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Stonewood Essay: 134	For Educational Purposes Only Do Not Plagiarize. Click Here to Learn Why.
[Prompt: Describe a place or event in your childhood and its effect on you.] In Stonewood, my former neighborhood, Christmas was a constant -- secure and warm and filled with bright lights and comforting smells. I spent each December evening staring out of my bedroom window at the Christmas lights that decorated the houses on my street. Finally, on Christmas Eve, I would journey over to the house on the corner, the house that consistently had the brightest, prettiest lights in the neighborhood, and prepare to decorate the largest fir tree I’d ever seen fit inside a living room. This house belonged to the family of my best friend Julia, a spunky Puerto Rican girl who always wore a cross around her neck and a trendy slap-bracelet on her wrist. As soon as I arrived each Christmas Eve, Julia and I would start unpacking the hundreds of ornaments from the big satin-lined boxes she kept in her closet all year. I remember the reds and greens, the shiny ornaments, and the fake holly we used to decorate the wrought-iron stairway railing. The security and warmth I felt at Julia’s on those evenings lasted all year in Stonewood and now keep my former neighborhood in my heart. The beauty of Stonewood lay in its imperfections. No two houses were alike: a blue Victorian stood next to a two-story modern. Some of the houses had attics, some had pools, and one even had a fountain outside. The houses had been built in the early 1970s, and most suffered from chipping paint, splintered wood, and avocado-green paneling. Julia's house had marble floors, a pool, and a dock. We spent our summers ranging between her backyard and mine. In hers, we could swing on the jungle gym or watch fireworks over the lake; mine boasted a sandbox and the best climbing trees. When lightning struck down the tallest oak, my friends came by to mourn the loss. Most of the children my age lived in the houses near mine, towards the back of Stonewood. We spent summers running through sprinklers, hopped into piles of leaves in the fall, sang carols in the winter, and ran from family pool to family pool in the spring. Sometimes we played tag in the street. Most of our time was spent exploring backyards and climbing fences and trees. The environment was nurturing, encouraging exploration and discovery. I loved riding my bicycle up and down the dips in the road, canoeing on the lake behind Julia’s house, watching the tree outside my bedroom window change its colors each fall, singing at the top of my lungs (asking Julia if I might be a great soprano some day), and stepping outside at 6 a.m. with the rest of the neighborhood to stand and stare to the east as the space shuttle took off into an orange sky. Though the houses and backyards of our neighborhood provided endless entertainment, what happened inside these houses was more important. The most memorable home for me was the Smith house, up on the hill above ours. This was the home where I slept, blissfully unaware, the night my mother went into labor in 1990. I woke up the next morning to murmurs of “little boy” coming from the Smiths' kitchen. Even today, I still dream of the neighborhood, as well as the experiences I had there, but mostly, I dream of my house. Sometimes it is reflected perfectly: quaint, two stories with balconies on either side, white, with French doors and green shingles, beige carpeting and low ceilings, turquoise tile and a pink leather couch. And sometimes, the house is a sad shadow of how it used to be: dark, broken, empty, and unused. When I dream of the house in this state, I wake up and want to return to it. I have spoken to my former neighbors, and they tell me I wouldn’t recognize the house from the inside. The three families who have lived there since we moved out have torn down walls, ripped up carpets, and re-painted. It’s their right; it’s their house. But my home -- the house I once lived in -- is still clear in my mind. The neighborhood has changed, as all things do. The homes have been repainted, the roads flawlessly paved, and when the children explore the neighborhood, they have new jungle gyms to play on. As Stonewood edges toward that craved perfection typical of the times, it travels further from that image I still hold of it in my heart, with all the dear imperfections that I loved. Not all of the memories are beautiful, but they are, indelibly, mine.

Cottage in Maine Essay: 127	For Educational Purposes Only Do Not Plagiarize. Click Here to Learn Why.
