.

USA: Sample Essays - Johns Hopkins University

By M Hasanul Kaisar on Tuesday, 21 May 2013 at 23:58

Collected from: http://apply.jhu.edu/apply/essays_2015.html

Class of 2013

Christine Amelia MumfordHometown: Marstons Mills, MAIntended majors: Writing

Seminars/Romance Languages

HomeI am buried and tangled with history. I was born on Cape Cod, as was my mother, her parents,
their parents... a long line stretching all the way back to John Howland on the Mayflower. I have seen
old family houses with their tiny, uneven windows and deeply slanted roofs, their thin walls and
horse-hair plaster. I have heard stories, read old diaries, seen old pictures... and even the things I
cannot perceive still surround me in this place, silent and invisible but still present: a reminder of the
thousands of lives I am connected to.

This little cusp of sand in the corner of America has changed so much since then. At first wooded
and silent, now trembling under too many mansions, golf courses, shopping malls, gas stations, and
cars, cars, cars. I want to see the way the land looked before the Europeans arrived, when brave
deer picked their way through ancient forests, when the sand was smooth and vastly unbroken,
arching into the Atlantic as if to escape the continent itself.

Sometimes, when I walk on the beach in the winter and turn my back to the land, when I can't see or
hear another human, when the wide gray sky and the wide gray sea stretch on until they meet, I can
see the reason we've stayed so long. We live on the edge of infinity.

My father's family has lived in Indiana since Thomas Mumford came from England in 1828. The land
there is so rich: insects, trees, tall grass; I love the way the sky is more alive, the way creeks are
folded in between hills, and the long, long gravel driveway is lined with huge trees planted by the
grandfather I never met. When I was younger, I thought those three thousand acres went on forever.

I love the way stories are hidden in everything I can see, like that old stone horse-jump in the middle
of a cow pasture, or a dusty plaque in the tack room with the name of some long-dead horse. And
some stories are too old for even my grandmother to remember, like the graveyard in the woods with
headstones naming dead infants from the 1800s all hidden by tall wildflowers that grow over tiny
skeletons. And then there are stories even older, before my family, like the Indian shell-mounds in
the woods, the stone arrowheads on the creek banks.
I am surrounded by history and expectation. I am one more name in a vast family tree. I am tied to
my cousins with the same wide smile and I see myself in an old photo of my grandmother, sitting on
a fence with her ankle socks swinging and 1930s hair. I love seeing my own eyes look back at me.
And still, there is something that makes me want to stand away from all of them. But could I do what
John Howland did? Could I uproot myself and walk away from my identity?

It takes immense courage to step away from the known path, already beaten down with thousands
of footsteps before me. I am a Mumford. That is a fact, but what else am I? What else will I be? My
future is mine, and while my family has created and shaped me, I will become what I choose.

I know that someday, when I step off the stage with my diploma and look forward into the unknown,
the blank canvas of my life, I will hear the silent applause of thousands of familiar hands and the
wide smiles of those ancestors I never met. I will know that they are with me, that they are me, even
as I make my own future.

Admissions Reader CommentsFor me, Amelia's essay worked because, as I read it, I learned a
great deal of what makes her an individual, what is important to her about her past, and what she is
looking for in her future. She is a strong writer who can tell an interesting tale, which is a great
attribute for a student interested in our Writing Seminars program. But, it was her use of her own
voice throughout and the personal nature of the essay that assisted me in better understanding who
she is and what kind of individual she will be at Hopkins.—Daniel G. Creasy, Associate Director

Sara Elizabeth HusseyHometown: Rochester, NHIntended majors: International Studies and

Economics

It Doesn't Really Matter

Car ride—7 years old

The windows were dark, the black tinting giving an ominous glare to the outside night. My mom and I
were contemplative, the conversation at dinner still turning through our minds. Finally mom met my
eyes in the rearview mirror and broke the silence. "Honey, the way I look at it is that God sent you to
us through unusual means, okay? Nothing anybody else says matters just that we're family now like
we were always meant to be."

Being told—4 years old

I looked at my mom incredulously the three syllable word unfamiliar and heavy in my mouth. Almost
instinctively my stomach tightened as I choked out, "AD-OPT-ED? What do you mean adopted?" My
mom fumbled to explain her eyes darting throughout the room before landing on me.
"It means that your original mom couldn't take care of you like she wanted to so she told the state
and they gave you to us."

"What do you mean original mom? You're my mom right?" I was really scared at this point, people
don't have two moms do they? Did this mean that mom was going to go away or I was going to be
giving another new mom at some point?

"Well yes honey of course I am... it's just... it's complicated."

"Why?" Things weren't supposed to be complicated, I was 4, life was supposed to be filled with
concerns about having an extra dessert or getting to stay up late.

"Because your mom was really young when she had you and she wasn't ready to take care of you
like she wanted to, but she was able to realize that she needed help, and that was what mattered."

"Oh ok," At this point I was content to leave the issue alone. But that night, staring at the ceiling in
my grandmother's house, I couldn't help but think of my birth mother and wonder if she was thinking
of me.

Conversation with Katie—10 years old

My feet hung above the gravel pit swinging back and forth. Katie and I were seated on the newly
rebuilt 4th and 5th grade playground on the backside of McClelland Elementary. I couldn't help but
be envious; Katie had the epitome of the classic family. Her parents were high school sweethearts
that married, had two children and now resided in a quiet neighborhood that held yearly block
parties. The other kids were yelling and running around; Katie and I however were having a serious
discussion, our faces funnily grave.

"So do you want to know?" Katie asked tentatively, glancing at my face before staring at her foot
scuffing the ground, toeing a particular rock into its proper place.

It took me a minute to respond, trying to formulate the words that my brain was giving me, "I'm not
sure, I mean it'd be nice to know and track her down and stuff but I'm not really positive. What if it
doesn't work out or she's married now or something?"

"Mhm" Katie nods, understanding more than others the conflicted feeling I have about meeting my
birth mother, and offers "But isn't knowing better than not knowing and always wondering?"

"Maybe" I temporize really unsure about the whole thing, different scenarios playing through my
head, her not wanting to meet me or not living up to my expectations or whatever. "I just don't want
to get my hopes up, I can't even go until I'm 18, plus I think Mom and Dad would be upset, I don't
want them to think that I'm betraying them or anything"

"There's always that," Katie agrees.

Grocery Store—13 years old

Mom and I wheel the cart around, picking items for dinner before heading to the checkout. A voice
from an isle exclaimed.

"Jaca! I haven't seen you in forever, and is this Sara? Oh my! You've gotten so big now haven't you?
What grade are you in now?" A few excruciating minutes of idle chit chat followed where she
mentioned how much I've grown and how she remembered when my mother was pregnant. Finally
she left and my mom and I continued to the checkout.

I glanced around a few times just in case before I turn to her and grinned, "I always think it's
particularly amusing when they claim to have known you pregnant."

She chuckled, "yeah or that they remember the birth" We both giggled a little but I could see the
slight sadness in my mother's eyes. I knew that she always wanted to be pregnant, and so all I could
do was try and make her laugh.

Advanced Placement English—18 years old

We were preparing to start on Macbeth and Mrs. Smith had given us a worksheet asking questions
like: What is love? How do you know what love is? Does it take a blood connection to have a family
relationship? What makes a family? Lydia, always known for her stories, launched into an elaborate
tale about her mother's current relationship and how no one could replace her father, even though he
hadn't been a good man, on and on...

I raised my hand, "Well, I think it's more than a blood connection really, it's about caring, and
understanding and being there for each other no matter what. My parents adopted me, but I've never
questioned their love or anything, I've never felt like less than their child." While not totally true,
especially when I was younger, I realized that this was how I felt now. My parents were just that, my
family. Not my second family, or my adoptive family or any other label besides mom and dad.

Admissions Reader CommentsThis essay works for several reasons. First, it is an original piece that
allows the reader to really know much more about the applicant than can be gleaned from a
transcript or test scores. It answers the question, "who are you?"
A second reason this essay works is the unique approach to the subject matter. The lay-out of the
essay in several, non-linear sections mimics her experiences and feelings of being adopted; the
feelings and moments can't be explained in one neat package, rather it is a collection of
moments—just like her life.

A final element that makes this essay shine is the author's ability to seamlessly connect who she is
and the subject of adoption to her academic experiences. It is clear that she will bring a unique
perspective to her classroom experiences here at Hopkins.—Sarah Godwin, Assistant Director

Kristin BoulierHometown: Millersville, MDIntended majors: Biology

My BookshelfWhen I entered high school, I decided that my bedroom would get a fresh start as well.
Its first alterations were the obvious ones—bright pastels on the walls, silky, custom-made orange
curtains (made with my mother as a compromise for keeping the walls toned down) and shifted
furniture. But these are all standard items; the most important addition has proven to be my
bookshelf.

I admit most people encounter bookshelves fairly frequently. But everything about this bookshelf,
down to the calm and earthy brown—contrasting my unnaturally green wall—to the carefully
arranged content, reminds me of something or someone I love. Construction began my first
Christmas in high school when I successfully followed my parents' clues to the parts that would
become this wonderful structure. The proceeding days were spent building and finishing the shelf
with my dad; the nights on my sister's floor because of the paint fumes. As soon as the paint dried I
was constantly "renovating": taping to its walls pictures of sunsets, waterfalls, waves,
thunderstorms—nature at its best—along with a tessellated math assignment I spent an entire
weekend perfecting (my teacher felt bad when she found out although I reassured her I had enjoyed
it). The first occupants of this spacious high rise were the fantasy and science fiction books I read in
middle school. As I changed and grew, however, the demographics of the incoming denizens shifted.
They now form a menagerie ranging from the classics my mother snuck upon the upper
shelves—which were reluctantly, then excitedly, adopted and read—to highly specialized visitors
from the local library that frequently join their ranks. Balanced throughout are other odds and ends:
stone animals from my nature-loving, rock-hound grandfather, soccer medals, a snow globe of the
"tour Eiffel" from a rather crowded cigar shop we found while lost in Paris, a Lego rocket from the
summer reading project that first made me expand into non-fiction.

Hidden behind the lower cabinet doors is the more costly treasure—my collection of non-fiction, from
astronomy to neurology to genetics, I have developed as my passion has grown and found its niche
within the immense and iridescent depths of science. A stack of Spanish books defend their territory
although they seem slightly out of place. They have helped me pass a series of "tests" beginning
with the AP test, to reading Spanish books in their original language, to tutoring, culminating with a
test that, as urban rush hour traffic abashes the driver's test, put my first test to shame. I found
myself with my Spanish speaking aunt, English speaking father and siblings, and my semi-bilingual
self in Tia's Miami parlor for a several hour visit. Although at first uncertain, I was pleasantly
surprised to find myself able to converse and translate her fascinating stories about the exotic fruits
she had growing in her own backyard, trips to Spain with my mother and the strange food they
stomached for pleasure or necessity. (Hidden between the various words lay insights into the
reasons my mother's actions seem strange—protective or frugal—to me.) Learning for its own sake
was and is satisfying, but doing something constructive with knowledge is exhilarating.

One might think this bookshelf is my brain-child, but in truth it is closer to my sister. It is being
created not by me, but by the same forces that are molding me into who I am. Without my father's
handiwork, my mother's books, my grandfather's passion, my teachers' assignments and my
maternal grandparents' language, this bookshelf could never exist. I am forever indebted for the
forces that have caused the once-dead, plain planks of wood to again sprout into something
wonderful.

Admissions Reader CommentsThis student's essay was great in my opinion because it was
authentic and you could really relate to her growth and influences and the transition in her life. She
has diverse interests as she grows and uses the different selves to illustrate this point. We all grow
and become influenced by various factors in our lives. We are all diverse in our academic interests,
goals, and backgrounds and this bookshelf of hers points to this fact. I think it's appreciated that she
notes she has grown in her interests and from her family influences and you can see when she
comes to college she will enter with a mind open to limitless possibilities in many areas.—Jameel
Freeman, Associate Director

Alvin YiuHometown: Fair Lawn, NJIntended majors: Chemical and Biomolecular Engineering

The Sweet Taste of VictoryIf accepted into Johns Hopkins University, I would pursue a major in
Chemical and Biomolecular Engineering. Aside from the impact of this major on our daily lives, I am
inspired by the utility of the discipline. Everywhere I go, I see opportunities in which principles
learned in class can be put to the wheel.

Consider, for example, a trip to McDonald's. Suppose you order a Big Mac Meal, super sized with a
large coke. Now, after getting the coke and taking two paltry sips, you find yourself already slurping
at bottom of the cup. At this point, most people would say, "Damn that McDonald's, cheating me of
my coke," and just leave it at that. However, a Chemical Engineering major could solve this problem,
and never get short changed of soda again.
All the student would need is to use a bit of Thermochemistry, as well as the Thermodynamics
equation "q = mC ΔT". Here, q stands for energy change, m for mass, c for specific heat, and ΔT for
temperature change. By assuming that the coke is essentially water, and that the ice is currently
melting at 0 degrees Celsius, the student would be able to mathematically calculate that it would
only take 31 grams of ice to cool half a liter of coke from 55 degrees to 40 degrees Fahrenheit.
Knowing that soda is dispensed at approximately 55 degrees, the student would conclude that it
would only take 31 grams, or 1/6 of a cup of ice to make a large coke frosty cold.

Armed with this information, the Chemical Engineering major could make a stand. At the next
purchase, he or she could say to the cashier, "Only 1/6 of a cup of ice in my soda, please." Not only
would the student have benefited from the extra soda, he or she would also have the satisfaction of
outsmarting the dubious business practices of the corporate giants.

