asterroc | College Essays (Reply)

In cleaning out a box of old crap, I discovered a few college essays I wrote. It would have been 1995-1996, and I 17 or 18 years old. I think they were for the college I did attend, as I recall culling more of them once before (though I specifically recall my Honors essay was about the lights of Shea Stadium, and is not in this batch). I wrote them on a word processor that my Mom gave me after she got a better one and I proved to her I could touch-type (it was my reward for learning to touch type). You would type one line at a time, you could edit that one line, and then it would do that one line as typewriter would. The pages are yellowed, except for some areas with white-out. The font is Courier New, because that's what typewriters can do, and despite it being a "word processor," it simply stored one line at a time and then used typewriter keys to rapidly type that single line out. Each page has the page number typed in, presumably manually, - 1 - , etc. The backs of the pages are photocopies of prints from a book of Escher's work, a letter from RIT about their Physics department that must have been in response to an inquiry I wrote, a page of trite homilies about friendship, and a parental signature page (unsigned) for my high school's Jewish Cultural Awareness Club trip from NYC to the US Holocaust museum.

The subject of "Chapter 8" and "Questioning" probably took place when I was around 14. The astute reader will notice that I fictionalized the sequence at the end of Chapter 8 to make it read better. Titles added now for convenience of referral.

Chapter 8
Essay 1: Imagine you are writing your autobiography. Please share Chapter 8 with the Board of Admission.

Chapter 8

We went there that very day. It was a short drive away, and although Dad and I were worried that the place would be too small to find, there was a large sign above the door that I would come to know well in the next few years. But at that time I wasn't even sure if I'd like archery, let alone stick with it. We parked the car and walked in.

At first glance, the place seemed dark and grungy. Then I realized that it was dark, but the grunginess came from the cigarette smoke in the air and the dark colored floor. To the left were Formica tables and cheap chairs. On my right was a glass counter filled with various unidentifiable doohickeys. And straight ahead was the range. There were two sides: the left larger with many targets up; the right with a few lines painted on the floor indicating various distances from the target. Two men of the type I would not wish to meet in a dark alley were on the left using complex looking bows. I was scared of the place. I turned to Dad and whispered, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Just then the proprietor walked up. He was heavy-set, dark skinned, greasy looking, and seemed only one step up from the other men. I shot Dad a meaningful glance. He ignored it and approached the man. "Hello, I called earlier about my daughter and I wishing to try archery," Dad said, and introduced us.

"Yes, I remember." The vague look on his face made me doubt that. "I'm Al Lizzio. Call me Al, everyone else does. OK, let's get you set up. Here, this is an arm guard," and he handed me something that looked like a piece of soccer equipment.

As he helped us, Al recited things like "Are you right or left eye dominant? Right? Then put the arm guard on your left arm." I could tell that he had done this too many times to count, and was quite bored of it. We were soon outfitted with bows and arrows, and a quiver to hold the arrows was hooked on our belts. We walked towards the side of the range with lines painted on it.

Al put up two targets which seemed too small of us to ever hit and positioned us on the line nearest the targets, about four yards. "You hold the bow in your left hand with your thumb pointed at the target. Good, you've got it. And your right first, second and third fingers go on the string's rubber pads. Your thumb and pinky are useless, you can just chop them off." He cracked a fake smile, expecting us to laugh. I could tell that this was going to be a long day.

For fifteen minutes or so he gave us a lecture which could have been entitled "How to Learn Archery in Four Easy Steps." Once we knew the basics, Al left us to try it on our own for a while. At first the bow was hard to pull back, but I quickly got used to it. We were soon able to hit the target at four yards, so we moved back to the next line, which I now know is actually nine meters, not yards. After a while, when the novelty wore off, I not only hit the target but did so accurately. I noticed that the more I did the same thing each time, the closer to each other the arrows hit. According to Al, when you do things the same way each time, the arrows form groups and the sight can be adjusted.

When we were done, Dad handed me some M&M's that he bought from the vending machine. "Well," Dad said, "do you like it?" I smiled and nodded my head vigorously, surprising myself: I had at first been afraid of the place, then bored by Al, but all in all had enjoyed myself. Looking back at Dad I asked him when we could come back. Before he could say anything, Al interrupted.

