NEB F.
Hometown: Birmingham, Alabama, USA
High School: Public school, 350 students in graduating class
GPA: 4.0 out of 4.0 (4.6 Weighted)
ACT: 35
Extracurriculars and Awards: Bailey Thomson Award for Editorial Writing, National Merit Scholar
Major: Economics
ESSAY
“We need you to throw bombs.”
It was a rather unorthodox way of telling me to write something controversial. With the deadline of our first issue rapidly approaching, the Co-Editors-in-Chief of my high school newspaper wanted to do something special, to set a precedent. Readership was the priority, and our best shot of increasing it was through the publication of a wide variety of eye-catching topics: the pervasive alcohol problem, the sexist dress code, and, of course, what would later be my opinion piece on our suburb’s diversity, or rather lack thereof.
But I’m sure the newspaper teacher was beginning to have her initial doubts about my ability to run the section. While others already had an idea of what they wanted to write about, I—the supposed outspoken Opinions Editor—was the only one who didn’t have a clue what to write about. Was I even deserving of the position if I couldn’t speak my mind on simple school issues?
As the only junior awarded a section editor position, I somehow beat out seniors who had applied for Opinions Editor as their top choice. However, it was only a few weeks in before I fell upon the same self-doubts about writing for the paper that I had had as a sophomore the year before. Taking on the role of clueless newspaper newbie early on that sophomore year, I found guidance only in the sponsor’s singular, resonating message: “Write about whatever interests you.” It was supposedly as simple as that. No parameters. No governing rubric. No monotonous prompts. No, unlike the five-paragraph, formal essays and research papers we were programmed to churn out, my school paper presented an unprecedented opportunity of free will at hand, a creative free will that no other class had ever really emphasized firstmost. But not even I could capitalize on that kind of independence. That first year on the staff would mostly bear witness to the same “who, what, where, when, and why” features, news, and sports pieces, issue after issue, that demonstrated a skill in article writing, sure, but didn’t quite showcase a writer’s voice that was true to me.
That was to change, I resolved. This time around, I would write about the topic that was inherently bomb-laden: my heritage and my place in the predominantly white community where I had grown up in. Being, for a period of time, the only student of color in my elementary school, as well as the unfortunate recipient of countless, blatantly racist Asian impressions and jokes, would eventually shape a perspective that I was hesitant to speak openly about. Not anymore. There was too much at stake, an identity even. I could recognize that much. A long night of meticulous drafting would pass before giving way to a rough, but impassioned, opinion piece that spoke to the lack of both racial and political diversity that distinguished our community. The administration went on to censor out the more colorful aspects of all of our opinion pieces, but, for once, I could unabashedly take pride in the voice expressed in that draft. It was never about the stun factor, but rather about finding the courage to give my writing a stun factor in the first place.
Reflecting now on my involvement both on the paper as well as for other print publications, I’ve come to accept a certain credence. The opportunities writing offers are wide and plentiful in terms of self-expression at large, but the pursuit of topics that push you outside of your comfort zone makes the difference needed to write with a compelling conviction. As it turned out, this stated call to conviction came as the curious result of a simple request, a summoning of some internal, unrelenting voice capable of “throwing bombs.”
REVIEW
What did the essay do well?
Neb does a great job of connecting two themes in his essay: growing as a writer and taking a proud stance on his identity. In this essay, we learn about how he overcame his hesitancy to express himself fully in the newspaper, which demonstrates his perseverance as well as his character. And while Neb makes his Asian identity central to the piece and mentions heavy topics, namely racism, he does not let that overpower the essay, keeping the message focused on his personal strengths and capabilities.
What could be improved about the essay?
The fourth paragraph, in which Neb walks us through his sophomore experience on the newspaper in order to contextualize his subsequent growth, is slightly unwieldy. The reader is led to navigate backwards in chronology and go through a different and retired mind-set. While the paragraph itself is well written, it could have been condensed to get to the main point: before his junior year, Neb didn’t feel like he could capitalize on the unprecedented creative freedom the paper offered.
What made this essay memorable?
The hook of this essay—“We need you to throw bombs”—works really well. It grabs your attention right away without being obnoxious and the fact that it bookends the piece is a bonus. The hook shows off Neb’s creativity and style, which nicely mirrors the actual content of his essay. Furthermore, the overall message of perseverance comes through the essay without being overpowering or cliché, which often happens with this theme of struggle followed by having to overcome said struggle. In essays such as this, something needs to stand out when reviewers have read this theme countless times over again, and the hook—as well as other unique stylistic choices—can be a strong way to accomplish this.
—Cara Chang
UNA R.
Hometown: Brooklyn, New York, USA
High School: Private school, 96 students in graduating class
GPA: undisclosed
ACT: 35
Extracurriculars and Awards: Chamber music (piano), Science Olympiad, humor magazine, crossword club, Columbia University Science Honors Program, research at Memorial Sloan Kettering
Major: History of Science
ESSAY
The first word I ever spoke was my name. I was intrigued that my entire identity could be attached to and compressed into such a simple sound. I would tell everyone I met that my name meant “one,” that it made me special because it sounded like “unique.” When I learned to write, I covered sheets of paper with the letters U, N, and A. Eventually, I realized that paper was not enough—I needed to cover the world with my name, my graffiti tag.