A small green cottage with a curved roof rests on a soft sandy beach in Maine. All day and all night, she watches the tide roll in and out, just as she has watched my family and me roll in and out of her doors every summer. Bordered by tidal rocks on the left and a tidal river on the right, this cottage and its surrounding sandy beach are my sanctuary. They have become my place of peace and hold some of the most vivid memories of my childhood. Compared to some of her newly renovated neighbors, my cozy little cottage is an old but classic beauty. Her small, dark rooms are lined with a rich floor-to-ceiling mahogany, and those windows that do open are propped up with wooden sticks. Additionally, her plumbing ticks and groans, and many a midnight "escape" has been foiled by her staircase creaking mid-descent. Yet I love this little cottage that continues to wait for me year after year. She is my protector: In the mornings, her large front porch opens its arms to the sand and surf, shading me from the blazing noonday sun. In the late afternoons, her smaller back porch shelters me from the chilling Atlantic winds. Within her inner walls, an ancient mariner statue bought from some long-ago yard sale guards the old stone fireplace. During the nights, I comfortably nestle in the coziness of the softly worn nautical print bedspreads in the front bedroom, and beside the matching curtains as I drift off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic crash of the surf. Even now, I can still feel and smell the salty sea air blowing through my hair every time I imagine myself sticking my head outside of one of the cottage’s windows. I’m sure she watched me very carefully whenever the waves seemed to loom too high above me, at least until that one day when my courage soared and I crashed through the wave instead of hiding from it. I will always remember the thrill of catching a wave on a boogie board for the first time, then riding it all the way into shore. The excitement I experienced on the water was a happy change from the disappointment of watching my perfect sandcastles overtaken by the rolling white warriors riding in on the waves to cascade the sandy walls. Just steps away from the cottage and always within her sight, I spent many a peaceful childhood hour in and between the tidal rocks and pools, searching for little crabs, starfish, and other toy-like sea creatures. I can still picture the star creatures that I rescued one particularly hot afternoon. They were lying atop a rock, being crisped by the noonday sun. "Help! Help!" I could practically hear their tiny little voices calling out for me to rescue them. I quickly collected all of the golden starfish in my pink plastic beach pail and carefully waddled over to the nearest tide pool. Gently placing the small creatures in the cool water, I watched as, slowly, their limbs and little suction feet began to wave and come to life in the salt water. I continued to watch until the last of them fled underneath the rocks toward their safety and freedom in the cool dark water. Over the years, the little green cottage has watched as I’ve moved on from pink beach pails to beach games and fireworks on the fourth of July, from beach bonfires at night to beach bonfires with boys sitting around them. I grew up on this little beach under the protective eye of the little green cottage, and it will always possess a part of me even as I grow and change. This past summer was the first summer that I did not visit the little green cottage by the sea, and I cannot help but miss her. I especially miss the way she welcomes me back each time I walk up the porch steps and promise to never again go a year without seeing her. She has watched many generations grow, and I hope she will continue to watch over me. Although I may feel as if I am growing up quickly, there are some things that a person should never outgrow.

Artist's Hands Essay: 124	For Educational Purposes Only Do Not Plagiarize. Click Here to Learn Why.
With my little hands curled around my number-two pencil, I proudly wrote my alphabet with both my left and right hands. My preschool teacher instructed me, "Lauren, you must choose one hand to write with like your other classmates." An only child and independent by nature, I could not fathom why my teacher insisted that I be uniform. To me, my hands presented a unique talent that should be put to use. Still, not being a rebellious child, I complied and began to debate between my two choices, right or left hand. Following my strong desire for uniqueness, and disallowed from choosing to be ambidextrous, I chose to write with my left hand. I viewed my choice as a new start and an identity distinct from my peers. Already, my creative nature began to show, and I sought to use different tools to attempt something creative and distinct. Soon I discovered that while left-handedness was not original to me, my thought process and creative thinking were. The hands I so proudly saw as different became my tools to build true innovation. From a young age, I could not deny my passion to create. My hands used a dull plastic needle to sew bizarre ensembles for my dolls. I cut and sculpted their hair to craft new identities that matched the unique personalities I envisioned for each doll. I also began to create an identity for myself, as I released the tight grasp on my mother’s hand the first day of kindergarten. My hands traveled with me through