Này thì college essay

Này thì college essay

Số 1


Philip Alford'05
Williston Northampton School
South Hadley, MA
Today, waiting on the schoolhouse steps, I saw something I had never seen before. My back against the warm brick wall, in happy prospect, I stared abstracted towards the red-orange of autumn on a tree. At the very center of my concentration was a single leaf; a torn yellow-green, not even red yet. But it fell. I saw the precise moment of release - the instant the leaf actually disconnected from the branch. It was the brevity of perfection. Partition in sunderance, an umbilicus severed, a future unlatched; an end and a beginning. There was an eternity within; the filial unity, the brief struggle for escape, then the sudden absence of support; and from an empathic vicariousness I found myself within.

I found my entire life in the transience of an instant; I sat up, in respect and humility. The leaf swung in descending pendulum. I rose to grab it, then stopped. I was standing in a small pile of wet and shredded leaves. The leaf, lifted by a breeze, slowed, suspended, paused then rolled over on itself. I knew that one day this leaf too, would crumble into a crust of sinew and stem - so I let the leaf continue, rising upward.

The leaf waltzed in an orbit around itself. Others fell around it, but I kept my attention. This leaf was lighter. It took its time. The torn yellow leaf, because of its shape, spun differently than the rest. The leaf was continually tossed up in irregular oscillations, gaining further distance, until it came near the wall of the building. As the wind approached the brick schoolhouse, the air was forced up and over, trying to pull the leaf along with it.

The leaf reached up, against gravity, and against the lacerated shreds below. It hung, pulled up and down by destiny and self-aspiration. But it was the progress, the action and direction of the moment that mattered. I found timelessness. What the leaf meant as a whole, was what the leaf meant at each moment. And at this moment, the leaf is hanging by its green stem - it is at the point of release - it is falling - it is floating - and it is rising over the brick red schoolhouse.

(source: connecticut college's web site)


BE YOUR SELF AS THOSE WHO MATTER DONT CARE AND THOSE WHO CARE DONT MATTER

Số 2
Sean Cohen '05
Colorado Academy
Golden, CO
As the music seeps through the air of the dark basement theater, my fingers begin to slide up the neck of my guitar. Instinct starts to take over. The notes flow through my veins, swim up the cables, and are flung into the sphere of energy that has formed around the small theater. The spotlight falls onto the closed eyelids of the audience as their steps coincide with the rhythmic beat of the improvisation. My mind slips away from the scene.
The freshly fallen snow clings to the limbs of the evergreen trees, forming a canopy over the path that winds its way up the mountainside behind my home. This is where I go when I need to think. As I hike up the narrow trail, I find solitude in nature. There are no houses to fill my view. There are no super-highways cutting through the middle of the path. Most of all, there are no people. A family of deer freezes to look at me in search of a place where the snow has not covered the grass. Further up the trail I stop to watch as two black squirrels chase each other up and around the skeleton of an aspen tree. Through a hole in the canopy the sun glistens off the snow and warms me. As I break out of the trees, I look up and see the sun perched alone in the sky with not one cloud to hide behind.
The band begins to slow the music and the rambunctious dancing turns to hypnotic swaying. A calm, almost mesmerizing jazz progression takes form, and with a slower, more sensuous feeling my body takes command of my instrument once more. I start to drift away again, but this time a different scene surfaces.
I take my usual seat on the rock outcropping that overlooks all of Eastern Colorado and take a very deep breath. As I look upon the city, I see the tops of the skyscrapers poking through the brown cloud of pollution. The entire valley is enveloped in this smog. To the South, where the clouds begin to dissipate, highways and houses flow over the land that animals and vegetation once inhabited. Urban sprawl is replacing nature. Even from this point high above the city, the sounds of cars roaring along the highway are intertwined with the magpie's call and blue-jay's song. A sadness wells up inside me. As I stand to leave, a fox meanders across my path. He stops, and we stare at each other, realizing this is the meeting of two different worlds. As I look into his eyes, I make a promise to do what I can to prevent the destruction of his home.
I open my eyes as the set comes to a close, and with one final fury up the neck of my guitar, the band stops. As I step off stage, I hear applause coming from every direction. The cheers are inspiring, but this night is not about recognition. The money raised from this concert will benefit the Rocky Mountain Sierra Club. This is a small step in fulfilling my promise, but every victory must start somewhere. This is the beginning of mine.
BE YOUR SELF AS THOSE WHO MATTER DONT CARE AND THOSE WHO CARE DONT MATTER

