Essay Examples

Below are the essays referenced in this tool. They’re good ones to read, as they illustrate a lot of the concepts shared in this guide that you can use for your essay. 

If you’re interested: 

• Here are a few more essays written by students who identified as LGBTQ.

• Here’s a guide (and an example essay) for undocumented or AB540 students.

• Here are more great personal statements that are both narrative/challenges-based and montage/non-challenges based. 

At six years old, I stood locked away in the restroom. I held tightly to a tube of toothpaste because I’d been sent to brush my teeth to distract me from the commotion. Regardless, I knew what was happening: my dad was being put under arrest for domestic abuse. He’d hurt my mom physically and mentally, and my brother Jose and I had shared the mental strain. It’s what had to be done.

Living without a father meant money was tight, mom worked two jobs, and my brother and I took care of each other when she worked. For a brief period of time the quality of our lives slowly started to improve as our soon-to-be step-dad became an integral part of our family. He paid attention to the needs of my mom, my brother, and me. But our prosperity was short-lived as my step dad’s chronic alcoholism became more and more recurrent. When I was eight, my younger brother Fernando’s birth complicated things even further. As my step-dad slipped away, my mom continued working, and Fernando’s care was left to Jose and me. I cooked, Jose cleaned, I dressed Fernando, Jose put him to bed. We did what we had to do.

As undocumented immigrants and with little to no family around us, we had to rely on each other. Fearing that any disclosure of our status would risk deportation, we kept to ourselves when dealing with any financial and medical issues. I avoided going on certain school trips, and at times I was discouraged to even meet new people. I felt isolated and at times disillusioned; my grades started to slip.

Over time, however, I grew determined to improve the quality of life for my family and myself.

Without a father figure to teach me the things a father could, I became my own teacher. I learned how to fix a bike, how to swim, and even how to talk to girls. I became resourceful, fixing shoes with strips of duct tape, and I even found a job to help pay bills. I became as independent as I could to lessen the time and money mom had to spend raising me.

 I also worked to apply myself constructively in other ways. I worked hard and took my grades from Bs and Cs to consecutive straight A’s. I shattered my school’s 1ooM breaststroke record, and learned how to play the clarinet, saxophone, and the oboe. Plus, I not only became the first student in my school to pass the AP Physics 1 exam, I’m currently pioneering my school’s first AP Physics 2 course ever.

These changes inspired me to help others. I became president of the California Scholarship Federation, providing students with information to prepare them for college, while creating opportunities for my peers to play a bigger part in our community. I began tutoring kids, teens, and adults on a variety of subjects ranging from basic English to home improvement and even Calculus. As the captain of the water polo and swim team I’ve led practices crafted to individually push my comrades to their limits, and I’ve counseled friends through circumstances similar to mine. I’ve done tons, and I can finally say I’m proud of that. 

But I’m excited to say that there’s so much I have yet to do. I haven’t danced the tango, solved a Rubix Cube, explored how perpetual motion might fuel space exploration, or seen the World Trade Center. And I have yet to see the person that Fernando will become.  

I’ll do as much as I can from now on. Not because I have to. Because I choose to. 

— — —

The clock was remarkably slow as I sat, legs tightly crossed, squirming at my desk. “Just raise your hand,” my mind pleaded, “ask.” But despite my urgent need to visit the restroom, I remained seated, begging time to move faster. You see, I was that type of kid to eat French Fries dry because I couldn’t confront the McDonalds cashier for some Heinz packets. I was also the type to sit crying in front of school instead of asking the office if it could check on my late ride. Essentially, I chose to struggle through a problem if the solution involved speaking out against it.

My diffidence was frustrating. My parents relied on me, the only one able to speak English, to guide them, and always anticipated the best from me. However, as calls for help grew, the more defunct I became. I felt that every move I made, it was a gamble between success and failure. For me, the fear of failure and disappointment far outweighed the possibility of triumph, so I took no action and chose to silently suffer under pressure.

Near meltdown, I knew something needed to be done. Mustering up the little courage I had, I sought ways to break out of my shell—without luck. Recreational art classes ended in three boring months. I gave up Self Defense after embarrassing myself in class. After-school band, library volunteering, and book clubs ended similarly. Continued effort yielded nothing. 

