Accepted! 50 successful college admission essays - Gen Tanabe, Tanabe Kelly 2008

Memorable essay: Melodies of life
57 successful admission essays

Director of Admissions, Lawrence University

There are some topics that are just plain hard to write about. Music is one of them. But if you can write well about something like music, it can be very impressive.

Michael Thorp, director of admissions at Lawrence University, has read many poor essays about music. Despite the fact that music is such a diffi cult topic, it was the subject of one of the best essays he recently read. The student wrote about playing a Bach overture. Thorp says, “What made this essay truly special was that the student was able to refl ect upon the music’s effect on the people around her.”

“She included a description of a student outside her normal peer group who was sitting next to her and how through the music they were playing they bridged the social chasm that existed. It was well-written. It was imaginative. It gave me a true glimpse into her personality. It was a brilliant essay,” raves Thorp. Don’t be afraid to tackle a diffi cult topic. Often while more time-consuming to write, they can make extremely effective essays.

Robin Potts

Richmond, Virginia

When her father became ill, Robin realized for the fi rst time that her parents weren’t invincible. She says, “I thought they were perfect, but they have problems, too.” Robin decided to write about her parents because she wanted to write about what meant the most to her. A graduate of Collegiate High School, she plays piano, was captain of the cross country team and member of the soccer and indoor track teams and participated in the Federal Reserve Challenge, presenting a project with her team to the Fed. She plans to work in the fi nancial industry.

Twelve Bobby Pins

Harvard University

The middle-aged woman bending over my father seemed different that day. As she gently spoon-fed homemade chicken soup to her husband, years of worry and exhaustion revealed themselves under her swollen eyes, across her ridged forehead and in her hollow cheeks. Although she carried her head high as she doted over the weak man, her gray eyes betrayed her strong composure and showed her weaknesses, her sorrow and her fear.

Her once fl uorescent eyes now appeared faded as if drained by the passage of time.

Occasionally, I caught her sighing as she slowly brushed a few loose strands away from her face. The rest of her slightly over-colored hair was fastened by bobby pins into a tight twist. Like always, she had used more pins than were needed. I had often argued with her over this point, trying to prove to her that fi ve pins rather than twelve would be more than suffi cient to hold her hair in place. She had always responded good-naturedly and applauded my level-headed reasoning. However, she still insisted on using twelve pins. Watching her now dab my father’s lips with a neatly pressed linen napkin, I realized that she had known well before our discussion that the use of twelve bobby pins was absurd. But, it was their very absurdity that saved her, protected her and guarded her from the unknown evils of the universe. Their clinging presence prevented her from becoming un-done. They provided stability when life could not.

I had never before recognized these details of age in my mother. In place of wrinkles, I had seen lines of laughter. In place of graying hair, I had seen strands of vibrancy. And in place of absurdity, I had seen reason. During childhood, I had believed so heavily in her strength that I had never perceived her weaknesses. Now, as I surveyed the pale outstretched fi ngers that stroked my father’s hairline, I understood another side of her. Like me, she had troubles, unanswered questions and fears. She, too, lay awake nights, restless with thoughts of how the future might unravel. Despite her wishes, she could not pin the future motionless like her hair. Challenges would arise whether she used twelve pins, fi ve pins or no bobby pins at all.

Perhaps it was this realization that had produced some of the deep lines above her eyebrows, beneath her eyes and around her lips. With these lines, she showed her comprehension of reality and exposed this understanding to the world.

As I studied my mother’s affectionate motions, my eyes met hers. Without words, her expression told me that the fatigued man before us would survive. He might not recover from surgery today, tomorrow or even next week, but with her loving medicine, he would eventually pull through. I smiled at this reassurance and returned her warm gaze. And then, I saw her eyes twinkle. The clouded, gray eyes shed their foggy covering, releasing countless rays of grace. The gentle beams streamed out from within her soul to illuminate every inch of the room. Although this lucent sensation lasted but an instant, I will remember it for a lifetime. The spark, which had occurred as a result of her selfl essness, awakened me to the true meaning of “strength.” This word did not connote powers of invincibility as I had once envisioned, nor did it entail the suppression of all weaknesses. Instead, strength, as I had seen illuminated in my mother’s eyes, implied the ability to be dignifi ed under stress. I marveled at the realization that my mother possessed one of humanity’s greatest qualities. This serene woman, though weak in appearance, exemplifi ed more strength than I could imagine. Thus, as I stole one last glance into her eyes, or rather into her, I vowed that someday my eyes would also radiate such beams of power, compassion and courage. Some students feel they must write about a lifetime’s worth of experiences in their essay. Robin’s is proof that the description of a single moment can be more than enough. Her essay shares so much about her mother and herself. While Robin writes about a very common topic (Moms and Dads), she does so in a way that no one else will. By focusing on a specifi c aspect that is unique to her, Robin guarantees that her essay will be original.

If you write about a person, you may not have as dramatic an experience to share as Robin. But what’s important is not the drama but how you make the experience your own. Think about the person—whether a parent, relative or friend—and how you can share a unique perspective about him or her, and in so doing, about yourself.