elementary school, locking with my friend’s hand as we ran through the playground, doodling on my spiral binder as my imagination wandered, and hesitantly lifting to answer a question in class. In middle school, my hands rummaged through my closet daily to find an outfit to wear to school. I carefully selected a well thought-out outfit, knowing it represented a fashion statement, yet still walked self-consciously past my critical peers. Nightly, I scribbled down my thoughts and dreams in a journal covered by a decoupage of fashion magazine pictures. The content of the entries varied daily, from describing a new crush to my inconsistent feelings towards my classmates to the newest band I had discovered. Through it all, my dream of a future in fashion design remained constant. Years later, I grabbed onto the doors of my new high school, which lacked any familiar faces and represented the beginning of yet another journey. During this excursion, I confidently began to define myself through different facets, most notably through the art I created with my busy hands. My hands developed the technique to transfuse my emotions into my art. My hands guided me through my academic classes, typing papers on the computer, writing out algebra formulas, and firmly raising themselves so that I could contribute to class discussions. Outside of the classroom, my hands embraced the sharp, silver needle and thread to create the usable art of clothing. The originality of each outfit I fabricate provides an immense pride whenever worn. Through my art I succeed in expressing what words cannot articulate. Just as I wanted to be unique when I chose to write with my left hand, I will base future decisions on the same principle. Now, my hands approach the moment they will receive my hard-earned diploma as I walk confidently across the stage in front of my classmates. Picturing my graduation, I cannot help but gaze further into the future. With excitement, I envision myself not building a new life but adding on to what I have constructed thus far. These persistent and hard-working hands contain endless potential to become those of a sewing, sketching, tailoring, and ground-breaking fashion designer. Through fashion, I will have the power to create art to be worn. To prepare for my future, I intend to maintain active hands by drawing, painting, and writing in an institution that cultivates my academic and artistic pursuits. Next year, as I embark on the next stage of my life, I foresee my personal and intellectual development, as I now hold my number-two pencil in anticipation of my future at the university level.

Harvard Essay: 94	For Educational Purposes Only Do Not Plagiarize. Click Here to Learn Why.
Increasingly, I find that I'd much rather talk about queerness than write about it. I've yet feel comfortable enough with my words to trust how they frame, limit, and structure my experience. I don't yet notice the experiences for which I have words and those for which I don't. I also wonder how adeptly I can to tease out my sexuality anyway, how well I can place it at center, since my particular queerness has had everything to do with my Asianness and uppermiddleclassness and youth. Again, I've yet to learn how to discuss these weaves in tandem yet, but I will. Living behind the Orange Curtain, I feel that my sexuality has grounded me outside society. I remember encountering lust during early childhood. I think his name was John, and he was in sixth grade. It seems like my desires have always been there; I simply did not acknowledge them, at first, as particularly interesting or, more tellingly, substantial enough to construct a name, a category, or identity around. My identity remained based in far more conventional structures: although I knew I liked boys, I still expected to become a successful heterosexual doctor, find a dutiful Asian bride, and have an obscene number of children. Sexual orientation, unlike money, racial authenticity, and status, had yet to become a foundation upon which my life rested. Masculinity and sexuality had yet to emerge as an issue. Gradually, I began to realize that my peers were treating me differently. I wish there was a fresh way to describe alienation, how painful it is to feel like an absolute freak, how name-calling and insults cannot be dismissed as "teasing, " how children relish in making people suffer, but such coming-of-age melodramas become trite, even laughable. I remember them mocking me for innocent hand gestures; I remember beginning to watch myself neurotically for any action that they might construe as effeminate; I remember violence; I remember feeling stiff and stale, like granite, icy, numb, each encounter, each slur and slap laying the blocks, smoothing the mortar of my new, emerging self. From behind the rising walls, I watched them becoming couples and realized that I could never have that easy way, that I could never commune with others without sadness. My parents only complicated the matter. As traditional Asians, they demanded that I, the eldest son, serve as the tantamount heterosexual, a role model for my brothers, the carrier of the potent seed that would foster the next Chiu generation. Soon I learned that the identity they had built for me not only stood on wealth and cultural and familial loyalties, but around virility and manliness as well. I had been obedient for my entire life, willing to fulfill every expectation. Now I