In the end, it is through knowledge and application of the sciences that we can achieve what
previously only dreamed of. Whether these achievements bring fame and fortune, or just a simple
cup of soda, one thing is for sure. There is no wealth like knowledge, no poverty like ignorance.

Admissions Reader CommentsThoughtful, creative, and appropriate, this essay demonstrates the
ability to think critically about a topic that may seem very mundane at first. Alvin manages to take
something traditional and generic like purchasing soda to thinking about the economic value of the
return on investment and make it unique and his own while clearly representing himself as a student
and scholar. This is an essay that makes sense and is fun to read while representing the student as
a creative problem solver. I'd like to add that there is a great return on your investment if you get free
refills too!—Mark Butt, Senior Assistant Director

Class of 2014

Rachel C.Hometown: Wynnewood, PAIntended majors: Writing Seminars/Political Science

My Best Kept SecretFor a year, we had something special.

It wasn't big. It wasn't flashy. But it meant a lot to me.

Welcome to JTOP: an arcane collectivity within the walls of Lower Merion High School. JTOP stands
for Justin Timberlake Operation Project, an opaque title chosen to baffle anyone who might overhear
us mention the organization.
I was inducted as the fifth member in November of 2008, joining Maggie, Jake, Patricia and Sarah.
At the time, I knew no one in this coterie but Jake, who provided me with little information. He
insisted that I would find meaning in the group—that together we would be able to channel our
restless frustration and curiosity into something worthwhile—but that I must first be sworn to secrecy.
I was dubious, nervous, and excited.

Okay. Okay. This is peculiar right? I'm not from Hogwarts, I'm not some top-secret CIA
operative—I'm just a girl from a suburb of Philadelphia... right? And what did "JTOP" even do?

That question cannot be answered so easily. JTOP was a chance for bright kids who love
learning…to explore. Every meeting, every task, every debate felt like a new adventure.

One day Maggie came home from school and informed us of hearing about trepanation, the practice
of cutting holes into one's skull. This was creepy... yet fascinating. Why would anyone willfully drill a
hole into his or her head? What would that be like? So on a Wednesday night, after we finished our
homework, we furtively gathered and watched a documentary that Maggie purchased entitled "Hole
in Your Head," all about the history of trepanation.

Once we decided to make "circle poetry" for other students whom we admired throughout the school.
Some of the students we didn't know personally—just respected from afar. Taking a black Sharpie
and ripping out pages from The Philadelphia Inquirer, we began to circle words and letters creating
personalized messages. I wrote a poem for Hannah, a girl I knew only through her insightful
comments in English class. Hannah had lately been bemoaning that she was turning jaded by the
stressful experience of junior year. I wrote that she shouldn't let the school system break her and that
her infectious enthusiasm is too important to be replaced by cynicism. When we finished, JTOP
looked up the recipients' addresses in the phone book, drove to the various homes and
anonymously deposited the poems into each of their mailboxes.

Once we all attended a school board meeting at which our district was considering proposed
changes to the high school grading policy. I stood up and made a speech before the administrators,
teachers and community on the defects of the proposal. Another time we found ourselves sitting in a
coffee shop trying to figure out if we were stuck on an island which mix of 20 people from our school
would we need along with us in order to survive. Another time we clandestinely met at an
out-of-the-way Chinese restaurant (JTOP avoids locations where we could be likely spotted) and,
over egg rolls, debated the merits of biological determinism. Patricia, a fierce advocate of Richard
Dawkins, battled Maggie and me, advocates of environmental factors also playing a fundamental
role in pushing genetic "limits."
We decided we needed an adult figure within our organization so we divulged the details of our club
to Mohsen Ghodsi, our old 9th grade gifted support teacher, and asked that he serve as our mentor.
He was enthusiastic in his support. He not only allowed us to hold JTOP meetings in his classroom
during free periods but also supplied us with book titles and journal articles that he felt might interest
us.

We went creek-walking. We cooked homemade dumplings. We gave opera music a try. We debated
the injustice of calling "shotgun" in the passenger seat of a car. Once, we decided to write "JTOP" on
all the dollar bills we owned in the hope that some day, years from now, they might come back to us
in currency recirculation.

In June I decided to read Tom Wolfe's I Am Charlotte Simmons. The novel describes an idealistic
young girl starting her freshman year at a prestigious university, who is recruited for an intellectual
discussion club with an opaque misleading name—The Millennial Mutants. The resemblance
between Charlotte Simmons' club and JTOP was uncanny.

I realized though, it wasn't mere coincidence that Tom Wolfe described a society similar to JTOP.
And, importantly, the parallels did not make me feel generic. To the contrary, they made me feel like I
was a part of something much bigger. Something universal. It was exciting to think about people
living "the life of the mind" elsewhere, in different schools and states and perhaps in secret clubs of
their own. The notion that there are many people out there who band together in the free pursuit of
ideas and experiences was comforting and validating.

Maybe it all sounds trivial. Perhaps intelligent students shouldn't be "wasting their time" writing
acronyms on dollars and instead direct more focus to investing time into an internship or "getting
ahead." But I disagree. When I look back on my junior year I feel lucky to have received such a
precious experience.

Where is JTOP now you might ask? Well, we're all still friends, but the club definitely lost its fire over
the summer, and I can't really predict what the future holds for it. But, that's okay. Just having been
able to experience unfettered adolescent discovery, with people who have the same interests as I, is
something that I believe really matters. And knowing that I'm not alone, and that others out there are
also exploring—well that matters too. And knowing that I'll meet many more people in college who
share the same passions, well that's the most exciting prospect of all.

Admissions Reader CommentsThis essay worked because it managed to show different facets of
the student's personality through a single, unifying theme (the JTOP club). For me, this
demonstrated the student's interest in exploring the world simply for the pleasure of learning new
ideas. It showed that the student wanted to cheer on classmates and was willing to stand up and
defend ideas she believed in. And it was quirky! Not everyone wants to sit around a circle debating
the merits of calling "shotgun" (which I am a fan of—still), but that's what makes her different and an
individual.—Dana Messinger, Assistant Director of Admissions

Bridget H.Hometown: Boise, IDIntended majors: Latin American Studies/Behavioral Biology

Cinco Reasons Why I am Interested in Pursuing Latin American Studies and One Reason Why I am
Not

Cinco) I'm still waiting for my Neruda—a man who likes me when I'm silent.

Cuatro) I'm in the kitchen again, arranging marriages between egg yolks. Keeping track of the time in
order to determine how much longer I can realistically put off studying for tomorrow's calculus test.

My extreme days of baking happen every few weeks, or whenever a birthday rolls around in our
Spanish class. I am the cake guru. I am always trying new recipes, adding new things to the box
mixes I buy in twos and threes at the self check out at the grocery.

In Mexico, our teacher tells us, they have a tradition of making a small cake, in addition to a regular
cake. The large cake is for the guests to eat. The small cake is for the guests to push the birthday
person's face into while chanting 'Que Muerde.' Take a bite.

Our class always forgets exactly what the phrase is. We get confused and start chanting 'Que
Muerte.' That Death. Or once, a boy started chanting 'Torta Cara'—which means face cake.

Welcome to first period AP Spanish.

Tres) It deeply upsets me that neither the Wall Street Journal nor the Idaho Statesman seem to
publish many articles relating to Latin America. I've taken to reading the New York Times, online,
over sunny-side eggs on Sara Lee toast.

Dos) I learned how to 'Baile Tipico' the summer before my junior year in High School.

The Gods were making soup in the Panamanian Jungle, which meant that the water pipes were
always overflowing, and I was lucky if my shower consisted of something other than bucket collected
rainwater, self poured over my sticky torso.

But bucket or no, every Friday was dance lesson day, and I'd wade through whatever broth lay
simmering in the soccer field between my house and the dance studio. There I'd stand in sandals,
amongst the chickens, while a large woman pushed Spanish through the gaps in her teeth. Vaguely I
was aware that this was my signal to attempt to dance.
They called me 'Rubia'. Blonde. Mainly because their tongues get angry when they try to make the
harsh 'i' sound that comes after the 'r' in my name. Eventually, even I couldn't say my name right.
The letter 'i' scratched and gnawed at the insides of my cheeks on the way out. My name had gotten
soggy and disintegrated in the Latin American rainstorms.

Since my return, my mouth has again become accustomed to the 'i' sound. America runs on the
letter 'i' more than it runs on Dunkin' Donuts. Yet, I still retain the knowledge of 'Baile Tipico'. It has
been a year and I still haven't fully unpacked. My whole world was shaken when I learned to shake
my hips, and now there's nothing that can keep me still.

Uno) In Spanish the word for popcorn translates literally to 'Small Doves'. The word 'esparar' means
both 'to wait' and 'to hope'. The word equivocarse, or to make a mistake, is beautiful and makes my
toes curly against each other in a happy way.

However, sometimes I wonder, because...

One) Latin American Studies is not Creative Writing.

Admissions Reader CommentsBridget is a terrific writer. Even her title makes me eager to jump right
into her essay. She conveys a genuine curiosity about Latin American culture and a love for writing.
Bridget uses salient details to elaborate on these two academic interests, her topic of choice.
Whether discussing the coverage of Latin America in main stream American publications or vividly
describing her experience learning "Baile Tipico," she paints a distinctive picture that leaves the
reader wanting to know more. One of my favorite examples follows: "My whole world was shaken
when I learned to shake my hips, and now there's nothing that can keep me still."—Chloe Rothstein,
Assistant Director of Admissions

Andrew T.Hometown: Andover, MAIntended majors: Writing Seminars / German

SpeakCount to twenty. Now imagine walking into Starbucks. As you make your way up to the
counter, the delicate smell of brewing coffee arouses your senses. You politely ease your way
through the herd of people gathered in front of the register and meet the eyes of the cashier. She
acknowledges your presence with a slight nod as irritable grunts set in around you. You open your
mouth to begin speaking, but nothing comes out. Silence. You continue to stand there, lips spread
wide. Embarrassment overtakes you as the herd glares in your direction. The cashier remains
motionless, unsure of how to cope with the silence. As time stretches onwards, your cheeks burn
with shame. The herd begins to giggle uneasily, and some even go as far as to point. Twenty
seconds pass before you are able to break the silence with a mumbled, "M-M-M-M-May I h-h-have a
g-g-grande l-l-l-latte?" With an awkward smile, the cashier reaches for your gift card, and you retreat
with your head tucked deep into your chest.

It was moments like these that made me truly ashamed of who I was. Ever since the age of six, I
have stuttered. And before I traveled to Munich this past summer, I wished every morning that I
would wake up without my stutter. I would often avoid answering the phone, even conversing with
my family, anything to abstain from speaking. I was terrified of what other people would think of me
when I stuttered, and so in an attempt to escape humiliation, I would simply keep quiet. Yet, I could
no longer live my life running from the opportunities I so fervently desired to experience. I craved to
be myself, to do the things that I wanted to do, regardless of my stutter. And so I gathered the
courage to spend three weeks alone in Germany.

When my plane landed in Munich, my host mother came barreling into my arms. The amount of joy
in her hug overwhelmed me. I had been with her for less than a minute and already I was a part of
her life. What truly grabbed me however, was the way she introduced herself. While still embracing
me, she squeaked, "Hello! My name is Monica, and I stutter." My heart stopped. The first words out
of her mouth were the ones I feared the most. When she stepped back to look at me, I could not
take my eyes off of her smile. She did not have a hint of shame in her voice. She was proud to be a
stutterer.

The courage glistening in her eyes inspired me more than the words of any speech therapist or
supportive friend. I always knew I had the will inside of me to accept my stuttering, but it took the
simple encouragement of another stutterer for me to finally make peace with it. Witnessing her
dignity increased my own self-respect. I believed in myself more than ever before. From those
simple words, I learned that I am who I am, and that I need to embrace and welcome it. I realized
that without my stutter, I would not have nearly the amount of perseverance, optimism, or integrity
that I have today, as these qualities allow me to remain positive during the long beats of silence.
They are what make me unique, and if I must stutter in order to possess them, then I would stand
silent in Starbucks forever.

Before I went to Germany, I had always wanted to give a tour to a prospective student visiting
Phillips Academy. I was afraid, however, that my stutter would prevent me from giving the
enthusiastic tour that the school deserves. I was terrified that I would not be able to relay my love for
Andover accurately, and as a result, would turn the prospective family away. But after realizing how
proud I am to be myself, I confidently marched up to the Admissions building. I wanted to share my
courage with those around me. I would not be ashamed. I would finally be the person I desired to be.
I would do the things that I love to do, the things that make me happy. And as I approached the
prospective student that I was about to tour, I extended my hand and smiled, "Hi! My name is
Andrew, and I stutter."
Admissions Reader CommentsAndrew's essay worked for me because he was able to provide me,
the reader, an open window to all the emotions and struggles he faces living with his stutter. From
the scene at Starbucks, to meeting his host mother in Munich, and his first campus tour, each story
is detailed and personal and reveals so much about Andrew's strength of character. His voice is
evident throughout the entire essay and the personal nature of what he chooses to reveal assisted
me in gaining a true understanding of the type of individual he is and will be. The qualities that
Andrew presents in his essay are qualities we look for when learning more about our
applicants.—Daniel Creasy, Associate Director of Admissions

Mark S.Hometown: Cambria, CAIntended majors: Chemical and Biomolecular Engineering

Mark Stuczynski, SuperheroPink cape. Pink boots. Goggles devised from an airline sleeping mask.
The hardest part about growing up overseas was that more often than not, my only friends were the
ones I could summon from my imagination. My childhood compatriots consisted of a motley crew of
superheroes: Spiderman, Batman, Superman, and occasionally some Power Rangers. At around
age two, I learned that a superhero's costume indicated what sort of powers he had. At age four,
after trying to fly, I came to the conclusion that a superhero's power didn't actually come from the suit
itself. At age fourteen, I learned the more modern equivalent of these assumptions was "the suit
makes the man." I've always wanted to be a superhero, and rather than give up my dream, I've
simply utilized other costumes to reach my goal by using those uniforms to take on aspects of the
superheroes I so admire.