Elisa Tatiana Juárez

Hurricane Andrew

Brown University

On one of the two walls of bookshelves in my new room, you will see a photo album. When you open this album, images of my past appear. You may notice that what makes my photo album different from most other teenagers’ albums is that it starts when I was 8. Not because my parents didn’t love me or take cute baby pictures of my brother and me, but because I was confronted at that age by a meteorological monster named Andrew. On August 23 our family really didn’t think the storm would hit Miami, but we cleaned the entire house from top to bottom and did the other hurricane preparations. My mom’s logic was that we might not have any electric power or water for awhile, so the house should be clean. We lived in a two-story house, so my brother and I set up a place to “camp” in a closet downstairs, just in case. At about midnight, the storm path had turned its course and headed directly toward us, so our parents moved us into the closet in their bedroom.

That night is still very vivid in my mind. I remember lying on a blanket on the fl oor of my parents’ bedroom closet and being awakened by a very loud noise. I later learned that it was our backyard play fort that my dad had set in concrete, slamming against the side of the bedroom. I remember that my papá was holding a portable battery-powered radio and mutter-ing things to himself, “vientos a 200 millas por hora...nos está pegando fuerte...el ojo de la tormenta ca s i llega...lo peor todavía falta” Yes, the worst was still to come. Until that moment, I had never felt so helpless. My house was blowing away around us, chunk by chunk; there was very little keeping my family and me from being swept away. Worse, there was nothing I could do, nothing anyone could do, but wait and pray. Suddenly there was silence. Complete and total silence. There was no noise, not even the chirp of a bird. My papito got up and ventured beyond the closet door. He forced the door open, only to realize that he was pushing against insulation and dry wall from the remains of our house. He said almost everything was gone, but everything was calm, there wasn’t even a breeze in the air.

I felt that I shouldn’t even breathe, for fear of disrupting the silence. What was next? Who knows? We weren’t prepared for any of this.

Suddenly out of nowhere, the silence was broken. The winds picked up again, and we braced ourselves for more. The next few hours can be played in my mind, like a movie. I can pause it whenever I want, zoom in and out and fast-forward past the most terrible moments. I clearly remember my father calling my mother to help him keep tornado-force winds from coming into the bedroom. The walls were cracking around us; water was pouring into the room. The air pressure dropped drastically within the house.

Then, as soon as it all started, it was quiet again. We didn’t know what to do. Was it OK to wander out? Was it over, or was that just another false hope? My parents ventured out fi rst. They came back and told us quite simply “Well, you know what? God gave us a beautiful sunroof.”

A sense of humor, I learned, is essential at a time like that. They made a path through the rubble to allow my brother and me to see what was left of our rooms. I walked out of the cubbyhole that had kept us safe for the past eight hours, and was not at all prepared for what came next. Mom was right when she said we had a sunroof, well if you can call it a sunroof.

There was nothing. I looked up and saw the cloudy morning sky from what had been our living room. In the place where my room used to be, there was only a huge, empty cavity. The fl oor was pink and fl uffy with building insulation materials. My great-grandmother’s piano was totally covered in wet fi berglass and the remains of a popcorn ceiling. The family heirloom piano had just arrived at our house, a gift from my grandmother in Texas.

It was destroyed. My dog that we had locked into the bathroom across the hall was whimpering in a corner. To this day, she is terrifi ed of storms. I wanted to crawl into a corner myself, but although I was only 8 I felt I had to be strong. As a family we walked into the rooms, or what was left of them, to inspect what had happened.

I stood in the doorway, separating what were once the kitchen and the backyard. Looking out I saw the real damage. Houses were no more than piles of toothpicks. Looking around me, I shed my fi rst and only tear. There was no time to cry. We all had to get stuff out of the house before the mildew set in.

We found our way to the main doorway and dared to walk outside to fi nd out what the rest of the world looked like. The rest of the people in our neighborhood had the same idea. All of us were in total shock. Everyone looked at each other, standing in what was left of their doorways, and an unspoken understanding was communicated. Our next-door neighbor, a former Green Beret, assured us that “someone would be here to help us soon.” Less-confi dent neighbors started to move trees from the middle of the street in order to clear a path, just in case help couldn’t get to where we were.

The fi rst night, we moved in with our cousins, who lived a few blocks down what used to be a street. Only part of their house had caved in, the bedrooms were damp, but livable. As I tried to fall asleep that night I realized that yes, I had lost everything that I had valued on a material level, but I still had what was most important, my life and my family. I could replace the things I had lost, even the piano, but my father’s smile, my mother’s protectiveness and my brother’s sense of humor were all irreplaceable.

I survived; it was almost as if I had been given a second chance at life. At that early age, I realized that our family easily could have been killed. If we had been in a different room, if the hurricane had hit us at a different angle or if the tornado had entered the room, I wouldn’t be here. Life is delicate and precious. I knew I couldn’t live my life as a silent impartial observer; I had to do as much as I could and enjoy every day because we only have one life and only one chance to make a difference.

