the search is on again. Sourcing the last essay, it gives an address. You know from experience that the closer the objective is to those in search of it, the longer realization will take to arrive of said proximity. You pull out your phone, and plug it in to download the document.

Once finished, you click out of session and are swiftly on your feet. On the way to the entrance, you pass by a large glass case and the light echoes your appearance back. Memories of a red-and-white-striped shirt and hat flood your reflection. You grin as the fluorescent lighting reflects off of your black rimmed glasses, a memento of the previous chase, before glancing around once more and exiting.

You pull your phone from your pocket and enter one last command into the document.
</code></pre>

<p>C:/access request: Permission: ENTER UCHICAGO
C:/acess pending…
C:/acess pending…</p>

<pre><code>It’s been a while since so many eyes were on you. The game is on.
</code></pre>

999

<p>And then on the prompt of: Please tell us why you are leaving or planning to leave your current school my essay was the following (I admit I’m nervous about this one…not sure if its too weird…)</p>

<pre><code>I met the University of Denver when I was only 15 years old. I never thought too seriously about our relationship. I was still young, and uninterested in becoming attached. Besides, most waited till their 16th year before starting to think about commitment. At the start of my 17th year, my mother would say things like: “DU lives close by” and “The school is quite beautiful”. By this point in time, I became aware of others’ budding relationships with their universities, but I could not feel the enthusiasm I saw them express. Where was my excitement? My passion? As the deadline to commit got closer, my mother made her growing affection for DU clearer and clearer. Faced with the impending date, I quickly wrote out my few, but lackluster love letters. As I made my way to the mail box, a piece of paper fluttering on the ground caught my eye. I picked it up and skimmed the contents. A warmth bloomed in my chest as I read. I quickly shoved my letters in the mail box and rushed home. Was I sick? What was happening? I reread that letter again and again and spoke the recipient’s name for the first time: The University of Chicago. The name rolled off my tongue like no other. I had never felt so guilty at reading such a passionate and personal love letter in my life, but at the same time, never so grateful for having the exposure to such a college. Papers flew around me as I fumbled for another piece of stationary. I only had that day to write it and my hands shook with every word. Thinking back to it now, it all seemed so rushed, so completely inadequate at expressing the feelings I had. I knew this to be the case when my love interest, became a love unrequited.

I started my relationship with the University of Denver the fall of my 17th year. I always felt it was never quite right that I was with a college I could not whole-heartedly embrace, but DU has always treated me kindly. During the months that we were together, I have been waiting to fall in love. I think that’s the problem. I understand now that it would be best for the both of us if I would only be honest and chase after what I truly felt. DU will always be there for me in case UChicago could never reciprocate my feelings, and for that I will always be grateful, but if I didn’t make this last effort at sincerely pursuing the university of my dreams, I know that it would become one of my greatest regrets. Besides, I’ve always been kind of a romantic.
</code></pre>

1000

<p>Only UChic would have a post your essay thread as active as this one, what a great school and student body.</p>

<p>PaperMonster, your where’s waldo essay is the first one I’ve read that makes me jealous I didn’t write myself. I missed the hint of the gloves and initially thought the snippets of other people’s essays were a mini cop out because you didn’t feel comfortable writing an entire one of your own, but the reveal at the end was absolutely stunning.</p>

<p>I tip my hit to you sir & hope to see you at UChic next year.</p>