"On Saturdays we have a program called 'J.O.A.D.' or Junior Olympic Archery Development. We have more formal instruction for children up to age seventeen. You should come back then." I looked at Dad and grinned like a fool.

Questioning
This one is a draft, there are hand-written additions, probably written by my mother. These will be indicated by italics.

To learn to think is to learn to question. Discuss a matter you once thought you knew "for sure," that you have since learned to question.

The image I had of archery was of "redneck" men killing various animals for fun, and this was not my idea of a good time. I was understandably reluctant, but since I didn't know much about archery I decided to give it a try. The first time I went to the local archery range, it was filled with pot-bellied, grungy looking men whom I would not have wished to meet in a dark alley. The owner, Al, looked to be only one step up from the other men, and taught my dad and me with a bored expression on his face. Despite these less than ideal conditions, I found to my surprise that I enjoyed my first lesson, and returned the next weekend.

This time the range was filled with children from ages seven to seventeen. Al explained that everyone was there for a program called J.O.A.D. or Junior Olympic Archery Development. Once again Al gave a lesson, this time for the younger archers and the new ones, including myself. We were soon able to hit the target at four yards, so we moved back a few steps, to a distance which I now know is actually nine meters, not yards. After a while when the novelty worse off, I not only hit the target, but did so accurately. Maybe archery wasn't so bad after all; unlike many other sports, it did not depend upon physical ability alone, but on concentration as well.

For the next few weeks I attended J.O.A.D., often bringing my best friend. We improved at a phenomenal rate and were soon shooting with the older children at a distance of 18 meters. Once I mastered the basic steps, I learned that there were even more things to concentrate on: the more I learned and the more I improved, the more there was to learn and improve on. The mother of archery that I was learning, concentrating on form and consistency, was the exact opposite of that which the hunters learned, brute strength and the use of expensive equipment. We were actually being trained for target competition.

Because I enjoyed the challenge of archery so much, I soon had my own equipment, and was entering competitions within a year of that first lesson. I have competed in locations ranging from Atlantic City to the campus of Cornell. The people I have met are universally friendly, and though there are some strange people who practice knife throwing in Central Park at dawn, the majority of archers are ~~kind, normal seeming~~ generous and helpful people.

Both men and women, old and young can compete, none having a significant advantage of another, with only experience counting. I have learned that the camouflaged hunters are actually in the minority, and most archers would rather shoot at targets than Bambi's relatives. Archery is actually a quite humane and fun sport that teaches concentration and determination ~~and~~ . This experience has changed my perception of archery and I have been dedicated to the sport for over three years and don't see myself quitting any time in the near future.

Ender's Game
Bold corrections are mine (at the time), italics my mother's. There is one amusing point in this essay where my mother corrected something I wrote, then I corrected what she wrote (indicated with square brackets), at a very thematically appropriate point in the essay.

Scholarship Essay 2: Describe a book or work of art that elicited a strong emotional reaction from you and explain why you think it affected you the way it did.

Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card is a science fiction novel in which aliens have attacked Earth twice, and the Earth governments are now preparing for the third invasion by training gifted children to run the military. Ender Wiggin is, at age six, the best hope for mankind, and the mental superior of even his teachers.

None of the main characters is older than thirteen, yet they act like "real people", and it is this which attracts me most to the book. The author at first portrays Ender as an ordinary child, with a child's worries of schoolwork and acceptance by classmates. As we learn more about Ender, we realize that he is not only gifted, but a genius whose thought processes reflect this. While only six years old, he is able to withstand mental and emotional pressures that would break any adult.

Ender's siblings, Peter and Valentine, are mental giants as well, but they realize that they are hampered by the society of adults. Valentine says: "Peter, you're twelve years old. I'm ten. They have a word for people our age. They call us children and they treat us like mice." As in real society, the children in Ender's Game are treated as less than human, yet the book shows that children are real people with the fate of the world in their hands. The way they speak + the way they think, is are just like the way adults speak and think; Card knows this unlike ~~many~~ most other authors. This is what makes Ender's Game so controversial to ~~many~~ readers.