faced disownment. I was terrified; I had lost my sense of direction, false or otherwise. As I grew aware of my Otherness, I began to see my life as a series of illusions. My prospects dissolved, and from these mirages emerged barriers, bastions I had never recognized. Because what I had always considered natural was now wrong, I was framed as the unacceptable, the deviant. Silently, insidiously, the world had reified a Self for me, cemented my most intimate and meaningful desires into an identity of Pervert. It had warped me into a suffocating, totalizing essence, pinned me with the girders of weakness, monstros-ity, and leprosy that supported their dichotomous construction of Homosexual. I couldn't let myself stay a freak, so I decided I didn't know who I really was and attempted to redefine myself. First I went ascetic, soaking myself in Buddhism to extinguish my desires, to tear down the source of my aberrant nature. My peers, however, would not let me go so easily. Seeing as they had already decided that my sex-uality was my self, I then decided to seek solace with fellow perverts. So, I came out. Coming out, I was told, would solve all of my problems. Sure, there would still be the leering, the homophobic slurs, and all that, but I would at least be "proud" of my sexual preference; I would "stand up and be counted." In reality, my momentous coming out was anti-climactic and disappointing. I expected that by telling people that I was gay I would metamorphose into a braver, stronger being. I didn't. To a certain extent, I never rested deeply in the closet anyway; because of my "flamboyance, " my private and public lives never seemed genuinely partitioned or obscured from one another. For me, at least, the closet emerged as another strange edifice, another harsh, warped, and dichotomous lens through which to understand myself. Consequently I returned to my original foundations, plunging into schoolwork to redeem myself through academic excellence. Still miserable, I turned to extracurricular activities and community service, trying to erect an identity in a facade of social responsibility and activism. I found myself searching for the approval of others. Their praise of my right image, my unperverted, correctly structured image-my stellar transcript, my hours of community service, my ability to blow into a flute and scratch out a few greeting card poems-reassured me of my worth. Despite the rigidity of my A-student identity, I still felt stale and numb, dizzy and nauseous, my body floating in black and crimson. My life was nothing but a series of unstable illusions, shadows that consumed and rejected me, a society that told me that, beneath any self I pieced together, my sexuality made me essentially perverse and nothing more. I reject these ideas. As Foucault writes, queerness represents a constructed, implanted perversity. People see my sexuality as the defining aspect of my persona. They see it as the sum product of my past and the determining factor of my future. Everywhere people limit me in ways far more insidious than stereotyping or anti-gay legislation. Discrimination against gays and lesbians is not simply a homophobic don't ask don't tell policy: in the contemporary consciousness, homophobia builds queerness into a monolith. With queer individuals reduced to nothing but absolutely, impregnably Queer, dehumanization becomes almost inevitable. There are the obvious examples: the gay bashers, the skinhead neo-Nazis, Jesse Helms, those who decry us as Satanic. Yet with the "gay-friendly" we become perverse too, metamorphosing from devils to ABBA-loving fashion freaks. Even queers sometimes yell too thoughtlessly for gay pride, as if having a sexual preference is something of which to be proud. Sexuality is not an accomplishment; it is not something that reveals who you are; it is not all that you are: it exists as a strand, one interwoven into all the other facets of Self. What I want is gay dignity and freedom. I want to integrate my sexuality with all the other weaves of my self: burn any architectural plans that mount my gayness above my race, ethnicity, and age. In fact, I'd like to trash any designs on fixing my identity at all. I want for people not to trap me, totalize me in predetermined roles and lifestyles, to tell me that I have to resolve my deviance when they have constructed it for me. With horror, I know that I've lived my sexuality with relative ease, that I've passed through high school relatively unbruised, that I've always been able to wrap my Harvard successes around me like a shawl and beat my enemies back with my résumé. Still I am tired of fearing that I might lose my parents' support and never being able to return home after college. I am tired of wondering if a potential employer finds me too effeminate or if I need to carry mace on-campus. I am tired of having my sexuality dominate me, suffocate me, be my persona. Of course, I certainly can't take it for granted either. For many years, I've distanced myself from certain queers, naming drag queens, transsexuals, and flaming gay activists as freaks or Other to bolster my sense of normalcy. Only recently did I become a crusading warrior princess myself. Gradually, I am coming to embrace the identity of Homosexual, the identity built so rigidly around my desire and so oppressive to my sense of self, and encourage others to do the same. Screw normalcy. Only through reappropriating this