Disillusioned and wrung dry of ideas, I followed my mom’s advice and joined a debate club. As expected, the club only reaffirmed my self-doubt. Eye contact? Greater volume? No thanks.

But soon, the club moved on from “how to make a speech” lessons to the exploration of argumentation. We were taught to speak the language of Persuasion, and play the game of Debate. Eventually, I fell in love with it all.

By high school, I joined the school debate team, began socializing, and was even elected to head several clubs. I developed critical and analytical thinking skills, and learned how to think and speak spontaneously.

I became proud and confident. Moreover, I became eager to play my role in the family, and family relations strengthened. In fact, nowadays, my parents are interested in my school’s newest gossip.

Four years with debate, and now I’m the kid up at the white board; the kid leading discussions; and the kid standing up for her beliefs.

More importantly, I now confront issues instead of avoiding them. It is exciting to discover solutions to problems that affect others, as I was able to do as part of the 1st Place team for the 2010 United Nations Global Debates Program on climate change and poverty. I take a natural interest in global issues, and plan to become a foreign affairs analyst or diplomat by studying international affairs with a focus on national identity.

In particular, I am interested in the North-South Korean tension. What irreconcilable differences have prompted a civilization to separate? Policy implications remain vague, and sovereignty theories have their limits—how do we determine what compromises are to be made? And on a personal level, why did my grandfather have to flee from his destroyed North Korean hometown--and why does it matter?

I see a reflection of myself in the divide at the 38th parallel because I see one part isolating itself in defense to outside threats, and another part coming out to face the world as one of the fastest- developing nations. Just as my shy persona before debate and extroverted character after debate are both part of who I am, the Korean civilization is also one. And just as my parents expect much from me, the first of my family to attend college, I have grand expectations for this field of study.

— — —

The mud was inescapable. We were trapped. The ambulance had barreled down the road, coming so close that I imagined its bulbous lights glancing off our car before we veered off the shoulder. A moment earlier, I had been thinking about what to eat and what schoolwork was due. Suddenly, the concerned face of a stranger popped up in our window offering to help. Before we could reply, he threw his body against the car with single-minded perseverance, and then stood in the center of the road, stopping a moving truck to help us. It was ridiculous and it was beautiful.

Then, there were more of them, these decent strangers: a well-dressed runner; a fatherly golfer; three movers who attached our car to their well-worn bumper; an older man with a perfectly rounded potbelly; and, the young man with white shoes now streaked in mud, the one whose heart was so big, it overwhelmed us all. These people helped even when the task ahead seemed absurdly hard.

I have yet to witness anything more inspiring than the collective will of seven pairs of mud-soaked sneakers and the straining muscles of fourteen hairy arms. That. That’s what reminded me why we’re all here. To do good. To be decent. To push further than we think we can. I realized I too could effect positive change.

Institutions and people can become stuck, much like our car, unable to move forward, mired in the status quo. The mud-soaked sneakers motivated me to pursue cooperative, creative solutions even if against seemingly insurmountable odds. That experience gave me purpose.

I am a storyteller.

When I founded my school’s podcast club, I confronted an institution that was reluctant to see itself, unwilling to acknowledge that members of its community felt marginalized and overextended. The perception of our school had been compressed down into several bite-sized adjectives: white, preppy, stressful, exclusive, and high-achieving. However, they were only one part of a much larger picture.

I created the podcast to unearth the nuances of our collective story, even if that meant examining controversial topics. Although people remarked that the administration would never let me talk about the exclusivity of affinity groups or the divisive nature of the awards system, I persisted, making a podcast that investigates school stereotypes. This led me to one student who, as someone biracial, felt that affinity groups forced her uncomfortably to self-categorize. It helped me understand the conflicted viewpoint of our head-of-school, who knows that awards have the potential to demoralize students, but also sees the need to recognize outstanding individuals. And it opened a conversation with one lacrosse player, who explained that his team never intended to offend LGBTQ students by humorously cross-dressing as fairies, although others felt their unawareness that the term “fairy” was historically derogatory did not excuse their behavior. Each person added a layer of complexity to overly simplified narratives. 

Dislodging established stories proved to be as difficult as prying that car from the mud. Nevertheless, I was motivated to keep pushing. To listen compassionately. To create lasting partnerships by negotiating with school administrators. To integrate a diverse set of perspectives into every episode. To stop the bustle of traffic and seek new truths. When the podcast came out, it got the school talking, teachers dedicating class to discussing it and administrators referencing it at the end-of-year assembly.