Số 3
Hilary Garrison-Botsford '05
Thetford Academy
South Stratford, Vermont
Tiny pink nipples peeked out from our pasty chests and our protruding ribs gave way to our sun-starved tummies. Alex and I ran free, our shirts flapping in the wind as we waved them over our heads like victory flags. Moments later, on that April day in first grade, my best friend and I experienced the injustices of womanhood; our teachers informed us that we were not allowed to go shirtless during recess.
"Why?" Alex whined.
"That's not fair," I protested. "The boys can."
Of course our complaints received the usual response, "It's different for little boys and little girls." An answer which was not only unsatisfactory, but infuriating as well. Indignantly, Alex and I argued our way to topless equality.
By age six, I challenged the double standard set for boys and girls. Instinctively, I knew to speak out against blatant ***ism. When I heard a guest at a dinner party remark, "What a shame that beautiful curly hair was wasted on your son. You really should consider cutting it, so the poor thing doesn't get mistaken for a girl." I boldly cut in, "Boys can have long hair just as much as girls. They can be beautiful too, you know."
The adults chuckled over my petulance and my parents shared embarrassed smiles. Then they banished me to the designated "children's table," leaving me with a lingering sense of injustice. My strong desire for equality has been shaped by experiences like these and myriad of other people and standards as well.
For example, I am angered by the emphasis society places on men to become "big, strong protector providers" while women are encouraged to appear docile and meek. When I was young I watched cartoons like Popeye and Superman, noting their bravery in rescuing innocent folks from the arms of danger. Then I wanted to know why there were no women heroes. Why couldn't females be the ones to flex their muscles at monsters and "bad guys" to protect or rescue their helpless male lovers? Early in my life I recognized these implied yet clear-cut roles for men and women and they still exist in many areas of life today. However, I strongly believe that males and females deserve equal opportunities and that expectations based on gender are unfair.
When I recognize an opportunity to demonstrate my beliefs I speak up. If my old fashioned drama teacher asks for "several strong boys to help carry things," I chime in and ask, "Why not girls?" This sticks me with the irksome task of moving several hundred folding chairs, but I am filled with the satisfaction of proving to my teacher that girls are just as capable as boys.
My fondest memory regarding this type of assertion occurred in sixth grade, when my co-ed gym class did our fitness testing together. When it came time for the fifty-yard dash, my partner was my crush, Patrick. 7.5 seconds later I beat him, proving myself the fastest person in sixth grade. He stopped talking to me for a week. I was upset for all of English class.
Then lunch came and I realized how ***ist he was in resenting my victory purely because of my gender. My sixth grade flame for Patrick McDonald quickly extinguished. To this day, I am able to do more pull-ups than most of the boys I know and I'm proud of the fact! I'm not ashamed to be stronger, and I never shy away from beating boys for fear of not being "feminine" or "weak" enough for their approval. These ***ist stereotypes and standards disgust me and incite my desire to make changes. When I fight these battles, I discover the wonderful satisfaction of being a capable female - even if I do now wear my shirt.
BE YOUR SELF AS THOSE WHO MATTER DONT CARE AND THOSE WHO CARE DONT MATTER

Long kiếm được mấy bài hay phết nhở. 2 bài đầu đọc như truyện ngắn. Bài 3 nghe giống student's formal essay.
Còn ko tải tiếp lên đây đi.
Bực mình quá. Hôm nay mạng làm sao ý nhỉ. Upload mãi mà ko được. Có cái bài trả lời thôi mà cũng báo error mãi.
Chân đất mắt sõi