I ~~myself~~ ~~(myself)~~ have often encountered situations where, being a child, ~~the~~ adults ignored me, and yet I had as clear a picture of what was going on as they did. At times I was even able to find a solution to their problems but because I ~~was~~ am [was] a child (and everyone knows that adults ~~think~~ are better thinkers than children!) the adults would disdain to even hear my suggestions. Even now, some adults talk down to me, as if my youth makes me inferior to them. When I read about Ender and his friends being relied upon by the adults, I hadve a strong feeling of triumph, as if all of children-kind hadve been vindicated. In the novel, Ender's Game, tThe adults are forced to accept and depend upon the children if the world is to be saved. Books with child heroes are not all that uncommon, but Orson Scott Card is the first author I have found who realizes that children are humans too.

Perception
Although I do recall that I fictionalized this account, it definitely is the sort of thing we would have done, though probably in the hallways at school rather than at someone's house. It's really fascinating to see what I (or my friends, for I don't recall how much input I really did have from them about their opinions of me) thought of myself at the time, and how it's very similar to what some others say of me today - I hadn't realized until rereading this that the seeds for certain things were already in me then, I thought my college and grad school training caused them, while it seems they simply brought them out in me. All the other characters are real people in my life, and all their comments are very much what they would say in their voices.

For context, this story was years before Sept 11, but ID4 (the film Independence Day) came out July 1996 and ads for it began January 1996, so it's possible this essay was written after that and thus influenced by it.

Essay 3: Describe how you are perceived by your friends or family.

"So guys, what do you think I should write in this essay? I'm supposed to describe how my friends or family perceive me." I am at the house of one of my friends, where we sit and edit our college essays and brainstorm for the ones we haven't started yet. I figure that my friends themselves can best tell me how they perceive me.

After some thought, Jen replies, "You're a good friend with whom I can always talk. ~~with.~~ You listen to my problems and ask good questions that help me sort out my own thoughts on the subject and come to my own conclusions. And when I do, you provide thoughtful suggestions. Oh yeah, and you help me with my Calculus homework and give me cookies." She grins at this after thought.

Two of my friends are named Judy, and the one of the left [JY] says "Whenever we have those weird discussions about things like bombing cities and whether chivalry is sexist, you bring a skeptical view to the discussion. No, not skeptical, an objective view."

"I object to that!" says Alex, who usually starts those weird conversations.

Judy glares at him. "Well, she does bring a different view to the situation."

"I think she just gives us her view and we say it's objective because we hadn't thought of it," Alex retorts.

Rolling her eyes, Judy ignores him and continues. "You don't take anything in our arguments for granted: you ask how we define the words we use; you play 'Devil's Advocate', questioning our every statement so that when we finally come to a consensus or decision, it is unshakable and every possible scenario has been covered. "

"And," interrupts Alex, "I still think that New Yorkers would defend the city against an attack."

"Why would someone attack New York?" I ask.

Judy shrugs and says, "See what I mean?"

When we stop chuckling, the other Judy [JT] says to me, "I always admired the way you could think up good questions to ask. Whenever we have a reading for Astronomy, I just kinda of accept whatever the book says. But you look at the whole picture and see something that the authors didn't cover, or something they didn't completely explain. Or if I have a question in Physics that I don't know how to ask, and I tell you that I'm confused about something, you figure out how to ask the right question that explains everything."

"And it's not just science; you're great at art too," interjects Andrew. "Those photos of yours that are hanging up in the principal's office ~~at school~~ are awesome. All the secretaries want copies of them. And the teachers love them too."

I blush modestly as Stephanie adds, "Do you think that we could all get copies? I know how you say the paper costs a lot, so I'll pay you back for that."

"Don't worry," I say. "I'll give you all prints for your birthdays." Suddenly thinking of a bad pun, I add, "But you all have prints already." They look at me curiously, not getting it, then the Judy on the right [JT] shakes her head with a resigned sigh.

"On our fingers, right? Fingerprints." Judy's comment elicits groans. "And that's another thing;: whenever I think of you, I think of good jokes and bad puns. Really bad puns, the kind you don't even laugh about."

With a grin, I reply, "That's 'puny'," and my friends once again groan, "I don't see myself that way."

"Then how do you see yourself?" asks Andrew.

"As a good friend who ~~always is~~ is always willing to help ~~out her friends~~ ~~out.~~ . Speaking of helping, anyone else need help on a college essay?"