artificial category of Queerness we can name ourselves as a community. Only through political mobilization can we reclaim what it means to live Gay, bring our multiplicity as individuals to light, and achieve equity in our lives. Coming out means avowal, a desperately needed acknowledgment of yourself and your peers and a commitment to fight for them: not necessarily a collision of the theoretically public and private. Queers need to proclaim their supposedly perverse subculture, a subculture borne in the oppression, resistance, and struggle within and between the queer and straight communities. We must seek equity through visibility. Moreover, while our identities may remain socially constructed, their fabrication does not make them any less meaningful or real. Perhaps because I can afford to, I have learned to take pleasure in deviance, in flaunting my self; in reveling in sexual experiences; in passing as a girl or heterosexual boy. Certainly my experiences prove as legitimate as the construction of Straightness. We need to establish queerness as just as normal and "unnatural" as Heterosexual convention. We must understand that barbie doll cheerleader is just as contrived as the diesel dyke, that the muscle-bound jock is as much of a construct as the leather queen. Only after achieving a visible place in society and showing Straights how society has fabricated their identities as well will queers move from the deviant to the normal, from the periphery to the center. So in looking toward my activism at Harvard, I perceive two emerging strands. First, I will continue to work on the numerous issues that I've pursued during high school because in doing so I do justice to all aspects of my self and serve all of my communities. Beyond my attempt to unify and integrate the weaves of my life, I would, however, like to become more present in the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender community, particularly since my home life and county of residence have largely curtailed my efforts. Despite the importance of the cause, I would definitely like to move beyond A.I.D.S. activism and attack broader social justice issues on sexuality that receive less attention. My human rights work promises to redouble in the area of sexuality as the international human rights community grows increasingly aware of the torture and oppression of sexual minorities worldwide. Moreover, I would also like to study and pursue the creation of alliances within queer communities, in terms of varying racial-ethnic and gender groups, and with heterosexual communities as well. Specifically, however, I feel drawn to the study and teaching of identity politics, particularly in how the social discourse constructs Homo and Hetero-sexuals. I feel a need to collapse the shaky dichotomy between Straights and Freaks, to demolish the structures we've erected to define ourselves. Understanding my queerness has become a process, a process of deciding that my difference will no longer isolate, relegate, or alienate me. Instead, it will build me a space from which I can expose the perversity in calling someone perverse. Comments by Admissions Officers who Assisted with the Course Development One admissions officer called it a "work of art, " and another described it as "the stuff of graduate research." One admissions officer offered a warning to applicants, though. "This is not the conversational style that I recommend that most applicants use, because too often students at this stage sound pretentious and awkward if they try to go beyond a simple style." Another felt it very important to stress that a topic does not need to be this grandiose, personal, or revealing to be effective. "True, these topics often tug at the heartstrings and therefore get more notice . . . but it's worth mentioning that you don't need to be a gay Asian activist to get noticed." The combination of such a deeply personal topic, the depth of insight, and the ability to articulate such a breadth of thought is impressive.

Princeton Essay: 76	For Educational Purposes Only Do Not Plagiarize. Click Here to Learn Why.
Reluctantly smearing sunblock over every exposed inch of my fifty-three pound body, I prepared mentally for the arduous task that lay ahead of me. After several miserable fishing ventures which had left my skin red and my hook bare, I felt certain that, at last, my day had arrived. I stood ready to clear the first hurdle of manhood, triumph over fish. At the age of seven, I was confident that my rugged, strapping body could conquer any obstacle. Pity the fish that would become the woeful object of the first demonstration of my male prowess. Engaging me deeply was my naive eagerness to traverse the chasm dividing boy from man. In fact, so completely absorbed was I in my thoughts that the lengthy journey to our favorite fishing spot seemed fleeting. The sudden break in the droning of the engine snapped me to reality. Abruptly jarred back into the world, I fumbled for my fishing pole. Dangling the humble rods end over the edge of the boat, I released the bail on the reel and plunked the cheap plastic lure into the water. Once I had let out enough line and set the rod in a holder, I sat back to wait for an attack on the lure. The low hum of the motor at trolling speed only added to my anxiety, like the instrumental accompaniment to a horror film. And then it hit. A sharp tug on the line pulled me to my feet faster than an