Old jeans. Straw hat. Tool belt. My first grip on the heights of heroism occurred was when I built
houses in Mexico. While others in my group had deep spiritual experiences with God on the trip, I
drew satisfaction from the process of building and watching the work of my hands come together into
a dwelling for a family. The rest of my group received joy by doing good for good's sake; while I was
thrilled that my good has a measured effect. This was the first aspect of heroism I discovered:
results. The looks on the faces of the family were the greatest tangible representation of my work.
While the physical incarnation was there as a squat, grey-sided building with a tarpaper roof, the
implications of my actions and the joy of the family were punctuated by a little boy in a Spiderman
shirt clinging to my leg with a whisper of "gracias, senor." The effort I put in had the result of a happy
family, a new home, and a little boy who now had a shelter in which to express his own superhero
fantasies.

Red shorts. Red jacket. Camouflage hat. As a lifeguard, I learned that protecting life was the second
aspect of heroism I aspired to attain. Removing people in over their heads (quite literally) from the
deep end of the pool feels so right and good. To dive down, lift the flailing individual out and onto my
tube (the red-orange thing you see lifeguards walking around with) and swim the drowning over to
the side was task of relatively minor effort that had far-reaching positive results. However, like in
medicine, half the job is simply preventing accidents from occurring in the first place. When I taught
a group of boys to swim as a Water Safety Instructor, the looks of joy on their faces as they moved
themselves around the shallow end of their own filled me with pride. Lifeguarding was my second
attempt at becoming a superhero, and it allowed me the opportunity to do something that the
superheroes I admired did: saving lives. The fact that the kids I've saved still come to me around
town even though I'm no longer working the pool are a testament to the heroics I performed. To
them, I was already becoming a superhero that they admired.

Collared shirt. Khaki slacks. Blue slash. I was by far the youngest person running for the position,
and each of the other candidates was far more accomplished than I. But as I raised $4,000 for the
community youth center, as I campaigned after school for the weeks preceding the election, and as I
presented myself as an able and creative competitor for the office of Honorary Mayor, people began
to take me seriously. When I was elected by a 55 percent majority over the other candidates, I knew
that I had obtained the third heroic aspect I sought by overcoming neigh impossible odds. I had
fought against opponents whom were more experienced and, though the underdog, emerged
victorious. When working at community events, people notice my sash and come up to me asking if I
am truly the mayor of my town. I respond "yes," and they are rightfully amazed. When I walk down
the street and see adults in the community telling their children that I'm the town's mayor
undoubtedly inspires the kids to act heroically. Although it's just an honorary position, every time
someone asks about how I reached such a height, I am reminded that I'm only a few tiers away from
the pantheon of superheroes I seek.

Legion cap. Leather jacket. White apron. Being in the Sons of the American Legion has taught me
about the fourth aspect of heroism I want to obtain, but have yet to do so. While adorned in this
uniform, I typically barbeque to raise money for the Post, which is then spent to help the community
and veterans. My best memory of heroism was at the Wounded Warriors Road to Recovery event,
where I was helping serve veterans who rode bikes along the coastline near my town. Many of the
soldiers were wounded in various conflicts, and were missing legs or had prosthetics. When I was
serving one older man in a wheelchair, Brian, he said "thank you." Out of habit, I extended my hand,
and shook his, responding in kind. As I decline the shot of scotch he offered me, he told me the story
about how he lost his leg. One of his squad members was injured and pinned down by sniper fire
during Vietnam. Rather than abandon his brother in arms to fate, Brian charged across the divide,
risking life and limb to reach the low bank where his friend lay bleeding. When he arrived, his squad
member was shot through the chest and bleeding heavily. While entrenched at that position, Brian
did his best to save his friend, and due to the renewed covering fire from his allies, managed to slide
him back to the rest of the group. On the haul back to the squad, Brian took a bullet straight through
the back of the knee, although he did finish dragging his ally out of the open ground. After the squad
arrived back on the base, the tenuous attachment of the lower leg at the knee was almost frayed
completely, and as a result was amputated. I thought long and hard about the story. Brian did more
than my currently collected aspects. He saved a life, his friend lived, and he overcame the odds of
being shot in the head by sharpshooters. But he did something else. Even in the face of death, he
still held out and did his duty to his squad, even though it cost him a limb. The fourth aspect of
heroism is duty and honor above self. While I haven't yet obtained this key aspect, I am well on my
way to doing so.

White coast. Facemask. Green scrubs. A doctor sees the results of heroism on a daily basis in the
lives he saves. He overcomes at times impossible odds—gunshots, bodies mauled in car crashes,
and other horrors, at all costs. It is his duty to protect the people that enter his care, and his honor is
dependent on whether or not he can save them. No longer will I merely be utilizing one aspect of
heroism at a time, instead, as a trauma surgeon, I will go to work everyday wearing a uniform I will
be prideful of wearing. After all, with a superhero watching over them, the people I protect have no
reason to be afraid. What more could I be proud of?

Admissions Reader CommentsWhat I liked most about this essay is that Mark took a common
topic—his extracurricular involvement—and put his own personal spin on it. He was able to explain
his contributions to his community and to the world by describing what characteristics of a superhero
he portrayed while participating in each of his activities. Beginning each paragraph with a description
of his "superhero outfit," he was able to join together a variety of different topics, allowing the essay
to not only flow with ease, but also show creativity. Mark made his essay memorable by allowing me
into his world. In the end, I had learned about where Mark had been and where he wants to go. He is
the kind of student we are looking for—one who is going to make a difference both inside and
outside of the classroom.—Shannon Miller, Senior Assistant Director of Admissions

Class of 2015

Kathryn B.Hometown: Austin, TexasIntended majors: International Studies and East Asian Studies

EnmusubiHardly a day went by in Japan when I wasn't asked by a curious and wide-eyed Japanese
person, "How many guns do you own?" This was almost never preceded by the question "Do you
own a gun?" Being from Texas, it was simply assumed that I was an experienced gunslinger.

Of course, I was guilty of false assumptions as well. After 4 years of Japanese, I thought I knew
something about Japan. My Japanese teacher praised me for my control of the Japanese language,
I had memorized the words to songs by popular Japanese bands, and I could recite the crime rates
of the 10 most populated cities in Japan. When I found out I would be spending 6 weeks going to
Japanese school and living with a Japanese family in Japan on a full scholarship through Youth for
Understanding, my head instantly filled with images of what I had assumed life in Japan to be like. I
imagined myself walking the streets of a shiny, Tokyo-esque metropolis in my adorable sailor-style
school uniform with my new Japanese friends who did nothing but sing karaoke and love Pokemon.
But preconceptions often lead to misconceptions. It was not until my plane, occupied by all of nine
people (including the flight attendants) landed at one of only two gates at Izumo Airport, a lone
building surrounded by nothing but rice paddies, that I realized I could no longer base anything on
assumption.

Izumo Airport is just a short drive from Matsue, Shimane, Japan. The capital city of Shimane
prefecture, Matsue resides in the second most rural prefecture in Japan, something I discovered
when the initial googling of Matsue yielded little more than a nondescript three-paragraph Wikipedia
article. I knew I would have to adjust quite a bit to life in rural Matsue, but I welcomed that challenge
with open arms. I wanted to experience the real Japan, I wanted to live it as much as I could in my
two months there, so I made every effort to accept whatever cultural differences were thrown at me, I
made every effort to blend.

This was no easy task. After a few weeks, I had eaten fermented soybeans, bathed in public
bathhouses, and tried to comprehend my biology class through the language barrier. I had stopped
converting prices into dollars from yen, it no longer felt unnatural to bow, and I had dreams in
Japanese. But despite my efforts, it often seemed as if Matsue was acutely aware that a certain
foreigner had quietly tried to sneak her way into the city. I was interviewed for television programs,
stared at, photographed, and bombarded with questions by nearly every person I met, many of
whom had never spoken with an American before, and most of whom were surprised to find out that
I hadn't burst through customs on a cow. Stereotypes were entertaining, even hilarious, until one
day, when I asked my host mother, or "okaasan" as I called her, if she would ever let her children
come to America.

"America is far too dangerous—I can't let my kids go there."

She replied so nonchalantly, as if it was a simple fact of the universe that America was a violent and
dangerous place. It felt like a personal insult; as if she, a person I had grown to love, had just told me
she hated me. I was making such an effort to learn in Japan, to adapt, to be accepting, yet after
having had me in her home for so long, having had a piece of my culture by her side, she still did not
understand it. Suddenly, stereotypes were not so laughable.

I was reminded again of this exchange with my okaasan recently when I asked my mother if I could
study abroad in China during college.
"China? I don't know, that's kind of dangerous, how about South Korea?"

Although I was initially hurt by their comments, I've come to understand that it is not their fault that
they have this view of the world. We all take comfort in the safety of our own culture. When my
okaasan sees Hollywood action movies, she assumes Americans are gun-toting vigilantes with a
violent disposition. The news tells my mother of corrupt Chinese government officials kidnapping
people and automatically assumes this is a daily occurrence, but she has nothing else to base her
knowledge of the country on, so it makes sense to believe it. The only way to combat cultural
misunderstandings like this is through knowledge. Not knowledge of facts, like crime rates and boy
band lyrics, but through knowledge that comes with experience. There is no way to let every person
see the whole world first hand. The only way to facilitate understanding between cultures is to share
experiences, to create alliances, and to show people across the globe what it means to be
American, Japanese, or Tanzanian. To show people that their perceptions of other cultures may not
be as based in reality as they think.

After my okaasan's comment about the danger of American culture, I never mentioned it to her
again. Instead, I tried to show her through my actions that my culture is not something to be feared.
It was not until the last day of my stay, after I had boarded another empty plane at Izumo Airport and
said goodbye to my tearful host family, that she revisited it. My okaasan sent me off to America with
a small packed lunch for the plane ride. As I opened the lunch, I discovered a note tucked between
two napkins. It was a letter from my okaasan. My okaasan spoke no English, but at the end of her
letter she had made the effort to leave me one English sentence to part with:

"If all Americans are like Katie, I can send my children to America."

My okaasan often told me it was "enmusubi" that I was placed with her family. Enmusubi is not a
term typically found in Japanese to English dictionaries, and when it is, it is seldom defined correctly.
Enmusubi is the fact that my Japanese host dad and I have the same birthday; that my Japanese
teacher had also been an exchange student in my tiny, rural city in Japan; that the principal of the
school I attended in Japan had lived in Austin, and even visited my school here. Enmusubi has
inspired me to pursue a degree in International Relations. Enmusubi is why I was placed in Matsue,
Shimane, Japan.

Admissions Reader CommentsKatie writes about a fascinating experience by using a superb

vocabulary. But, not just any applicant—even with a summer abroad and a sharply honed
vocabulary—could write as successful an essay as Katie's. What is far more important about her
composition is the impression that we form about Katie's vision of and attitude towards the world.
She vividly paints herself as open-minded in addition to humble yet adventurous. We learn that she
reaches out to people who have conditions very different from her own and tries to learn from their
experiences while simultaneously teaching them about the world from which she comes. Although
the site and focus of Katie's essay is Japan, she, or any other applicant, could have conveyed the
same points by writing about an experience on the streets of New York City, in a rural town in
Montana, or any locale in any state in any country for that matter. By the time that we reach the end
of her essay, we feel as though we genuinely understand this adventurous and open-minded spirit.
Moreover, we want to get to know her better and are excited about the possibility of her forming part
of our upcoming freshman class.—Chloe Rothstein, Assistant Director of Admissions

Eliza S.Hometown: Brooklyn, New YorkIntended majors: History and Political Science

United We Stand (Under 4’11”)

Until recently, I had never found discussions of my height to be particularly fruitful. But recent events
have changed my mind. This past summer, I had several conversations about my height, some of
which were very fruitful indeed.

Just before I turned eleven, my pediatrician insisted that I get a bone age reading, which would give
me an estimated prediction of my full-grown height. Upon hearing the results, Dr. Finkelman
presented me with a choice: growth hormones or high-heels. I chose the latter, assuming that when
a situation that called for high-heels presented itself, I would rise to the occasion—literally.

Much to my chagrin, that conversation with Dr. Finkelman presaged what I imagine will be a lifetime
of height-related comments. When my friends and I turned thirteen and we were finally allowed to
ride the subway in pairs, the mother of my good friend prohibited her from riding alone with me,
claiming that I was "too vulnerable to crime" and "would get lost in such a vast system." When I was
fifteen and began relying on caffeine to get me through my studying, a barista questioned the order I
had placed, warning me that coffee "contains some pretty strong stuff for such a little girl." As others
openly seemed to see my height as a sign of ineligibility and incompetence, their perceptions of me
began to affect those that I had of myself. My confidence eroded somewhat, and I even grew reticent
about my opinions in the subject that interests me most: politics. I sometimes found myself thinking
that perhaps the perspective of the girl whose feet do not touch the floor when she sits at a desk
lacked credibility.