This came to a screeching halt in kindergarten. One day in music class, I scratched UNA into the piano’s wood. Everyone was surprised that I tagged my name and not someone else’s. I didn’t want someone else to suffer for my misdeeds. I wanted to take something, to make it mine.
Kindergarten was also the year my parents signed me up for piano lessons, and every aspect of them was torture. I had to learn to read an entirely new language, stretch my fingers to fit challenging intervals, use my arms with enough force to sound chords but not topple over, grope around blindly while keeping my eyes on the music, and the brain-splitting feat of doing this with each hand separately. Hardest was the very act of sitting down to practice. The physical challenges were more or less surmountable, but tackling them felt lonely and pointless.
I only fell in love with music when I found myself in a sweaty church on the Upper West Side—my first chamber music concert, the final event of a two-week camp the summer before sixth grade. I was nervous. My group, playing a Shostakovich prelude, was the youngest, so we went first. My legs shook uncontrollably before, during, and after I played. I nearly became sick afterward from shame and relief. I was so disappointed that I thought I could never face my new music friends again. From the front row, I plotted my escape route for when the concert finished. But I didn’t run. I watched the whole concert. I watched the big kids breathe in unison, occupying the same disconnected body. I fell in love with music through the way they belonged to each other, the way they saw each other without even looking.
I stuck with that chamber camp. In the twenty chamber groups that have made up my last six years, I’ve performed in six-inch heels and nearly fallen off-stage during my bow. I’ve performed in sneakers and a sweatshirt, on pianos with half the keys broken and the other half wildly out of tune, in subway stations, nursing homes, international orchestras, Carnegie Hall, and on Zoom.
Chamber music doesn’t work when everyone aims to be a star; it works when everyone lets everyone else shine through. It’s more fun that way. A musical notation I rarely saw before playing chamber music is “una corda,” which says to put the soft pedal down and play on only “one string,” usually to highlight another player’s solo. I don’t need to be the loudest to breathe in unison with my friends, to create something beautiful. In that moment, I’m not just Una, I’m the pianist in the Dohnányi sextet.
I started to love music only when I realized it doesn’t belong to me. I had to stop trying to make piano my own and take pleasure in sharing it. I learned that the rests in my part were as meaningful as the notes; that although my name means “one,” I’d rather not be the “only.” My favorite compliment I’ve received was that I made an audience member feel like they were sitting onstage next to me. This, to me, is the essence of chamber music. To pull your audience onto the stage, trusting your group isn’t enough—you have to fuse together, to forget you exist. For a few minutes, you have to surrender your name.
REVIEW
What did the essay do well?
In her essay, Una is able to showcase an experience of growth, her passion for piano chamber performance, and her value of collaboration and working with others. The essay is well woven together to bridge her two primary topics: her name and unique identity, and her extracurricular piano. The technical writing and organization of the essay is also very strong, with a clear voice, easy to follow structure, and plenty of engaging details.
What could be improved about the essay?
The essay started off with red flags like stories that reflected less desirable personality traits and a focus on experiences all the way back to kindergarten. However, these early-warning signs are well resolved by the end to give both a good impression of the writer and a real sense of change. This is not a weakness on the part of this essay and is actually something done well since the author can be truly vulnerable by acknowledging their flaws, but addressing how they have changed and grown since then. However, readers should keep in mind that speaking about such dated experiences must tie back to the applicant in the current day, which Una does well in her description of where she has gotten in terms of chamber music, even performing on Zoom.
What made this essay memorable?
The entrance into the topic with the story of her name helps this essay stand out from other essays about piano or music in general. Without using it as an entrance, weaving it well into the body of the essay, and connecting it to her overall message, this essay would miss that unique quality and otherwise blend in with other similar essays.
—Isabella Tran
SIMAR B.
Hometown: Fremont, California, USA
High School: Private school, 200 students in graduating class
GPA: 4.0 out of 4.0 (4.72 Weighted)
ACT: 35
Extracurriculars and Awards: Medical Club president, Students Partner with Veterans Club president, Psychology Club president, Honor Council chair, varsity tennis, theater, John Near Scholarship, Presidential Volunteer
Major: History of Science
ESSAY
June 2nd, 2019. The birth of the new me, or “Simar 2.0” as mom called me. However, I still felt like “Simar 1.0,” perceiving nothing more than the odd new sensation of a liberating breeze fluttering through my hair.
At age seventeen, I got a haircut for the first time in my life.
As a Sikh, I inherited a tradition of unshorn, cloth-bound hair, and, for most of my life, I followed my community in wholeheartedly embracing our religion. Over time, however, I felt my hair weighing me down, both materially and metaphorically.
Sikhism teaches that God is one. I asked mom why then was God cleaved into different religions? If all paths were equal, I asked dad, then why not follow some other religion instead? My unease consistently dismissed by our Sikh community, I decided to follow the religion of God: no religion. My hair, though, remained; if I knew my heart, then cutting my hair served no purpose.
Nevertheless, that unshorn hair represented an unequivocal beacon for a now defunct identity. I visited my calculus teacher’s office hours, only to be peppered by incessant questions about Sikhism. He pigeonholed me into being a spokesperson for something I no longer associated with. Flustered, I excused myself to the bathroom, examining this other me in the mirror.
Why this hair? This question kept coming back.
I ransacked my conscience, and it became painfully obvious. Fear. Fear of what my conservative grandparents might think. Fear of what my Sikh family friends might say. Fear of what my peers might ask. This hair had usurped my sense of self.
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