electric shock. I bounded to the pole, and when I reached it, I yanked it out of the holder with all of my might. My nervous energy was so potent that when I tugged on the rod, I nearly plunged headlong over the side of the boat and into the fishs domain. Although adrenaline streamed through my veins, after five minutes both my unvanquishable strength and my superhuman will were waning steadily. Just when I was fully prepared to surrender to the fish and, with that gesture, succumb to a life of discontentment, pain, and sorrow, the fish performed a miraculous feat. Shocked and instantly revived, I watched as the mahi-mahi leapt from the oceans surface. The mahi-mahis skin gleamed with radiant hues of blue, green, and yellow in a breathtaking spray of surf. Brilliant sunlight beamed upon the spectacle, giving life to a scene which exploded into a furious spectrum of color. The exotic fish tumbled majestically back to the sea amidst a blast of foam. With this incredible display, the fish was transformed from a pitiful victim to a brilliant specimen of life. I cared no longer for any transcendent ritual I must perform, but rather, I longed only for the possession of such a proud creature. I hungered to touch such a wonder and share the fantastic bond that a hunter must feel for his kill. I needed to have that fish at any cost. The fight lasted for only ten minutes; nevertheless, it was a ten minutes which I will never forget. When my fish neared the boat, I felt more energized than I had when the fish first struck. At my fathers command, I netted the fish and hauled it into the bottom of the boat. I was nearly bursting with exhilaration. Released from the net, the fish dropped to the bottom of the boat with a hollow thud, and my jaw dropped with it. I stared in complete horror at the violently thrashing fish which was now at my feet. Within minutes, all of the fishs vibrance, color and life had vanished. Instead, came blood. Lots of blood. It sprayed from its mouth. It sprayed from its gills. Shortly, the boat was coated with the red life blood of the mahi-mahi. It now lay twitching helplessly while it gasped and choked for oxygen in the dry air. I felt sickened, disgusted, and utterly lost in heart-wrenching pity. As I watched the color drain from the fish, leaving it a morbid pale-yellow, I realized that I was responsible for the transformation of a creature of brilliance and life into a pitiful, dying beast. Despite my brothers cheers and praises, I rode back to shore in bitter silence. I could not help thinking about the vast difference between the magnificent creature which I saw jump in the sea and the pathetic beast which I saw gasping for life in the bloody pit of the boat. What struck me most forcefully on that day, though, was the realization that I was no mere bystander to this desecration. I was the sole cause. Had I not dropped the hook into the water, the fish undoubtedly would still be alive. I, alone, had killed this fish. In retrospect, I am relieved that I reacted in such a way to my passage from boyhood to manhood. Although my views about many things, hunting and fishing included, have changed considerably since that day, I still retain a powerful conscience which actively molds my personality. One cannot dispute the frightening potential of the human race to induce the permanent extinction of every life form on the planet. As the ability to change the world on a global scale is arguably limited to one breed of life, so, too, is the force which impedes instinctual and conscious action, the human conscience. My own _sense of strong moral principle reaches far beyond simply averting Armageddon, however. I often find myself unable to disregard this force of moral and social responsibility in whatever I do. Part of my keen social conscience is demonstrated in the effort I have made _to be a positive intellectual leader among my classmates and in the community. Realizing how lucky I am to have been born with a high aptitude for learning, I feel sorry that others who also work very hard cannot achieve like I have nor be rewarded with success as I have been. In a leadership role, I hope to constructively guide my peers to find their own success and see the fruition of their own goals. By serving as class president for three consecutive years, as founder, member, and chairman of the peer counseling society, and as a peer tutor, I have enabled others to reach their goals, while finding personal gratification at the same time. I am fortunate in that I have been given the opportunity to optimize the usefulness of my personal virtues in helping others; I can only hope to continue heeding my conscience in work as a research chemist, or whatever I may do in the future. It is my right and my obligation, for I firmly maintain that the charge of a humanitarian conscience is one which each person must eternally bear for the good of humankind and all the world. Comments by Admissions Officers who Assisted in the Creation of this Course Our panel loved the personal touch of this essay. "A good example of how a talented writer can make a standard topic appealing" was the general consensus. One officer did think, though, that the writer got "overzealous" with his language and could have avoided some of the more corpulent sentences like, "Engaging me deeply was my naive eagerness to traverse the chasm dividing boy from man, " by writing with a simpler, more natural voice.