Last March, I was overjoyed to learn that I had been appointed as a United States Senate Page.
Soon thereafter, the advice of Dr. Finkelman came to mind, diverting my attention to the all-important
subject of shoes. I was determined to couple the polyester business suit supplied by the Page
program with a specific pair of four-inch heels, which I thought I finally had a reason to buy. Even my
mother failed to convince me that four-inch heels are not sensible for a job that involves miles of
walking. Because when you're 4'10", the desire for elevation trumps any sense of practicality.
As I received more information on the Page program, my hopes of gracing the Capitol a full four
inches taller persisted. In fact, I was determined to find a loophole to circumvent the requirement that
"all Pages must wear comfortable walking shoes." But after extensive research, my efforts proved
fruitless, and my hopes of standing four inches taller were crushed by a pair of wingtip shoes that
bore an unfortunate resemblance to those my father wears to work.

Upon arriving in Washington, navigating both the Capitol and a new metropolitan area seemed
nearly impossible to me. I felt overwhelmed by the complexity of an amendment run, by the different
protocols for conversing with Senators and staffers. And, sporting heel-less clodhoppers, I felt
especially insignificant in a chamber that loomed so large.

In what turned out to be a pivotal moment, I found myself in the basement of the Capitol, an unlikely
place for any sort of epiphany. Amidst the lunchtime traffic, the senior Senator from Maryland
suddenly approached me and put her hands on my shoulders. I noticed that she too was evidently a
member of the under 4'11" club. "You and I," Senator Mikulski said, "have to stand up together
against these short jokes." Unable to recall any sort of protocol that would guide me towards a
suitable response to her unexpected (but very welcome) comment, I assured her that we would
"stand united."

My first encounter with the Senator was followed by many similar exchanges, in which she might ask
me, for example, to find her "the smallest lectern in the world!" As I watched Senator Mikulski at
work, I was inspired by her fierceness, by the fervor with which she spoke. But more importantly, I
felt empowered by her ability to do all that she does behind the world's smallest lectern. As I became
proficient at my amendment runs and learned to navigate the Capitol, I couldn't help but imagine
speaking behind the world's smallest lectern myself one day. I had come to Washington to witness
politics firsthand, to gain a more diverse perspective. I was delighted to have found a role model in
the process.

On my first day of senior year, I ran into the school nurse, a fellow member of the diminutive club. In
a fashion reminiscent of that of my favorite Senator, she put her hands on my shoulders. "I'm glad to
see you haven't grown, Eliza," Joanne said. "A lot of people take comfort in that," I responded. "But
together, you and I will stand up against these short jokes."

Admissions Reader CommentsEliza's essay worked for me for three simple reasons. First, she was
able to clearly describe through her story her love of politics. She clearly has passion for the subject
and her essay about her summer involvement clearly describes her desires to study politically
related topics. Next, her writing allowed me to gain a greater picture of who she is. Eliza was able to
paint a picture of herself by detailing some of her personal hurdles with her height. Finally, she
weaved a bit of humor into the writing as well. As I finished the essay, the humor brought about a
smile—and when that hit me, I knew the essay would be one of my favorites this year.—John Birney,
Associate Director of Admissions

Ellen W.Hometown: New Albany, OhioIntended majors: Writing Seminars

Corkscrew

Like most babies, I was born with straight, glassy hair, plastered to the sides of my head and as soft
as the down feathers of a magpie. I gurgled, and cried, and groped for things with little fingers, and,
within three months, I was bald. The next nine months saw me through my first smiles, the discovery
of my feet, the echoing peals of unsullied laughter that bubbled from my lips like liberated balloons. I
learned to crawl backwards, collecting grounded toys between the bends of my knees as I clumsily
navigated the doorframes of our Montreal duplex. On my first birthday, as I sprayed my first birthday
cake in a thin mist of candle-extinguishing saliva, I blinked out over the white icing from beneath a
dense helmet of freshly grown hair. After only one year in this exhilarating, new world, my fate had
been decided: I would spend the rest of my life fighting a constant battle to keep people's hands
away from my head.

I think we were asking for it, really, my parents and I. My hair wasn't so much as trimmed until I was
seven years old; it grew long, and thick, and heavy. It was the color of coffee with at least three
creamers, spun like gold. By the time I was in elementary school it reached down to the center of my
back with long, tendriled fingers. My hair curls with the determination of an Olympic marathoner, of a
small child tackling his first jawbreaker. It curls with enough precision and tightness that I can keep
ballpoint pens inside each individual lock and shake my head like a caged beast without losing a
single one. I have been told that it looks like dreadlocks without the hemp, like the red stripes of a
thousand candy canes, like the broken and flexible cylinder of a perfect Christmastime ribbon curl. It
has been called inhuman, insane, anatomically impossible. While it may very well be the first two, it
is most certainly not the latter, and so it came to be that the catchphrase of my entire existence, the
mantra of my first seventeen years, has reduced itself to the inelegant combination of six simple
words:

Yes, it is naturally like this.

Some people appear to be truly unaware of how glaringly horrible they are at discretely staring at
other individuals. How I react to affronts from these oblivious strangers is wholly dependent on my
mood. Some days I ignore them: yes, I can feel your eyes boring holes into the back of my ponytail,
but I am going to pretend that I cannot. Other days, when I find myself in more rebellious frames of
mind, I find that the most interesting way to handle these wide-eyed observers is often to stare back
at them. Not surprisingly, a lot of blushing goes on in these situations. People will often blurt
apologies, followed closely by gushing compliments that typically involve such verbiage as
gorgeous, beautiful, or really, really cool, oh my God. On occasion, these people move on after this
quick exchange of words, bustling off to far corners of the super market, or ducking away behind
clothing racks to avoid meeting my eyes. More often than not, however, compliments are followed by
questions. These questions cover a broad range of loosely related subjects, but can almost always
be counted on to contain several of the following:

Where do you get that hair from?

Do you ever straighten it?

What do you have to do to get it like that?

Do you know how much some people pay for hair like yours?

And/or,

What are you mixed with?

To which my typical answers are I don't know, no, not much, I've been told, and excuse me?,
respectively.

After having their curiosity satiated, people try to touch me. I have become an expert at detecting the
earliest signs of a toucher: the twitching fingers, the slow inching closer and closer, the quickly
moving irises that dart from my face, to the crown of my head, to the hair that falls past my shoulders
in coiled rivers. Sometimes they ask if I mind if they take a gentle pull at one curl. Sometimes they
do not. I have had an astronomical number of other people's fingers on my scalp, a number so
disturbingly exorbitant that it could probably find me some type of fame if I were to bring it to public
attention. People pull down on my curls and coo like grandmothers when they spring back into place,
occasionally grazing me in the face in the process. When I was young, I used to yell at my mother,
"They won't leave me alone!"

They really do not leave me alone.

Clearly, there are worse things than being told that your hair is fantastic on a daily basis. I could
claim that all of the attention puts a lot of pressure on me to maintain the hair, to make sure that it is
in shipshape every time I even so much as set one toe outdoors. This would be lying, though,
because the honest truth is that my hair is not, and has never been, about how other people
perceive it, or me. I am entirely convinced that my outward appearance is a direct reflection of my
inward appearance; my hair grows from my head in a way that few people in this world can claim
that theirs does, and the thoughts inside that head are thoughts that few people in this world can
claim for their own. My hair doesn't make me different; my hair is different because I am different. I
love the chaos that tumbles around my shoulders, love that people remember me even if they do not
know my name. My hair is busy because my head is busy, digesting this world and its people and its
ideas.

I had a friend who told me once that my hair smells like Narnia, and that it looks like it could be from
a magical place like that, somewhere not just anyone can go. Strangers ask me where I'm from,
what my heritage is, what I'm mixed with. I haven't decided yet if I believe in rebirth, but if I do then I
know that I have an old soul, one that's been more places than my mortal eyes will be able to see in
this short lifetime. I am of the world; I am full of the world and all of its possibility, the potential that
brims up at the edges of my eyes like tears.

There is a reason that so many people run their hands through my hair, and the reason is that I
always let them. I want to share with every person that I meet, tell them my stories and listen to
theirs, even if that means a few awkward moments of gushing and pulling and questions that I will be
able to recite from memory until the day that I die. Some days I am tired, or irritable, or in a rush, but
my lips can't help themselves. Always, I find myself saying, go ahead and touch it. Really, don't
worry; everyone does.

Admissions Reader CommentsEllen writes her personal essay with such creative imagery as she
describes the uniqueness of her hair, curls beyond curls, with images and experiences that include
stares and glances and multiple remarks. She describes it all with great humor. Her essay engages
one to see and to feel as she describes reactions to her hair's unique presence and to chuckle with
the comment of "Yes, it is naturally like this." One knows she is a writer before one even discovers
that she writes as part of the James Thurber Workshop program in Ohio. She is a gifted writer who
displays qualities of grace, humor, tolerance and a comfort with her place in the world, all personal
qualities that contributed to her place in our freshman class!—Sherryl Fletcher, Senior Associate
Director of Admissions

Samantha L.Hometown: Thousand Oaks, CaliforniaIntended majors: Molecular and Cellular Biology
and Anthropology

Five Important Lessons Gathered Over a Rich and Exciting 17 YearsNumber One: Just because
packing peanuts are edible does not mean they taste good.

I have always been plagued by insatiable curiosity. Curiosity which has driven me to do many things
of dubious advisability, e.g., tasting packing peanuts.
Although I was often threatened with deportation to "Whyville" (a small town in the English
countryside; I looked it up), my parents have always indulged my questions, explaining such
complicated concepts as rotational inertia and Mendelian inheritance so that my precocious
five-year-old self could understand.

Unfortunately for them, curiosity was not a passing phase. My interests in humanities, art, music,
and politics, accompanied by a love for genetics and toque, have only served to whet the appetite of
my voracious curiosity. I'm frustrated every time I must register for classes; there are only seven
periods in a day.

Number Two: The "Language Barrier" is no match for enthusiastic hand gestures.

My family has the wanderlust. Ever since my grandfather's Norman ancestors travelled to conquer
my grandmother's Saxon ancestors, my family has been driven to explore new and exciting places.
Last spring, we journeyed to the Eternal City, the City of Obelisks: Rome.

Between us, we speak a plethora of languages: German, Spanish, French, Chinese, even a few
words of Arabic. Not Italian.

With my flagrant abuse of Spanish and French cognates and the irreplaceable assistance of
exuberant hand gestures, I was understood by Romans throughout the city; they were amused and
delighted by my attempt. NO challenge can withstand the power of sheer enthusiasm and an
eagerness to give it a sporting try.

Number Three: Perseverance should come with a warning: gradually lessening frustration.

Sand looks soft. It's not.

Sit bad, sit back, sit back. My horse moved to the jump. The fence loomed before me. Panic.

WHAM

I stood up, grimacing as sand slid down my breeches. My trainer cackled; hot tears of frustration
blurred my vision as I remounted after my third fall down in twenty minutes.

I am not a natural rider. Day after day, I tumbled into the sand, body bruised, ego battered, skin and
clothing perpetually coated in dirt. I worked, slowly, painfully, until I was able to ride each course
cleanly—no fences down and no mud on my shirt.

True perseverance is not a clichéd, I-think-I-can-I-think-I-can effort ending in success and glory atop
the mountain. It is the feeling of working fruitlessly until one day realizing: "I did it."
Number Four: "I respect your right to speak, but you, Sir, are an idiot."—Courtesy is overrated, and
people are not sheep.

I am the president of Philosophy Club.

It's a lot like herding cats.

Philosophy Club is a weekly gathering of scientists, humanitarians, nerds, and philosophers that
provides our school with an invaluable service: an open forum for intellectual and philosophical
exploration. For forty minutes a week, a classroom of enthusiastic individuals debate the nuances of
morality, humanity, literature, science, history, religion, and the universe—all while eating lunch.

For the first three years, I occupied the unofficial position of Devil's Advocate. Sarcasm was my
shield and logic my sword. I became "that person" who provoked thought in others. Then I became
president.

Fluctuating between fascism and anarchy, Philosophy Club does not take kindly to management. It's
challenging to organize, but we manage to hold civil and orderly discussions because of the
universal respect and shared characteristics: love for controversy, healthy skepticism, and the
irrepressible belief that we're always right. I am constantly awed by others' insights, and I have
discovered that even the most profound ideological differences can be overcome with understanding
leadership. A leader doesn't always define the one, true path; a leader helps others find their own
way.

Number Five: No trivia is too obscure, no skill is too specialized, and no adventure is too far-fetched.
"May you lead an interesting life" is never a curse.

I have learned a great deal of trivia, assembled a considerable collection of arcane skills, and
experiences many exciting adventures. Above all, I have learned that the pursuit of knowledge has
merit in and of itself, and although I may never need to know the history of surveying or how to tie a
bowline one-handed in the dark, the adventures by which I gained the information will forever affect
how I perceive the world: one infinite, mysterious puzzle just waiting to be solved.

Admissions Reader CommentsIt is not the format of Samantha's essay that makes the difference
here, but rather what she does with it. Her style is filled with spirit and flavor (I'm even tempted to say
eclecticism), while the lessons themselves prove able vehicles for sharing with the reader the many
facets of her personality. There isn't one set of qualities or values or passions that this essay
outlines; it seeks, ambitiously, to cover a little bit of everything and succeeds tremendously well.
Reading this essay gave me a small window to Samantha's life and the way in which she views her
world. For me, this works.—Amy Brokl, Associate Director of Admissions
Stephanie H.Hometown: Hamilton, New JerseyIntended majors: Anthropology and History

The Story of UsPeople, ordinary people just like you and me, have been on this planet for thousands
upon thousands of years. Billions of human beings have been born, have lived lives, and then have
passed on, and every single one of those individuals had a story- who they were, what they did, how
they felt. Not one story is told twice, everyone leads a different life. I want to discover and appreciate
as many of those stories as I can, through anthropology, because I feel that every person is
significant. Each individual makes some kind of impact and leaves behind his or her own mark.