While not every student experiences a tragedy as traumatic as Elisa did, you can describe yourself through a diffi culty that you’ve overcome.

Elisa does an excellent job of relating not only what happened to her family during and after the hurricane but also what she gained from the natural disaster.

Throughout her essay, Elisa uses vivid, dramatic descriptions of specifi c moments to help us understand the experience of riding through a hurricane. But just as important, Elisa shows us how her parent’s reactions—whether it’s her father’s calm composure or the joke about having a new sunroof—made this occurrence more than just an act of mother nature. Anyone can write about wind and rain. It’s the storm or calm inside that counts in your essay.

Gen S. Tanabe

Waialua, Hawaii

One of the authors of this book, Gen turns an ordinary, everyday experience into a powerful essay. He wanted an essay that not only conveyed his accomplishments but that also relayed the special relationship that he had with his family and his father in particular. At Waialua High School, Gen was president of the student body, captain of the debate team and vice chairman of the Hawaii state student council.

Dad’s Pancakes

Harvard University

In spite of the various extracurricular activities I’ve done and interesting people I’ve met, not one event or person has been more meaningful to me than my father’s preparation of breakfast.

Every morning I wake up to the sounds of my father cooking breakfast.

While lying in bed, I try to guess if the clank of a pan means scrambled eggs or maybe his specialty, banana pancakes. Waking up to nearly 7,000 such mornings, I have grown to admire my father’s dedication, a dedication that never falters even after hours of late-night work.

I readily applied this value of dedication when I was elected Vice-Chairman of the State Student Council. With the tremendous amount of work related to this position, there were numerous occasions when I found myself having to choose between reviewing Board of Education policies and going to the beach with friends. And whenever I felt myself beginning to vacillate, I was always reminded of my father’s unwavering dedication. I knew that the students who elected me depended on my dedication, and like my father’s daily commitment, I would not let them down.

Whenever I hear my father making breakfast I always hope that he is preparing his piece dé résistance, banana pancakes. My father’s pancakes are not generic “Bisquickies,” but one-of-a-kind masterpieces. He uses scratch ingredients from hand-sifted fl our to homegrown bananas. As I grew older I noticed that I also began to assume the same ambition toward life as my father has toward his pursuit of the perfect pancake.

In my freshman year I took an interest in fi lm making and soon my goal was to own a video camera and recorder. To accomplish this goal I could either wait six months until Christmas and hope Santa could afford a new VCR, or I could earn the money and buy it myself. My ambitious yearn-ing took over and for the next three months of summer vacation I held a brush in one hand and a can of latex in the other as the hired painter of my grandmother’s house. Although the work was hard and tiring, by the end of the summer, I was able to earn the money to fulfi ll my goal. Having learned from my father to strive for success, I have since worked fervently but patiently to attain my goals in life.

After my father has fl ipped the last pancake, the best part of breakfast has arrived—consumption. As I devour the stack of scrumptious pancakes, I notice that my father has a bright smile across his face; I am not the only one to savor this moment. My father truly enjoys making my breakfast. My father’s joy from even the simplest things has been the model that I have tried to apply to my life every single day.

Failure to heed my father’s lesson was disastrous in my sophomore year when I decided it would be impressive to become a cross country runner.

As I was running the three-mile course, I began to realize around the second mile that I did not particularly enjoy running. In fact I hated running.

This painful experience reminded me of my father’s overarching aim to enjoy what he is doing. Since then I have chosen to excel in tennis and other activities, not for the prestige or status, but simply because I enjoy them.

My father completes the tradition of preparing breakfast by soaking the dirty pans in the sink. As he does, I think of how fortunate I am. Some people only have one meaningful event in their lives, but I have one every single morning.

Since this is my (Gen’s) essay I’d like to give you a behind-the-scenes look at how and why I wrote it.

To fi nd an original idea is not always easy. I spent several days just listing topic possibilities. On my list I wrote my father’s name since he was very infl uential. Under his name I outlined admirable qualities one of which was that he made me breakfast each morning. When I zeroed in on that aspect I realized how much care he put into my favorite—banana pancakes. Although I continued to brainstorm every time I looked at the list this one aspect—banana pancakes—kept drawing my attention.

That’s when I began to write. I am not a naturally good writer. It takes me many, many re-writes to be able to express on paper what is in my mind. I probably wrote this essay more than a dozen times. Each time it got a little better and more focused. When I thought it was just about perfect I shared with two of my favorite English teachers.

When I got back their comments I thought a bottle of red ink had exploded. Most importantly, they had the perspective of a fi rst time reader. I was so close to the story that I didn’t realize there were sections that needed more explanation or transitions that weren’t smooth.

This feedback was critical and I went through an additional half dozen re-writes.

It took about a month from the time I started brainstorming to the day I had a fi nished essay in hand. It really helped to be able to let the essay ferment. There were days that I thought it was perfect, only to re-read it a day later and fi nd all sorts of problems. The best advice I have for writing an admission essay is to give yourself the time you need to discover your own masterpiece.