Cảm ơn bác Nhà Quê, em pốt tiếp đây ạ.
Bài 4
Ross Morin '05
Edward Little High School
Auburn, ME
I am a piece of paper.
In the beginning I was blank. I could have been anything.
A paper airplane, treating my life as a quick high, then being left on the ground, forgotten, had I wasted my childhood on drugs; a story, had I chosen to take my time and develop into a dynamic creature; a crumpled up ball, thrown away seconds later, had I not been loved; I could have been a college essay,
had I been created only to be given to someone else.
I am a story.
As I grew up, I chose which kind I should be.
I could have been one written by a child, should I be simple enough; a novel, should I live my life for fun, and die treating life as a game; a complex piece of art, with thoughts that run deep and insightful as the darkest red; I could have been a song, at first catchy and wonderful, soon forgotten by the world.
I am a painting.
As I continue to grow, I color and change myself.
I could be dark greens and purples, should I choose my mood to depress slightly; yellow-orange in some corny sort of false happiness; deformed like a Picasso, beautiful, but almost too complex to enjoy; I could be three-dimensional, rounded, patternless, deep.
I am three-dimensional.
I am unable to be contained on the paper I was created as. My ink, my paint, my complexity must evolve.
I could soon become a tree, to grow, to lend myself to children to play in; an ocean, vast as all eternity, powerful enough to destroy cities at any moment; the air, changing directions at every moment, unpredictable in behavior, but carrying the essence of life;
I could soon become a rock, a solid, unchanging, powerfully dense object.
Will I be the air? Obstacles in my way, I will move around.
Other obstacles I will overcome, and I will take them with me in my whirlwind;
they will become a part of my strength.
Should I come to a tree, I shall not only uproot it, but I will take it with me,
the tree will become a part of me, and I shall be stronger.
I will be unpredictable and may change my direction at any moment;
my course will never be a set path.
Paths change. Goals do not.
My goal as the wind will be to eliminate all obstacles in my path, or the path of others.
When younger, I wished to take down the Berlin wall, now I wish to take down all "Berlin walls,"
to take all weaponry into the air with me, to sweep up tanks, guns, ammunition, I wish to sweep up the fires that rage, the acid that pours from clouds above California.
As the wind, I will be uncontainable. I will be unstoppable.
And I will not stop until I complete my goal
I will be the wind.
BE YOUR SELF AS THOSE WHO MATTER DONT CARE AND THOSE WHO CARE DONT MATTER

Xem ra English Club này có vẻ ế quá các bác nhỉ? Các bác có cách nào để improve ko?

babymonkey
[/rose]

Số 5
Jesse Estrin
Windward School
Los Angeles, California
I wasn't quite sure how to react. I had never been called a "white boy" before, especially by someone I hardly knew. As I turned my head not knowing what to expect, I found myself face to face with a grinning boy, whose crooked smile gave him an almost devilish appearance. This was my first encounter with Oscar Jovel, an El Salvadorian student on our Global Routes trip to Thailand over the summer.
You could imagine my delight when I heard that we would be living together with a Thai family and sharing the same bed for six straight weeks. During the next couple of days I was faint with apprehension. The first thing both of our eyes fell on when we arrived at our tiny Thai house was the five by four foot bed we would share. It was extremely small, in respect to both length and width, with a bright pink mosquito net hanging around it. That first night, we often woke up, cramped and hot, to discover ourselves literally on top of each other. Although initially embarrassing, we began to find the situation more and more comical. To our surprise and delight, we discovered that we had the same sense of humor. From then on, we discussed our sleeping habits openly and complained about the other's loud snoring. We began to stay up late into the night discussing our lives and the difficult issues we each had to deal with.
One night we talked into the early hours of the morning about his life in San Francisco. I could only listen wide-eyed and in disbelief as he talked about how close he had been to joining an El Salvadorian gang. I watched him with intense curiosity as he slowly told his story. I noticed how he would almost squeeze his eyes closed with his large cheeks when he was remembering something that made him angry, or thrust his chin out in a clumsy manner when he was excited. He told me of how he had been ready to be beaten into the gang. When I asked him why he would be willing to do that, he responded by describing how vicious his world was, and then explained that the initiation was a tiny price for the protection he would get from the gang in return.
My respect for him only increased when I sat silently as he told me of his best friend who had been shot in the head in a drive-by shooting. Oscar had been playing basketball with him in a park when it happened. I saw his eyes search our dimly lit room as he vividly recalled the horrifying moment. I felt as if a sealed door had just blown open. That door could never close again. As I sat with the real Oscar who lived daily with gunfire, gang violence, and lost friends, our souls connected, and we began to bond in a way only two young, eager, curious, and blossoming seventeen year-old boys could. I began to recognize that he was just a young boy with the same dreams and ambitions as I, who was seeking the same success and happiness in this world. I then noticed how his dreams of becoming an architect or a famous soccer player for El Salvador were quite similar to mine.
This intense relationship with Oscar has opened doors to new understandings for me, and has drawn me further out of my sheltered cocoon. Oscar not only changed my perceptions, he impacted the way I live my daily life. It took meeting Oscar for me to realize that, although I have visited many poor countries, such as Africa, Vietnam, and Mexico, some of the most extreme poverty actually does exist in my own backyard. By being an activist in several organizations, particularly the Drug Policy Foundations, a group determined to change the way our country is fighting drugs and gang related problems, I feel much more connected to my community. I remember being intrigued and concerned when I first discovered that our country's war on drugs is discriminating against difference races, especially Hispanics and Blacks. Now I better understand and relate to what Oscar said to me during one of our first deep talks. "The most important thing you can do," he said, directly and without the slightest trace of hesitation, "is help out your community. Never forget that."
BE YOUR SELF AS THOSE WHO MATTER DONT CARE AND THOSE WHO CARE DONT MATTER