How the accumulation of these lives and stories, of every man and woman, intricately weave
together to create the history of the world absolutely amazes me. I just love how anthropology and
history intertwine with each other in this way to make up this fascinating study of humankind over
time. I want to learn how the human race has developed from the beginning of man to now. I want to
understand how factors such as culture and society have affected history. I want to know why we
humans have become the way we are.

When learning about the past of the human race, I feel connected to history and to all human beings.
I feel as if I am a part of something bigger than myself. By studying both these subjects,
anthropology and history, I will be able to unravel the mysteries and untold stories of humankind.

Admissions Reader CommentsStephanie's essay is in response to the short answer question on the
Johns Hopkins Supplement where we ask applicants to discuss their intended areas of academic
interest in under 250 words. She is able in a concise manner to grab my attention with her personal
interpretation of the fields of anthropology and history and why they interest her enough for further
study. Stephanie is adept at not focusing just on the specific fields of study nor focusing just on
personal aspirations, but rather merging the two to fully answer the essay prompt. She displays a
clear passion for the subject matter and though not fully defined she presents her plan for tackling
her undergraduate education. —Daniel Creasy, Associate Director of Admissions

Class of 2016

Nina Y.Hometown: Dallas, TexasIntended major: Biology

A Home DestroyedI was seven years old when I saw the ocean for the first time. My grandmother
had invited me to visit her near Okinawa, Japan. I will never forget that encounter—the intense sun,
the endless horizon, the infinite shades of blue that dissolved any boundary between sky and waves.
And most of all, the secret of the water. Swimming in those waters was like diving into a
kaleidoscope, deceptively plain on the outside, but a show of colors on the inside, waiting to dazzle
me, mesmerize me. Those colors! Coral reefs—pink, green, red, purple—covered the seafloor;
streaks of sunlight illuminated them, the swaying water creating a dance of hues. And weaving in
and out of the contours of coral swam brilliant fish that synchronized every movement with the water,
creating one body, one living entity. I longed to join and flow with them to the music of the waves;
that's where I felt I belonged. And leaving was like parting home, not going home.

Five years later, I returned. At first, all seemed to match my memory: the crystalline waters and that
open horizon with the sun daring to come closer to Earth. But the second I dove in, I knew my home
had vanished...white. That's all I could see around me: bone-white death. I couldn't accept it. I kept
swimming farther out, hoping to catch even the smallest hint of color. But there was no sign of that
brilliant garden I remembered, just fragments of bleached coral. It was like looking down onto the
aftermath of a war: a bombed city, with only the crumbles of cement to testify for the great buildings
that once stood. But who was the culprit behind this egregious attack?

Though at the age of twelve, I couldn't even begin to guess, I now know the answer is us. Humans
are an impressive species: we have traveled to every continent, adapted to countless environments,
and innovated to create comfortable means of living. But in the process, we have stolen the colors
from nature all around the globe, just as we did that coral reef. Our trail of white has penetrated the
forests, the oceans, the grasslands, and spread like a wild disease. I, too, have left a white footprint,
so I have a responsibility to right these wrongs, to repaint those colors, and to preserve the ones that
remain. Some question why I should care. The answer is simple: this planet is my home, my
birthplace. And that, in and of itself, is an inseparable bond and a timeless connection. Nature has
allowed me my life, so I have no right to deny its life. As Jane Goodall once said, "If we kill off the
wild, then we are killing a part of our souls." This is my soul—our soul. I know that I alone cannot
protect this soul, so I will not make a promise that I cannot fulfill. But this promise I will make: I will do
what I can do.

Admissions Reader CommentsReading the essay, I get the sense that Nina is both intellectually
curious and committed to scientific and environmental research. Though Nina's essay is well written,
what makes it so strong is that it also conveys a personal connection to larger environmental issues.
Too often, students write about issues—political, educational, environmental, etc.—in an impersonal
and argumentative way. The college essay isn't a thesis; it's meant to be a reflection of who the
student is, and Nina's love of the ocean, of travel, and of the environment gives me a glimpse of who
she is as an individual.—Dana Messinger, Senior Assistant Director of Admissions

John D.Hometown: Villanova, PennsylvaniaIntended majors: History and Biology

Dharamsala

I sat nervously in the plastic chair, my cotton chupa tied a bit too tightly. A few robed monks sat
quietly by a water cooler. After a short wait, a guide led my group through the palace gardens into
the Karmapa's office. The room was 1970s inspired: paneled oak walls, Venetian blinds, and a plaid
couch atop an Oriental rug. Seemingly out of place, the Karmapa sat gloomily, dressed in a
traditional vermillion robe.

My fixation with India began with a paperback copy of Arrow of the Blue-Skinned God. The book
depicted India as a blend of modernism and tradition; a country illustrated in Vedic literature as
utopian and mystic, yet today a fusion of Hinduism and urban development. My love of India stems
from its multifaceted personalities, its ability to function as a center of religious fervor, a backdrop for
historical events of great import, and a cosmopolitan nation of both metropolises and pastoral
communities. I envisioned glass cities laced with smog, burlap bags of spices, crumbling shrines
coughing undulating incense rather than the monochromic lifestyle of the Main Line. Readily
submitting to India's allure, I signed up for a service trip to explore the cultures of India by teaching
English in a small village. Travel, especially for service, propels me to journey beyond suburbia and
to explore the world, whether it is as a student ambassador in China or an English teacher in
Tanzania. However, an itinerary mix-up landed me in the foothills of the Himalayas, far from the India
I had read about.

The community was Dharamsala, a Buddhist enclave home to the exiled Tibetan government. With
little knowledge regarding Buddhism, I was initially dismayed with the hushed village. I vowed to
learn, though. I attended Buddhist lectures at the headquarters of the Tibetan government, received
a Tibetan name, Tenzin Thegchog, from the Dalai Lama, and taught English to refugees. Then came
the audience with the Karmapa Lama, Tibetan Buddhism's leader. The naturally reserved Tibetans
would vivaciously discuss with me his future as Tibet's leader and enthuse about his looks; the
Tibetans agreed that the Karmapa was attractive. However, sitting on the office floor, I felt little
inspiration. Then the Karmapa allowed us to ask questions. Spontaneously, I asked, "Have you ever
loved someone?"

The Karmapa answered immediately: "No, I never had the chance."

Where service is, for me, intrinsically personal, it isolates the Karmapa. Required to lead his people,
the Karmapa is unable to establish the personal relationships that make service enjoyable and
define "normal" life. Whether it is pouring tea at a soup kitchen, creating Valentine's Day cards with
children at the Domestic Abuse Center, or planting oak tree saplings with the Willistown
Conservation Trust, I find pleasure in serving others and also in the relationships formed while doing
so. I realized the Karmapa's answer was truthful and inspiring. Through his blunt response, I was
able to comprehend both my passion for community service, my independence, and understand
what makes the Karmapa so attractive.

Admissions Reader CommentsJohn's essay conveyed a lot about his personality and made me want
see him on our campus. At first, I was drawn to John's sense of adventure and imagination. I liked
that reading this book lead John to volunteer in a small Indian village. What was more impressive,
however, was his ability to "roll with the punches" and see the change in location as an opportunity to
learn and explore a different part of India. Asking the Karmapa whether he's ever loved someone
took a lot of courage, but it also suggested John has an interest in some of the world's great
philosophical and moral questions. I liked that Karmapa's response made John reflect on his own
interests and commitment to service. This essay made me think John would be very involved on our
campus—in community service, in other clubs and organizations, as a roommate, and in the
classroom.—Dana Messinger, Senior Assistant Director of Admissions

Natalie M.Hometown: Grosse Pointe, MichiganIntended major: Biology

Don't Be Sorry

It was a raw, blustery March day and I was leading four classmates to my house to hash out the
remaining details of our current English presentation. When I opened the door, however, I received a
surprise. I had not anticipated my mother still being home and neither had my group members. Their
faces turned slightly blank, as if they were trying to hide their confusion and surprise. The previously
relaxed atmosphere had become very formal and quiet. I had seen this before.

My group members had only observed my mom for a few seconds, but it was long enough to ignite
their curiosity. I casually explained that the woman in the wheelchair they had just seen was my
mother and that she has M.S.—multiple sclerosis. This is a fact I have relayed dozens of times
throughout my life, and I thought nothing of it as I took my group member's heavy winter jackets and
hung them up.

But one of the girls immediately said, "Oh, I'm sorry."

I was actually speechless. Sorry? Sorry for what? No one has ever said those words to me before
regarding my mother, and I did not know how to respond. You say "I'm sorry" when someone's uncle
passes away or when their pet dies; only "bad" situations are deserving of the "I'm sorry" response
and I have never viewed my mother's disease as needing to receive it.

I shrugged off the reply in a polite way, and we got working. But the moment my group members left
I was alone with my thoughts, alone with the "I'm sorry" clause.
Our family's life is completely different than others due to my mom's disease, but I have known no
other way of living. My mother has had M.S. since she was in college, so I was born into a world with
motorized scooters and walkers and extra precautions. This is my norm. And while other people may
pity my mother and our family, I see no reason to be down. I could spend all my time harping on the
drawbacks and my "missed opportunities," but what fun would that be? I will always find the silver
lining.

This seemingly insignificant March day actually made quite a difference for me. I finally realized that
you need to appreciate not just what you have had, but what you have not. Because of my mother I
had learned independence and responsibility while most kids were still watching Saturday morning
cartoons. I could balance a checkbook by fifth grade, thought more consciously about keeping our
house clean than most kids ever will, and was always willing to lend a hand. These lessons have
stuck with me. I understand that you have to make the best out of what you are given; take what life
gives you and run with it.

So why be sorry for me? I know I would not trade my life for the world.

Admissions Reader CommentsNatalie's voice in this essay is real and deeply thoughtful. Her life with
her mom is just that, her life with her mom. She underscores her appreciation for what she has had
as well as what she has not had and relates to this as a "silver lining" opportunity. A chance to learn
independence, responsibility, sensitivity, and compassion is all balanced with making the best of
what life provides you with. One of my favorite sentences is, "Take what life gives you and run with
it." This entire essay provides me with a clear view of Natalie's personal qualities, her balance in life,
her ability to adapt and live positively and her full appreciation for enjoying the bright side and
accepting what one cannot change. This essay was a window into the unique life experiences and
personal values that Natalie will add to our freshman class.—Sherryl Fletcher, Senior Associate
Director of Admissions

Alan C.Hometown: San Leandro, CaliforniaIntended major: Biomedical Engineering

Cooking Up a Cataclysm

Goggles? Check.

Lab coat? Yep.

Common sense? Maybe not.

I was determined to start the mission anyway, a mission of proving independence, a mission of
showing I did not need to be babied and demonstrating just some modicum of autonomy. My
mission: to cook salmon.

I turned around, checked that my grandmother was asleep, and gave myself the go-ahead.

I turned on the stove, tossing pink chunks into the pan; the hot oil first sizzled, shook, then violently
splattered with incredible vehemence.

I turned into a statue, frozen in shock.

I had neglected to wipe the wet fish before chucking it into the pan. Now I stood in pain, in panic, in
my outlandish garb, wincing as each speck of oil found its home on my exposed skin. Then out of
nowhere my grandmother appeared, my gray-haired savior with a lid, throwing her frail body before
the pan to shield mine. The oil indignantly pattered against the lid as she set it down; I bowed my
head in guilty silence, waiting to be scolded.

But Po-Po just took my hands.

"Are you hurt?" she asked in her rural Chinese dialect, gently.

I looked up from the dirtied kitchen floor, my mother's sacred domain desecrated. There was no
anger on Po-Po's tired face, only love, and splotches of reddened skin where the oil had scalded her.
She wore no protective goggles, no fancy coat. I had been afraid she might be angry at first, but I
was more shaken now, shamed by the realization that I had hurt her.

Yet, she never showed it. She never does. She did, however, accept my apologies and even worked
beside me to help clean. Only when I appeared not to notice did she briefly disappear to check her
burns.

I had acted rashly that day, but so had she, in confronting the volcano of hot grease. Only, her act of
irrationality had been for my sake. I believe it to be the same irrationality that compelled her to leave
her rustic home among rice paddies to immigrate to America, where she would work two menial
jobs, where the people spoke a strange language ever beyond her grasp. She stood alone, enduring
those hardships for the sake of her children and grandchildren. I stood alone for my own sake, to
further some illusion of independence.

In reality, though I was reluctant to admit it before, I have always depended on people like her. I
depend on them for the sweet, life-giving encouragement and the warm, unconditional love that
makes everything else possible. They love me. They inspire me. They free me from fear of failure.
Indeed, despite all she has done for me, Po-Po never asks for anything more in return than just for
us to spend time together. She is simple. But so is love. Here is someone without so much as a high
school education. Yet, it is through her that I have learned things no amount of schooling could
possibly teach—a giving heart, strength of character, a humble spirit, and most importantly, an
understanding that I am connected to those who have made my opportunities possible.

As I see my grandmother's quiet resolution, I feel invigorated, inspired. This titan of quiet strength
makes me feel invincible. Her selflessness humbles me. Her love and loving sacrifices are pillars of
my success. I just needed a little prodding from a malicious piece of fish to remind me that even as I
stand triumphantly over my neat little heap of achievements, people like my grandmother stand with
me, and it is on their sacrifices that I build my success.

