Grad's guide to graduate admissions essays - Colleen Reding 2015
University of Texas school of law
Law
As I forced on my third layer of clothing and stepped outside my front door that brisk January morning, the thermostat read 19 degrees Fahrenheit. Bundled in warm hats, woven scarves, and thick gloves, my five roommates and I began our march down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol, but the crowds before us soon halted our journey. Millions of people and an expanse of frozen grass made the sizable distance from the inauguration platform seem like miles. Feeling as though I’d soon be crushed and swallowed by the growing crowd, I began to wonder, why does my being here really matter to me?
While waiting, my mind leapt back to 6 months earlier when I had last looked out a large third-floor window of the Chief Deputy Whip’s office in the Capitol Building, gazing down across the long, green panel of grass where I now stood among millions. If I had been peering out the window now, maybe I would not see green grass at all, but instead a blue and brown quilt-like pattern of the tops of hats and full heads of hair woven tightly together. I could still remember most of the photographs, posters, and framed newspaper clippings that decorated Representative Lewis’s oak office walls. The most vivid was a black and white photograph of the Big Six: Mr. Lewis alongside the five other most powerful leaders of the American Civil Rights Movement. Also memorable was a framed image of 23-year-old Lewis delivering a keynote speech at the March on Washington in August 1963.
Without warning, the suffocating mass surrounding me roared upon first sight of the President on the Jumbrotrons that lined the lawn. Still waiting for the speech to begin, my mind throbbed with the unanswered question: Why does my presence here matter?
During the 20-minute inaugural address, the screens never wavered from the President. Yet, as he neared the end of his remarks, he took a deep breath, and explained that America’s liberty is the reason why he, “a man whose father less than 60 years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant, can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.” And in a very rare moment, the camera’s focus moved away from the image of the President. The screen shifted to a brief shot of Representative John Lewis, the man there that morning who was most symbolic of the progress that separates our generation from the one just before it.
Instantaneously, I felt a vital part of this historic moment. When the man who had told me stories of being jailed, beaten, and harassed was pictured alongside our President at his inauguration, I finally understood how I was connected to these events. The Congressman’s call to service that I had heard throughout my summer working in his office finally resonated within me, as I recognized the immense impact I could have on others. My experiences in DC had led me to young students struggling to survive in the juvenile justice system; to policymakers in the Congressional Black Caucus; to judges at the local landlord-tenant court. My diverse experiences and unique perspective could make me the compassionate, clear-minded leader that I felt called to be in those moments.
As we headed home that afternoon, this moment of inspiration settled deep into my thoughts as I began to reflect on my future. I knew I might never speak before millions on the Mall, nor would I likely ever face the kinds of brutality that the Congressman overcame. Like him, however, I do recognize the potential that lies in every person: the interwoven fabric of humanity that threads all of us together. In those moments and today, I feel a duty to strengthen this common identity, and I am ready to explore how I will best be able to do that.