Số 6
Elizabeth Seeman'05
Hunter CollegeHigh School
Long Island, NY
I am sitting alone on the "N" train. I am in my usual spot: back car, second floor, first window seat. It is cold inside. It is wet outside. I'm tired. My thoughts are playing themselves out inbetween the lyrics on my walk-man. For Friday, I am mellow. The two sides of my personality are trying to communicate, and I have decided to simply sit down and listen to the conversation.
My weekday self goes to high school in Manhattan. I am often tired and try simply to get through the day. I usually do not have fun during the week. I like my friends, but there is no time to have a good time together. I feel inadequate at my high school. Many students do just as much work as I do and make it look easy. My "week" self is often frustrated.
In comparison, my weekend self is rested and happy. I leisurely groom myself in the morning. My weekend friends are impressed that I travel so far to get to school. They are impressed that I get good grades. But overall they are impressed that I am allowed to leave for lunch and that I actually go back to classes. My weekend self buys into the hype, and is very proud.
I realize part of the equation is location. My weekday self spends its days on Madison Avenue, while my weekend self spends its days in Queens. Even though I have lived my entire life in this neighborhood I have always felt a little out of place. It's a tough neighborhood and I'm not afraid to say I am a wimp. I enjoy the freedoms of the Upper East Side. The only attitude I receive is from rich women who wish teenagers would stop crowding their streets and talking too loudly. If I give someone a look, I am not afraid they are going to follow me or "jump" me. The kids in my neighborhood rarely finish school. Most go to an alternative high school or get their G.E.D. after dropping out. They eventually get decent jobs, but few receive college educations. In the end, few adults in my neighborhood enjoy their jobs. I fear this will happen to most of my weekend friends.
Location also affects my identity in other ways. The fact that I'm Jewish has never been an issue in my high school. A large group of the students who attend my high school are Jewish and they have clubs and days to celebrate the Jewish holidays. On the weekend my religion must be explained and accounted for. "But you don't look Jewish. What happened?" has been asked more than once. I explain that I am half Jewish and half Catholic and suddenly an epiphany occurs. Then people think, "Well that's ok then."
After the first moments of their shock, I realize my religion must be explained. Yes, I really am Jewish, and no, I was not offended by that joke you said about Hitler, but no, I do not want to hear the other one. It is not uncommon that when dividing a check someone will say, "John you owe a dollar. Don't be a Jew." One of my friends will say, "Shut up! Lizzie's Jewish." Then laughter, and after a blank expression on my face is read, an apology is given.
However, on this lonely subway ride, a time when I would usually start to turn into the person I love on the weekend, I am questioning the transition. Am I a fraud? Of course not! I am trying to convince myself. But how could one person also be two separate people? Is it healthy? If my insecure side showed itself to my weekend friends, would they still like me? Would I ever be forced to choose between my two personalities? The idea of leaving the comfort of having two people to choose from is starting to scare me.
I am jolted out of my thoughts by the bumpy arrival at my subway stop. I get off the train and look around. I see the neighborhood I have always lived in and wonder what the weekend will bring. I decide to not explain the two aspects of my personality to my friends this weekend. I know the explanation will only lead t