Admissions Reader CommentsAll too often, I see essays that start with a first sentence of "My
______ inspires me." While I appreciate the statement, there are definitely more creative ways to
convey the message. Alan does just this. He has written, in my opinion, a successful essay. Through
his story telling, he informs us of why he is who he is and how the people in his life have influenced
where he wants to be in the future. By the end of the essay, I was thinking to myself, "This student
would be a great roommate…witty, warm, caring, and thankful to those who have sacrificed for
him!"—Shannon Miller, Senior Assistant Director of Admissions

Alex M.Hometown: Yorba Linda, CaliforniaIntended major: Computer Science

Thinking Outside the Box"I wish the Boy Scouts of America made computers an Eagle Scout
required merit badge," was my response to the Troop Commissioner when he asked if I wanted to
make any changes to the Boy Scout program. This was the final question of my Eagle Board of
Review, signifying the culmination of my eleven-year commitment to scouting. Traditionally, Boy
Scouts is about camping, starting fires, and surviving in the outdoors. But, in my case, it was also
about applying technology. At the beginning of high school, my troop had dwindled in size, to a point
that many scouts were looking for other troops to join in the event ours disbanded. Part of the
problem, I thought, was that my troop did not have a website; without this, we were unable to attract
new scouts looking to join the troop and publicize all the activities in which we were involved. In a
few days time, I set up a domain, created pages for photographs, announcements, calendars, and a
form for new scouts to request to speak with our Scoutmaster. Over the next several months,
recruitment soared and our membership nearly doubled. I served as Webmaster for the next three
years, during which time I enhanced the features of our website. One significant improvement,
appreciated by leaders, was easy mobile access for updating calendars and documents like
committee meeting agendas. While this drive to create an online presence for my troop was created
by my love of computers, I was not finished integrating technology into my Boy Scout experience.
For most scouts, the Eagle project is an experience that usually involves building benches or putting
together boxes. I'm not much good with a hammer, and my nature is more thinking "outside the box"
than building a box. Instead of the sound of tapping hammers and saws cutting wood, the noises
from my project came from the clicking of mice and tapping on keyboards. My idea was to create a
Touchscreen Health Information Kiosk for the St. Jude Neighborhood Free Clinic that serves the
underprivileged in my community. I had to plan, develop and lead my project. Completion took an
extensive amount of time fundraising and interacting with counselors, volunteers, medical staff, and
the IT department. The majority of the work involved extensive programming for a touchscreen PC
that would be placed inside a kiosk. I found that even though programming was almost second
nature to me, some of the volunteers struggled with it. Many times, I was tempted to do the work
myself, but taking the time to teach younger scouts how to program in HTML was rewarding in and
of itself. The clinic's patients are now able to access bilingual information, watch videos about many
common diseases, learn more about the medications they have been prescribed, and find specific
dietary recommendations.

My Eagle Scout project allowed me to make a difference in my community in a way that truly
represented who I am, a young man who loves technology. I was able to make the whole scouting
experience my own, implementing what I love to help those around me.

Admissions Reader CommentsAs I am sure you can imagine, after looking at thousands of
applications, you will see many students who participate in similar activities. Boy Scouts is definitely
one of those activities. Therefore, when we tell people to choose a topic that will make them
memorable in the pool, you might not think that writing about being a Boy Scout would be a good
choice. However, Alex proves that you can make it work. His story is a unique one in that he has
brought his passion for technology into an activity that normally focuses on the outdoors. I
appreciate how he shows an openness to change, his ability to think outside the box, and his desire
to give back to his community. This essay is the perfect blend of showcasing an extracurricular
activity and also wrapping in an interest in computer science, his potential major.—Shannon Miller,
Senior Assistant Director of Admissions

These essays have been compiled from the JHU

admissions website (http://apply.jhu.edu/apply/essays/2018/).

These “essays that worked” are distinct and unique to the individual writer;
however, each of them assisted the admissions reader in learning more about the

student beyond the transcripts and activity sheets. We hope these essays

inspire you as you prepare to compose your own personal statements. The most

important thing to remember is to be original and creative as you share your

own story with us.

Class of 2018 Essays

Outgrowing the Garage—Elijah

The air is tainted with unnatural fumes of grease, wood, and burnt

electrical tape. Oil slicks stain the floor. Thick wooden shelves sag

unnervingly close to buckling under the weight of old house paint and power

tools. A workbench lies buried beneath papers, rulers, cans, and metal shards.

An uncomfortable growl pours from the water heater. Most people wouldn’t

describe my grimy garage as pleasant, but I love spending my free time here.

It’s where I built a 2 ft trebuchet in sixth grade, a 4 ft trebuchet in seventh

grade, and plan to build an 8 ft trebuchet this winter break. It’s where I

built a battlebot and slapped an Arduino microcontroller on top to give it

intelligence. Ever since I sat watching jets shake the sky and explosions rock

the screen in the movie Iron Man as a stunned sixth grader, I’ve spent weekends

experimenting in my garage, trying to learn everything I can about engineering

and robotics.

Sure, outside of my garage I love wildlife and hiking, history, and weird

foods. I love classic rock, jazz, and maybe even secretly Katy Perry.

Nevertheless, I’ve always had a life plan centered on robotics: go to a great

college, learn robotics, build robots, get a Bernese mountain dog, and live

happily ever after in a beautiful forest home. It seems strange that I’ve

committed myself to robotics so easily despite my many interests, but in

reality, robotics combines nearly all of them. Computer science, electrical

engineering, and mechanical engineering are crucial to the robot, but combine

them with biology, astronomy, music, or ecology, and that’s when robotics

becomes amazing. I could help the sick with robots that give surgeons more

dexterity while operating. I could help the poor with affordable, robot-made

products. I could aid the elderly, replace the limbs of wounded warriors, and

keep fire fighters from harm’s way, all with robots. Although these robots may

not be the crimson and gold Iron Man suit that first got me interested, I love

the realistic and heroic possibilities in the field of robotics.

Almost as exciting as imagining the robots I could build, is imagining where

I could build them. I could become a professor and research cutting edge A.I.

algorithms. I could become an entrepreneur and bring my creations to market. I

could even become an employee for a tech company and devote myself to its
latest innovations. Maybe next year around this time, I will even be studying

on the Freshman Quad. With the LCSR robotics lab, the minor in robotics, a

top-notch engineering program, a beautiful campus, incredible seafood, and what

the visiting admissions counselor described as a “vibrant a cappella scene,”

Johns Hopkins will both make college fun and satisfy my inner nerd. But for

now, I will go on working in my garage, competing for space with the family

car.

<p>“We like Elijah’s essay because</p><p>you really get a sense of his personality—the essay is
light-hearted, but still</p><p>does a good job of highlighting his interest in robotics in a descriptive
and</p><p>entertaining way by comparing it to his fascination with Iron Man. He ties
his</p><p>interests back to opportunities at JHU like the freedom to combine
multiple</p><p>academic fields, research in the LCSR lab, and the a cappella scene. As you
are</p><p>reading his essay, you picture someone who will explore academic
programs,</p><p>student groups, and opportunities on and off campus—you picture a
dynamic</p>member of our Hopkins community.”

—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

String Theory—Joanna

If string theory is really true, then the entire world is made up of

strings, and I cannot tie a single one. This past summer, I applied for my very

first job at a small, busy bakery and café in my neighborhood. I knew that if I

were hired there, I would learn how to use a cash register, prepare sandwiches,
and take cake orders. I imagined that my biggest struggle would be catering to

demanding New Yorkers, but I never thought that it would be the benign act of

tying a box that would become both my biggest obstacle and greatest teacher.

On my first day of work in late August, one of the bakery’s employees

hastily explained the procedure. It seemed simple: wrap the string around your

hand, then wrap it three times around the box both ways, and knot it. I recited

the anthem in my head, “three times, turn it, three times, knot” until it

became my mantra. After observing multiple employees, it was clear that anyone

tying the box could complete it in a matter of seconds. For weeks, I labored

endlessly, only to watch the strong and small pieces of my pride unravel each

time I tried.

As I rushed to discreetly shove half-tied cake boxes into plastic bags, I

could not help but wonder what was wrong with me. I have learned Mozart arias,

memorized the functional groups in organic chemistry, and calculated the

anti-derivatives of functions that I will probably never use in real life—all

with a modest amount of energy. For some reason though, after a month’s effort,

tying string around a cake box still left me in a quandary.

As the weeks progressed, my skills slowly began to improve. Of course there

were days when I just wanted to throw all of the string in the trash and use
Scotch tape; this sense of defeat was neither welcome nor wanted, but remarks

like “Oh, you must be new” from snarky customers catapulted my

determination to greater heights.

It should be more difficult to develop an internal pulse and sense of legato

in a piece of music than it is to find the necessary rhythm required to tie a box,

but this seemingly trivial task has clearly proven not to be trivial at all.

The difficulties that I encountered trying to keep a single knot intact are

proof of this. The lack of cooperation between my coordination and my

understanding left me frazzled, but the satisfaction I felt when I successfully

tied my first box was almost as great as any I had felt before.

Scientists developing string theory say that string can exist in a straight

line, but it can also bend, oscillate, or break apart. I am thankful that the

string I work with is not quite as temperamental, but I still cringe when

someone asks for a chocolate mandel bread. Supposedly, the string suggested in

string theory is responsible for unifying general relativity with quantum

physics. The only thing I am responsible for when I use string is delivering

someone’s pie to them without the box falling apart. Tying a cake box may not

be quantum physics, but it is just as crucial to holding together what matters.

I am beginning to realize that I should not be ashamed if it takes me longer

to learn. I persist, and I continue to tie boxes every weekend at work. Even

though I occasionally backslide into feelings of exasperation, I always rewrap

the string around my hand and start over because I have learned that the most

gratifying victories come from tenacity. If the universe really is comprised of

strings, I am confident that I will be able to tie them together, even if I do

have to keep my fingers crossed that my knots hold up.

<p>“Joanna does a great job of</p><p>grabbing your attention from the first sentence by comparing
her struggles</p><p>learning to tie up bakery boxes to string theory. We get a glimpse at
her</p><p>personality throughout the essay—she is not afraid to laugh at herself or
admit</p><p>failure. She uses her story to illustrate that she recognized a
weakness,</p><p>refused to give up, and is able to grow from it; which gives us a sense of
how</p><p>she will tackle challenges here at JHU. Her voice definitely came through in</p><p>this
essay. She also used the space effectively to tell us a lot about who she</p><p>is—her love of
music and science, her dedication to a part-time job, and her</p><p>ability to put things in
perspective. Even though the actual topic</p><p>itself—learning to tie string around bakery
orders—seems narrow in scope, it</p><p>allowed us to see how well-rounded her interests were
and really get to know</p>her through her writing.”

—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

Temper—Morley

I feel perfectly content at Woodrow Wilson Skateboard Park, a cement swell

in the ground located just west of the easternmost point of the north side of

Chicago and trapped perennially in the mental space inhabited by

fourteen-year-old angry youths. Outside of home and school, it is the place

where I have spent most of my life. Its terrain so familiar, I could navigate

it blindfolded, towed on my board by a pack of feral dogs. Much of what I know

of life, I learned there.

A sea of nods and handshakes and back pats welcomes my every arrival to this

municipal oasis. Here, I am known. Called variously Mor, Bob Morley, Mordog,

Mo, Mo Money, or (long story) Tom Pork. It is the only place on earth where

(were an election ever to be held) I could almost certainly be mayor. Among the

strange, sometimes downcast, and essentially good people here, I have found

another family. I need them as much as they need me and as much as we all need

skateboarding. This four-wheeled toy brings us inner peace. Skateboarding is a

standing meditation, a time to put conscious thought aside and let primal

impulse guide the body through various jumps and balancing acts. I turn to

skating in times of joy and in times of strife, to celebrate a good day, escape

writer’s block, social failures, or other minor tragedies.

It is at Wilson that I encountered once, and then again, a man called

Temper. I was thirteen when I crashed into a beefy shadowy figure I had heard

talked about only in whispers. This man, known by the word he had chosen to

affix to hundreds of walls around Chicago, had earned a spot in the community

as a respected graffiti artist and skateboarder. His improbably light feet and
on-board grace were known to most of the city. I was barely inaugurated into

the park scene when I plowed headlong into him, knocking both of us down,

turtle-like and winded. I hadn’t been paying attention and apologized

rapid-fire while trying to scrape my body off of his. When we both got to our

feet, Temper knocked me down again and walked away without comment. It was the

most frightening thing that ever happened to me at Wilson. He left the park

that day, and I had seen him once, maybe twice, since.

The five years since the incident have been more or less good to me. In high

school, I abandoned the dream of becoming a professional skateboarder and

discovered a fuller gamut of life’s offerings. I learned to think about things

other than skating and in turn discovered physics, girls, cooking, and

writing—a pursuit I love as much as skateboarding. The same cannot be said for

the passage of time in Temper’s life. I saw him recently and had lunch with him

and my friend. He told us of overcoming a crippling drug addiction, spending

time in jail, and contracting AIDS—a disease that every day reminds him that

his time on earth is coming to an end. He is trying his best to make the most

of it all. It was with the greatest trepidation that I told him about the

Wilson incident. Over pizza and lemon soda, I explained how much he had scared

me. I added that it was important that it had happened. I think it helped me

grow up, I explained. An awkward silence followed. His head turned down and to

the side for a moment. Then he just laughed. His eyes apologized, and I laughed
too, collectively embracing that very Wilson mentality: life, like

skateboarding and men named “Temper,” will knock you down. There is nothing

else to do but forgive, forget, and stand back up.