Hìhì, thích nhỉ, hoá ra cũng có người thích đọc mấy cái này. Sorry dạo rồi tớ bận quá nên không post được.
Giờ tiếp số 7 nhá:
Stacey Petrek'05
New Trier Township High School
Winnetka, IL
Follow the Leader
Her spry, Timberland-clad foot planted itself upon a jagged boulder, motionless, until her calf muscles tightened and catapulted her small frame into the next stride. Then Sara's dance continued, her feet playing effortlessly with the difficult terrain. As her foot lifted from the ground, compressed mint-colored lichen would spring back into position, only to be crushed by my immense boot, struggling to step where hers had been. My eyes fixated on the forest floor, as fallen trees, swollen roots, and unsteady rocks posed constant threats for my exhausted body. Without glancing up I knew what was ahead: the same dense, impenetrable green that had surrounded us for hours. My throat prickled with unfathomable thirst, as my long-empty Nalgene bottle slapped mockingly at my side. Gnarled branches snared at my clothes and tore at my hair, and I blindly hurled myself after Sara. The portage had become a battle, and the ominously darkening sky raised the potential for casualties. Gritting my teeth with gumption, I refused to stop; I would march on until I could no longer stand.
Suddenly, Sara's light step halted and she turned to face me. From her hazel eyes blazed an intensity of exhilaration and courage, which mingled with pride and concern as she surveyed my resolute expression. I watched longingly as Sara unfastened the Nalgene bottle from her side; one sip of water sloshed tantalizingly at the bottom of the bottle, heightening my senses into acute desire. Sweat poured down from my face, biting at my eyes, and after I dabbed at them with my shirt, I saw Sara was presenting the water bottle to me. Both anticipating and squelching my refusing, Sara said simply, "Drink, Stacy. You cannot help the group when there is nothing left of yourself to give." For a moment we grinned at each other, as gratitude and wonder for her selflessness coursed in my veins. The cool water instantly revived my strength and love for the trail. Then Sara removed the rustic compass from around her neck and slid it over my own. She swung her arm around my shoulder and raised an eyebrow, inviting me to lead.
Euphorically, I grasped the smooth plastic, flushed with pride that Sara believed I could lead the group to safety. Then ruthless doubt sliced through my enthusiasm as I realized that I completely lacked a sense of direction. Frantically, I tried to remember the idiotic mnemonic device for the compass we had learned prior to the trip: was it "red shed over Fred?" or simply, "Fred's red shed?" What came after I put "Red Fred in the shed?" How could "Fred" possibly make sense of this green abyss? I turned my confused face up to Sara's and saw the confidence in her eyes reflect the possibility of my own. In her smile I saw permission to fail, in her eyes the reassurance of success. I stared pointedly at the flickering red needle, oriented Fred, and raised the compass to the green. Without hesitation I pointed the direction onward and the group advanced.
A year later I found myself again in the land of the redwood pine. Only now ten bright, excited, youthful faces believed I had all of the answers. I was to be their leader through the wilderness; their guide to a world of awe-inspiring beauty, elemental priorities, and fulfilled potential. I fervently wanted to instill a love for the trail within each of my campers; to share the overwhelming appreciation of nature, others, and self that resulted from my own experience. However, apprehension whispered self-doubt: what if I wasn't ready to lead? What if my girls hated the trail? What if I was not strong enough? Suddenly the memory of Sara flared up in my mind's eye and silenced all doubts, her examples once again blazing a trail for me to follow. With her memory as my core to security and knowledge, I packed my campers into the canoes, and we set off, a camp song on my lips and hunger for the wilderness within my heart. Whenever challenges arose, Sara stood beside me; her rational eyes scrutinized the sky for advancing storms; her inexhaustible patience built a roaring fire out of wet wood; and her deft fingers secured fishermen's knots to hold up a tarp. Because her skills had built a firm foundation for trail life within me, my confidence now positioned the girls into lightening stances; my hilarity amused the girls as we huddled under the protective tarp; my voice sang reassuringly over the pounding of the fierce rain. At last, when a fantastic rainbow fanned the brilliant blue sky, it was the love of both of us that abounded the joy and fulfillment of leadership being passed on to a new generation.