<p>“Morley’s structure for the</p><p>essay is measured with each paragraph transitioning to a

different personal</p><p>quality. He sets the scene and characters, and then shifts into the meat of
the</p><p>essay, writing about how a specific incident epitomizes the park experience.</p><p>The
essay beautifully ties in Morley’s personality with his experiences at</p><p>Woodrow Wilson. His
focus is always on developing how the park has shaped HIM.</p><p>After reading the essay, I have
a much better understanding of who Morley is</p><p>and what qualities he will bring to Hopkins. We
get the sense that he is</p><p>reflective and authentic—the type of JHU student you’d want as your
lab partner</p>or in your writing group.”

—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

Dissonance—Leila

My brain is utterly discordant. Curiosities, ranging from abortion in

colonial America to the enlarged paralimbic region of whale brains, battle for

priority of investigation in my mind. As I sit hunched over my laptop, my

screen is always split in two. What my mom sees as a teenager wasting away

behind a glowing screen is actually me trying to watch a documentary on

Magritte and his genous style of surrealism while learning about the

groundbreaking water geysers found on Jupiter’s moon Europa. Such investigative

tendencies are even evident in my running list of ideas for the Woodrow Wilson
Fellowship, with topics ranging from the cycle of recidivism that fosters the

prison industrial complex to the removal of people of color from 17th and 18th

century paintings in current academia.

I look to Johns Hopkins not to contain my brain, but to feed the insanity. I

need the lack of a core curriculum and intersession courses so I can

investigate a breadth of topics thoroughly, to a much fuller extent than I can

manage with just the library and the internet. I look to Johns Hopkins as the

home for my eclectic interests so I can continue playing soccer just as well as

I can continue pursuing photography at the Homewood Arts Workshops.

As I rave about my recent cosmic ventures like going to a Brian Greene

lecture and meeting with an astrophysicist at the Goddard Space Flight Center,

I look to Johns Hopkins to engage my enthusiasm with research institutions like

the Applied Physics Laboratory and the Center for Astrophysical Science. Where

my college search left me faced with so many small, lackluster physics

programs, Johns Hopkins shines with the delightfully extensive Henry A. Rowland

Department of Physics and Astronomy.

As my boyfriend and I have an involved discussion about the incompatibility

of an omniscient God with libertarian free will, I look to Johns Hopkins’

Department of Philosophy with classes like The Existential Drama and Freedom of
Will and Moral Responsibility. With sketchbooks full of musings on topics like

my cognitive dissonance of rejecting free will while revering Sartre, I am

insuppressibly excited by the undergraduate philosophy journal Prometheus.

Seeing that no new issues of Prometheus have been published in the last couple

of years, I am determined to resurrect the thought-provoking gem, just as

decidedly as I am to start and Ethics Bowl team at Johns Hopkins.

As I passionately rant about rape culture and cultural appropriation in the

shower, I look to Johns Hopkins’ student organizations like the Hopkins

Feminists, Sexual Assault Resource Unit, and the Office of Multicultural

Affairs so I can contribute my soap-studded ideas and take action.

I look to Johns Hopkins for its diversity of people, the city of Baltimore,

and as a home for the next four years. I look to Johns Hopkins to conduct my

dissonant brain into a melodious symphony.

<p>“The running theme through</p><p>Leila’s essay is her interest in a variety of topics and
subjects, which makes</p><p>it easy to picture her thriving in the open curriculum and
interdisciplinary</p><p>learning style at JHU. She also makes connections between her eclectic
interest</p><p>and opportunities on campus like research at the Applied Physics Lab,
reviving</p><p>the university philosophy journal, and clubs like the Hopkins Feminists. It
is</p><p>not hard to picture her being a contributor to campus in and out of the</p>classroom.”

—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

Hometown—Quan

Life without language: all the ideas, thoughts, and emotions present, but

unable to be expressed. This is how I picture my grandfather when he first

immigrated to America with my grandmother and their nine children. Lost, he

wanders around, hoping to bump into someone who can understand him. He raises

his own children to know Vietnamese and hopes his future grandchildren would

also be connected to the language of their ancestors. But when I form my lips

into unnatural shapes to speak these words, they come out pathetically.

I cannot speak Vietnamese.

As a child, the conversations between me and my grandfather consisted of

feeble attempts at speaking each other’s language. Only a couple of familiar

words could momentarily break the wall that divided us. Whenever I visited his

house, I exchanged a shaky “Chào ông” for his heavily accented “He-llo,” and

ran off before the shame from my inability to understand could affect me.

At the time, I was unaware of the synchronized rhythm that beats in the

hearts of me, my father, and my grandfather. My grandfather loves playing the

violin. Although he is not classically trained and can hardly keep a beat, he
loves it and I can sense it every time he plays. When my family came to

America, my father struggled to adjust as any teenage immigrant would.

Vietnamese was confined to his family’s home and English was difficult to

learn, so instead, he picked up the guitar and taught himself how to play

“Yesterday” by the Beatles. Forty years later, he claims he still cannot get it

down perfectly. On the piano in our living room, he sings in broken English…

“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away…”

Like my grandfather, music is a part of my father’s design. By the

unchangeable threads of heredity, I was also fated to have a connection to

music, just like them. And it was music that could break the language barrier

between me and my grandfather.

A single sheet of music sat in front of me. It was a beautiful piece, no

doubt, but we, the All-State Senior Band, were playing it without any emotion.

After a couple of unsuccessful run-throughs of this piece entitled “Hometown,”

our guest conductor Samuel Hazo told us to look at measure thirty-three,

reflect on a personal memory that reminded us of that part, and write about it

right there on our sheet music. Soon after instructing us to do the same in the

other parts of the piece, everyone’s sheet music was filled with our lives in

the form of tiny scribbles between the lines of melodies. When we played the
piece again, we were finally able to “sing our life stories,” as Mr. Hazo would

call it. Every musical phrase became a vessel for retelling our most precious

memories: stories of first loves and recollections of childhood memories. No

one had to say a single word.

There in the music, I finally spoke to my grandparents. As I played measure

thirty-three, I pictured them sitting there on that boat in the middle of the

ocean, holding onto a faint glimmer of hope for a new life in America, looking

for their own new “hometown.” I said “thank you” for their courage to come to

the strange and unknown America and “sorry” for being unable to speak

Vietnamese. After the concert that night, I received a bigger hug than usual

from them and I knew that they had heard and understood me. Being a part of a

family and culture is more than just knowing the language. Emotions are enough

to make words unnecessary. In my family, we speak three different languages:

Vietnamese, the language of our origin, English, the language of our new home,

and music to connect everything together.

<p>“I like that Quan shares a piece</p><p>of his life and one of his passions that we may not have
known otherwise with</p><p>us in the essay: music. He ties his innate love of music back to his
family and</p><p>makes a really powerful connection between music and language. He captures
the</p><p>reader’s attention from the first few sentences by weaving the story of his</p><p>family
into an expansion on one of his favorite activities. You really get a</p><p>taste of how passionate
he is about music and that it is something he would</p><p>share with our JHU community. Quan
provides us with a window into some of what</p><p>he values most in life—family, his cultural
heritage, and music— and what he</p>would bring to our student body.”
—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

Content—Noah

I have a Kafka quote that is very close to my heart. I like it best edited,

the way I first saw it, with the middle part (which is not convenient for this

essay) cut out: “It is not necessary that you leave the house. Remain at your

table and listen… The world will present itself to you for its unmasking.” In a

way, I follow Kafka’s advice every morning. After eating breakfast, I stay at

the kitchen table and listen to music for 15 minutes or so—most often Bach or

Mozart, Beethoven being a bit difficult to digest at that hour. I don’t read, I

don’t puzzle over a math problem, I don’t wonder what we’ll do in physics that

day. It’s difficult, but often I manage to do nothing but listen. And I am

quite content.

This is strange because learning has always been the chief joy of my life. I

have my nonintellectual pleasures—running and yogurt come to mind—but given the

choice, I always devote my time to thinking. I have consistently refused to

pick up a sport because I felt I needed the time for math. I spent last summer

struggling to play Schumann and reading a biology textbook, and the summer

before that at a small college in Massachusetts, studying mathematics for eight

hours a day with 50 other nerds. So why am I so at peace in the one time of day

when I am certain not to be learning about anything?

Part of it is simply what I’m listening to. I adore classical music. I love

it so much that I sincerely believe that the rest of the world shares my

enthusiasm for it, but that most people simply do not realize it yet. At the

very least, I am convinced that deep down we all love Chopin. Beauty, order,

complexity, mystery—the same things that draw me to mathematics and biology

draw me to classical music. The primary different is that cleverness takes a

back seat to emotion and intuition. It is hard to be more specific because all

of the great composers have something different to offer, often several things

at the same time; Brahm’s raw emotion expressed with the greatest refinement

and discipline; Beethoven’s stormy sublimity, unimaginable beauty, and that

famous “vision of infinity”; Mozart’s entirely different reality, a heaven of

pure light; Bach’s majesty, grace, and clarity; it goes on. They were all

geniuses of the highest order, towering over history, but they all created

things greater and more perfect than themselves. They fulfilled the promise of

humanity.

There is also something else going on, though, when I remain at my table.

Classical music is the example I use to support a larger point that I feel I

need to make to myself every morning. The world is very harsh, but also very
big and very beautiful, with so many things to do and so much to explore that

you’ll never run out of things to think about even when you can forget about

your day-to-day concerns. You can learn all you want. It’s just that it isn’t

easy: you’re not really discovering anything if it’s easy. You need to make it

hard, to do something out of your reach, something new or frustrating. You have

to throw yourself in the water and swim as hard and as fast as you can. And

before you can go swimming—before the world can “present itself to you”—you

need to take one last deep breath. You know you love to swim when you really

relish that breath.

<p>“Noah’s essay is well-crafted.</p><p>It does a great job of demonstrating his writing skills, his
intellectual</p><p>capacity, his diverse interests, and his personality. His writing is
an</p><p>impressive balance of formal and casual—it connects with the reader
while</p><p>remaining professional. His descriptive writing about the composers shows
how</p><p>deep his passion really goes. This is someone you want to have a
conversation</p><p>with. You can hear his voice in the writing. I appreciate him showing
different</p><p>sides of his personality. For much of his time, he’s busy and productive.
But</p><p>those 15 minutes a day, where he takes time to enjoy something he loves,
are</p><p>extremely important to him as well. I’m particularly impressed with the way
he</p><p>can write about a love of classical music without coming across as</p><p>supercilious.
Rather, he’s funny and likeable. Making the larger point in the</p><p>end of the essay, he shows
that he has a great approach to a work-life balance</p>that is necessary at a rigorous university.”

—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

<p>Spring Instead of</p>Summer—Jacqueline

Sometimes I had dreams of being in plane crashes with my twin brother, Matt.

We’re standing on the wing of a plane, balancing in the middle of the

Atlantic Ocean. Matt is screaming, “No! I don’t want to jump! Where’s the

water? Where’s the water?” A wave rushes over the wing and takes us under. Matt

calls, “Jacqui!” reaches for my hand, and I wake up.

I know a lot about my backstory because it has shaped who I am and who I

want to be. Knowledge of this story is necessary—I need to keep the words

alive, even if time wants to quiet them. I know my story so that I do not

forget, so that I can tell others.

My brother, Matt, is visually impaired and has autism. We were born in May

instead of August, sixteen weeks early, during spring instead of summer. Of all

the seasons, maybe we should have been born in winter. Matt and I clung

together on the icy medical tables. Winter children, at home in the frost,

trying to take air into translucent lungs.

The facts of our story are easy to tell. I can tell about the identical

scars that run from our shoulder blades to our chests. How our doctors and

parents looked at us, in our isolettes, with heavy eyes. About the five percent

chance of survival that we beat, or the likelihood that Matt would never be
able to see and I would never speak. I can tell others that I would not change

our story—that I want to tell it throughout my lifetime, because it has a

purpose. I can say that the dream of us clinging together on the plane wing in

the middle of the Atlantic is a continuation of how I feel and who I am.

It’s harder, though, to tell of the pride I feel whenever my voice carries

across the room. Nine years of voice therapy, nine years of learning how to

project and nurture my one working vocal cord—I’m afraid people won’t

understand. They might just think of it as a story with a nice ending. But my

goal is not to tell a nice story—it is to make others feel something deep in

their chests, like I do.

It’s even harder to share the very core of who I am; the fact that Matt and

I are forever tied together with the story of how we were born. We are here for

different reasons—mine to write and be his guide; his to make others happy,

like he makes me. Where we come from and how we got here makes us who we are in

this moment. That’s the purpose of our story; that’s what I want others to

know.

My half of our story allows me to exist in a world that is parallel to

Matt’s. Few others fit in his world—but I must. And my ability to fit into his

world drives… everything. It makes me strive to see him smile, even if it’s a
hint of one that appears when I tell him his socks are totally cool. It brings

my dreams of plane crashes alive, so I can release those feelings into my

writing, and truly be part of his world. I must fit into Matt’s world forever,

and so I must be a good enough sister to tell his story.

My backstory makes me who I am—a writer, a guide, a sister. I am a girl

standing on the wing of a plane, eager for my words to stretch to every

continent. Eager for everyone to know my story.

<p>“I often read essays where the</p><p>student writes about someone who has influenced their
life. Admissions officers</p><p>want to get a better understanding of YOU. These essays can be
tricky because</p><p>there is a tendency to focus on the person who has influenced you, instead
of</p><p>focusing on how you have been changed. Jacqueline did a fantastic job
of</p><p>focusing on how her brother has shaped HER life. Her writing style is</p><p>personable
with vivid parallels and divergences between herself and her twin.</p><p>The reader feels like they
are on a journey through Jacqueline’s life in just a</p><p>few hundred words. This essay captivated
me with details that would not have</p><p>shown up at any other point in the application. We get a
sense of passion and</p><p>purpose about her that reminds us of the energy Hopkins students
bring to</p>campus.”

—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

Class of 2017 Essays

The Unathletic Department—Meghan

A blue seventh place athletic ribbon hangs from my mantel. Every day, as I

walk into my living room, the award mockingly congratulates me as I smile.

Ironically, the blue seventh place ribbon resembles the first place ribbon in

color; so, if I just cover up the tip of the seven, I may convince myself that

I championed the fourth heat. But, I never dare to wipe away the memory of my

seventh place swim; I need that daily reminder of my imperfection. I need that

seventh place.

Two years ago, I joined the no-cut swim team. That winter, my coach unexpectedly

assigned me to swim the 500 freestyle. After stressing for hours about swimming

20 laps in a competition, I mounted the blocks, took my mark, and swam. Around

lap 14, I looked around at the other lanes and did not see anyone. “I must be

winning!” I thought to myself. However, as I finally completed my race and

lifted my arms up in victory to the eager applause of the fans, I looked up at

the score board. I had finished my race in last place. In fact, I left the pool

two minutes after the second-to-last competitor, who now stood with her

friends, wearing all her clothes.

The blue for the first loser went to me.

However, as I walked back to my team, carrying the seventh place blue,

listening to the splash of the new event’s swimmers, I could not help but
smile. I could smile because despite my loss, life continued; the next event

began. I realized that I could accept this failure, because I should not take

everything in life so seriously. Why should I not laugh at the image of myself,

raising my arms up in victory only to have finished last? I certainly did not

challenge the school record, but that did not mean I could not enjoy the swim.

So, the blue seventh place ribbon sits there, on my mantel, for the world to

see. I feel no shame in that. In fact, my memorable 20 laps mean more to me

than an award because over time, the blue of the seventh place ribbon fades,

and I become more colorful by embracing my imperfections and gaining

resilience-but not athleticism.

“The first thing that stands out about this essay is the catchy

title, which effectively sets up an essay that is charmingly self-deprecating.

The author goes on to use subtle humor throughout the essay to highlight one of

her weaknesses but at the same time reveals how she turned what some might have

considered a negative event into a positive learning experience. Not only is

this essay well-written and enjoyable to read, but it reveals some important

personal qualities about the author that we might not have learned about her

through other components of her application. We get a glimpse of how she

constructively deals with challenge and failure, which is sure to be a useful

life skill she will need in the real world, starting with her four years in
college.”

—Senior Assistant Director Janice Heitsenrether

The Musketeer in Me—Vikas

One fundamental rule of reincarnation is that you do not know your past

life. Well, it seems as though I broke that rule. In fact, I am absolutely

certain that my past reincarnation was none other than d’Artagnan, the fourth

musketeer.

Knowing that is a gift. It makes the arduous process of describing the

entirety of my personality in 500 words or less, possible. I can simply toss

Alexandre Dumas’ biographical recount of my past life and say, “That’s me,” and

those two words would mean everything. They make me that noble and heroic

Gasconian that set out to Paris with nothing more than a yellow, hairless pony

and a dream of grandeur.

Alas, times have changed. The Musketeers, dueling, and horses, they have all

become relics of the past. A new era and new circumstances bring a different

life. Now, I am a first generation, 17-year-old American living in Jersey. My

yellow, hairless horse is an old, squeaky Toyota Camry: its modern equivalent.
My stunning silver-gilded rapier and armour have been replaced by a BIC pen and

legal pad.

However, all those changes are superficial. Inside, I still dream of the

same grandeur. I dream, with every fiber of my body, that one day I will become

a Newtonian giant holding a Nobel Prize. That one day I will support the

innovation and ingenuity that fuels our evolving world. The only challenge is

that there are millions of people that share the same dream as me, so what

makes me different?

Well, even if the shell of who I am has changed, I am still d’Artagnan at

heart. That means being young, foolish, and audacious all at the same time.

With pride, I charge first and then think second, knowing that my intuition and

passions will forge my path. With conviction, I duel my enemies under the slightest

provocation (as long as you consider a pen a weapon). The result is that I’ve

been beaten to the ground an ungodly number of times. But, from those moments,

I learned the most. And, in those adventures, where I got bruised and battered,

I had friends that brought to life “All for one and one for all.”

Yet, the greatest part of being d’Artagnan that I believe in myself to the

point that I believe in something larger than myself. I believe in the people

around me, my community, my country, and even the world. And I believe every
day is going to be better than the one before it.

So, when times like these come, being d’Artagnan makes me strong. The

following months are going to change everything. My town. My home. My friends.

Everything is going to become college and that proposition is as equally

frightening as it is exhilarating. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. Yet,

with all those changes, being d’Artagnan is my constant. It is what is going to

help me not only overcome the challenges brewing in the future, but also excel.

And, if the past is any indication of the future, then the Nobel Prize already

has my name written on it.

“This essay was clever, humorous, and gave insight into the

writer’s personality. He effectively used a fictional character as a way to

talk about himself; this overcomes a common mistake I see in essays where

applicants don’t make a strong connection between themselves and the character

they are writing about. From the essay, I was able to get a sense about how he

handles challenges, his ambition, and how he is as a friend. These are all

important aspects that we look for in an application. His voice was clear in

his writing, gave me the sense that I knew him, and made the essay memorable.”

—Assistant Director Patrick Salmon

Undecided—Daniel

I was born in the wrong century.

A combination of an avant-garde homeschooling education and liberal parents

produced an inquisitive child who dreamt of versatility. I want to be an

Aristotle, a Newton, or, if nothing else, an engineer who can perform

titrations and analyze works by Rand or Fitzgerald.

Growing up in Miami, Florida, a mecca for diversity, I’ve seen interests and

talents splattered across the entire spectrum. Sports coaches who write

computer code after practice, cross country runners who dabble in cancer

research and community service management, these were the people who influenced

my upbringing. From these inspirations, I’ve crafted an ideal for my future,

one where I can play a few varied roles, yet play them well. But I am atypical

too. A water skier who spends mornings in the Everglades with my camera, and

flies remote airplanes on the weekends.

I know I’ll have to find the right focus, eventually. But first, I’ll figure

out what I love. There will be dozens of internal debates over my interests.

I’ll deliberate and dispute, unsure of whether I truly love what I’m doing,

hesitant about whether this is what I want to be doing five years from now. But
it doesn't matter; it’s part of the process. When I find what I want to study,

I’ll know. If I were a wonder of the world, I’d be the Great Pyramid. Starting

broad, before refining myself to a point, I think Maslow would’ve approved.

“What stood out to me about Daniel’s major essay was that,

while he applied undecided, he still crafted a really well written essay about

his interests. Daniel writes about how his upbringing and where he’s from has

led him to be inquisitive and explore a range of interests. He does a great job

of tying it all into using his academic experience at Hopkins to pinpoint what

exactly it is that he wants to study in the future.”

—Admissions Counselor Monique Hyppolite

Spy—Elana

Ten years ago, I was a spy.

Secret identities, awesome spy gadgets and undercover operations consumed my

imagination. This was serious business and l took training seriously.

My brother was Public Enemy No.1. He’d come home and I’d use Mission

Impossible stealth moves to follow him everywhere. I’d pick his bedroom door
with a nail file and steal his allowance. I’d climb the tree outside his window

and take reconnaissance photos.

The proudest moment of my young espionage career was Operation Secret Crate.

One Saturday afternoon, Mom drove up with my brother and his friends, who were

coming over to play Grand Theft Auto, make stupid jokes and eat junk food. My

mission: eavesdrop.

My high-tech tool was a plastic moving crate, two and a half feet square,

forgotten behind the living room couch. It had eye-holes big enough for an

intrepid spy.

I was small and flexible, but fitting inside that crate was a stretch.

Still, the mission was on. Quick jumping jacks and toe touches to loosen the

limbs. Squat, knees to chest, crate over head...

Slam! The boys banged through the front door and swarmed onto the couch.

Peering out I saw tennis shoes and hairy ankles. My heart thumped so loud I

worried it would overpower their excited voices and the hum of the X-Box. The

smell of Pizza Hut cheese sticks was in the air.

The moment of truth. Would they notice the girl crouched in the crate inches
away?

One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes. They didn’t notice! Fifteen minutes.

Twenty minutes. Still safe. Thirty minutes. I realized the flaw in my plan. l

might learn their secrets, but my body was so contorted and aching that soon I

might never walk again.

Something had to be done. Something bold, drastic, unthinkable.

ARGGHHAHGHGHGHGHGHAHDHGHGHHGHGHG!!!!!!!

I shouted at the top of my lungs, flung the crate off me and jumped onto the

couch. They all screamed. The cheese sticks went flying. The coke spilled. My

brother, for once, had nothing to say.

Elana, girl of mystery, strikes, I said. Be warned.

I strutted out of the living room.

Since those first spy trainings, I’ve never stopped preparing for a future

clandestine career. I’ve cracked codes in computer science and cracked jokes

with a CIA operative. I’ve slogged through 10k of mud at the Camp Pendleton mud
run and four years of Chinese in high school. I’ve flown planes with the Civil

Air Patrol in Santa Monica and beat drums with Sudanese refugees in Tel-Aviv. I

have launched a rocket, administered CPR, operated ham radios, set a broken arm

and helped a rescue team look for a downed plane.

I could end up as a spy, a diplomat, a soldier, an astronaut, or a fighter

for a lost cause. I could end up famous or completely unknown. I know two

things for sure: I won’t be at a desk job, and I’ll be good to have around when

there’s trouble.

“I like this essay because you really get to see the

adventurous side of Elana, an intangible quality that cannot be seen in her

transcript, test scores, or list of activities. By telling a story from her

youth and connecting it to current activities and personal qualities, her sense

of humor shines through and lets the reader know she is not afraid to take

risks. After reading this essay, I saw her as someone who would make a

difference on our campus, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to get involved and try

something new. She seemed like a great fit for Hopkins.”

—Associate Director Shannon Miller

Its Name was Ozzie—Agni

<p>Its name was Ozzie. Ozzie stood two feet tall, glistening, and scraping</p><p>his feet against
the ground with the bullish determination to work. We filled</p><p>Ozzie up. He swooshed, growled,
slurped, and gurgled. Just as Ozzie was about</p>to reach the finish line, he collapsed in a panting
mess.

I looked down.

That night I received a call from my research partner, M. “We need these

readings,” he sighed.

“I know. But the bulb of the university’s Ostwald viscometer broke during

our readings.”

“We have no choice,” M’s voice dropped after a few minutes, “let’s fudge the

biodiesel readings.”

I knew this wasn’t M. We had overcome numerous obstacles during our research,

yet this one was magnified by the time constraint upon us. The journal’s

submission deadline was only a week away.

I paused.
Sensing my silence M said, “You find us a better idea then.” The line went

dead.

M had helped us overcome obstacles during our research in the past. It was

my turn to step up.

It is difficult to move an object from a dead stop: especially if that

object is your brain. Finally, I got it. I called up our professor to tell him

my idea. My suggestion was to assemble a team of four undergraduate students at

the university, who would work on repairing the Ostwald viscometer (Ozzie) in

between classes. In the meanwhile, we would work on synthesizing fuel samples

for the tests.

The ensuing week could be classified as ‘Hell Week’, characterized by a

search for disposed chicken and pork skins, 14 hour lab days, and holding

beakers for hours with only energy drinks to fuel us.

We also had the mission of motivating the undergraduate students to work on

repairing Ozzie. They could easily have lost their interest with their other

priorities. We encouraged them by getting to know them on a personal level,

taking them to late night dinners at KFC, and playing 2-on-2 basketball with

them during tea break.

I was constantly aware of the risk I had put in the faith that they would

stay focused, as repairing an Ostwald viscometer for two high school students

was not getting them any university credits, but they connected to our mission

in finding a sustainable fuel, and to us. Colonel Sanders’ recipe could’ve

helped us too.

Slap! We high-fived once we finished synthesizing the samples. We hugged the

undergraduates when they had finished repairing Ozzie’s bulb.

Placing this small event in a large spectrum, I learned the basic values

that research is founded upon: building bridges, team work and valuing academic

integrity above the pressure to submit papers. This experience showed me that

there are always resources available to solve a problem as long as you are

creative. Even against a deadline that makes you question your academic ethics,

one must consider the impact correct results may have on the academic

community.

In our case, fabricating the fuel’s readings would not only affect our

search to find a viable solution to the production of a sustainable fuel in the

future, but also it would be against the spirit of experimentation and failure

in science. The end result of a choice we made now awaited us. Tension tingled
my fingertips. It was time…

<p>Its name was Ozzie. He slurped, burped, bubbled and crossed the finish</p>line. There were our
readings.

I looked up.

“The author does a good job of pulling the reader in from the

very beginning by recounting a scenario that at first seems like it might have

had a catastrophic outcome. As we read on, we learn that the author, along with

his research partners, was able to tap into his resourcefulness and

determination to overcome an obstacle. Along the way, the author reveals not

only the logistical challenges his team encountered, but also the ethical

dilemma they had to consider. A big part of the work we do as admissions

counselors is to find a student who will excel academically at JHU and who will

also be a good community member. This essay gives us real insight into how this

student will confront academic challenges in college, as well as his potential

to be an effective team member and leader.”

—Senior Assistant Director Janice Heitsenrether