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BE YOUR SELF AS THOSE WHO MATTER DONT CARE AND THOSE WHO CARE DONT MATTER

Em có một bài không hiểu của ai.
"There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in." The Power and The Glory, Graham Greene
It was a humid, overcast day in August of 1997, and so began my first day at the Saratoga Polo Club. As I drove up the stone driveway, a lush forest engulfed me on my left and an emerald field lined with white circus tents on my right. I found myself shaking with anticipation as I approached the crimson maintenance barn. This was the barn where I would meet my boss and fellow field workers. As I entered the barn I came across Eric, a fellow field worker, preoccupied by his daily reading of the National Enquirer. Glancing up ever so slightly, he proceeded to announce with a Grinch-like smile, "Ahh, new meat!" I though to myself sarcastically, I am going to love this job.
That day I learned the art of stomping divots. This long and tedious task consists of walking up and down a 300 yard long and 160-yard wide field lined with red boards. While walking up and down the field, the idea is to pick up the divots made by the polo ponies. Never could I have imagined that I would be doing this job for the next three summers. However, I did, and I am still employed there.
Every summer I worked there, I gained more experience and responsibility. I also received ad***ional compensation for the increased responsibility I was given. I learned how to operate and repair a tractor, along with other types of lawnmowers and other farm machinery. It seemed as though I drove a tractor more than my car! What started out as my summer job, turned into my life. I would arrive at 7:00 every morning and leave after the polo match around 8:00 at night, seven days a week. I loved everything about my job. I loved the people I was working with and the great friendship that grew between my boss, Jimmy, and me.
Jimmy is the most inspirational person in my life. In May of 1991 he was in an accident that paralyzed him from the waist down. However, he didn't allow this to hinder his life or his job. He never uses his injury as a crutch. When the doctors told him he would never get out of a wheel chair, he said, no way, and today uses a walker to get around. He does things everyday that some people can't do in a week. Seeing the obstacles he must surmount just to get in and out of his truck inspires me to work harder, as well as to be thankful for the little things we take advantage of everyday, like walking.
This past summer was the pinnacle of my job at Saratoga Polo Club. I gained even greater responsibility than in previous years; I was put in charge of maintaining the newly established polo fields. I was also in charge of prepping before the matches; this was one of, if not my most important, jobs. Prior to the match it was my responsibility to line the field, put up the team signs on the scoreboard, and set up the clubhouse and tents with tables and chairs. Jimmy developed a lot of faith in me. This faith was exemplified on the day of the Monty Waterbury Finals, which is one of the oldest polo tournaments in the United States. Jimmy was unable to be there; therefore he left me in charge. In ad***ion to my usual daily tasks, I was in charge of staffing car parkers, flagmen, a timekeeper, and a scorekeeper. In ad***ion, I had to make sure that the field was put back in place from the last match, mowed, and rolled. Grateful for being given this chance, I made sure everything was in order. The day went off without a hitch; because I was able to use all of the skills I learned working the previous summers.
After this summer, I realized that I am ready to open up a new door in my life. To open this door requires that I mature and gather all of my life experiences, the goal being to learn from them. The experiences I gained through responsibility, hard work, and being a team player, will allow me to endure what lies ahead. The most important thing I learned from my job at the Saratoga Polo Club was that the experiences one attains in the beginning are just as important as those acquired later on in life and are what have made me who I am today. The experiences of hard work, good relationships, and dedication are what I deem important to take with me as I open the next door in my life, college.
(Unknown author)

Shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you'll land on the stars.