I am proud that I helped start those conversations. They are the first tire to be pried loose, but there is a whole car to be liberated. My goal is to be the woman who makes that happen, using storytelling as the moving truck and my ideas as the manpower. My heart is now open in a new way. My world is no longer self-contained. My arms pull with the arms of those men in the mud on the side of the road. I heave on the same count of three. (650 words)

— — —

At age three, I was separated from my mother. The court gave full custody of both my baby brother and me to my father. Of course, at my young age, I had no clue what was going on. However, it did not take me long to realize that life with my father would not be without its difficulties.

My brother, Anthony, was eleven months old when my father placed us in the hands of our first babysitter. I remember being confused at first, wondering where my father had gone and when he would be back, but after a while, I became accustomed to this routine of absence and the never ending babysitters that filled in for him. These strangers consisted of college students, chain-smokers, senile women, and foreigners—all were technically adults, but not one was a suitable substitute for a parent. When my father was home, he still seemed absent; he was distant both physically and emotionally. He was busy bouncing from one girlfriend to the next, sleeping in until 1:30 in the afternoon, and sitting on the couch watching television. He took us out to restaurants every night and wasted the money he earned on expensive dinners, his current girlfriend, and liquor. This continued for ten years.

Legally, we had all the necessities to survive, but in truth our home was devoid of structure. Schoolwork went unchecked. Bedtimes were unregulated. Dust accumulated in thick layers on the paperwork that overflowed on the dining table. Often times, Anthony and I would spend hours waiting at school for someone to pick us up, and most of our dinners were served well past eleven at night.

Consequentially, and quite unwittingly, I shed my childhood and assumed the role of “parent” for Anthony before my seventh birthday. I memorized the routes we took to school and led Anthony home myself. I watched professional chefs on PBS and learned how to cook basic meals for two. Unfortunately, as I progressively developed into the parent, Anthony took advantage of our lack of true authority and grew into the epitome of a problem child. He became unruly, and his behavior soon bled into his school life. His grades suffered and he seemed to act out more often. His rash temper continued to grow until one day the school called our home because he had tried to throw a chair at his teacher.

Anthony was the only kindergartner in our school’s history to be suspended. The school counselor recommended that when my father was in town we attend therapy as a family. But that accomplished nothing—my father’s initial attempts to implement authority devolved quickly into apathy, and then he was traveling again. I, on the other hand, would not give up so easily. I became the watchful eye and mentor that Anthony and I both needed. I soaked in the parenting videos that our family counselor had given my dad. I explained to Anthony why a structured lifestyle is important and why retribution is needed for one’s misdeeds. To further instill self-discipline in him, I would have him formulate his own penalties. I also began to follow up on his schoolwork by contacting his teachers. On one particularly hopeful afternoon I even tried to introduce him to books that I had read—but I learned I can't win every battle. I wasn’t satisfied with just giving a fish to my little brother; I wanted to teach him how to cast lines himself and learn the tools of self-reliance. Looking back at my hectic childhood, I am grateful for the insight it afforded me, and I am grateful for the effect my little brother had on me.

Inadvertently, by raising Anthony I ended up raising myself. Living with my unreliable father and reliant younger brother gave me the need and incentive to find myself and to mature quickly. At a very early age I became resourceful, independent, and responsible. It makes me proud to know that I single-handedly raised Anthony and myself. I now know that I can face any challenge with confidence. Even if I don’t succeed, I know I will be stronger just for trying.

— — —

“¡Mijo! ¡Ya levantate! ¡Se hace tarde!” (Son! Wake up! It's late already.) My father’s voice pierced into my room as I worked my eyes open. We were supposed to open the restaurant earlier that day. 

Ever since 5th grade, I have been my parents’ right hand at Hon Lin Restaurant in our hometown of Hermosillo, Mexico. Sometimes, they needed me to be the cashier; other times, I was the youngest waiter on staff. Eventually, when I got strong enough, I was called into the kitchen to work as a dishwasher and a chef’s assistant. 

The restaurant took a huge toll on my parents and me. Working more than 12 hours every single day (even holidays), I lacked paternal guidance, thus I had to build autonomy at an early age. On weekdays, I learned to cook my own meals, wash my own clothes, watch over my two younger sisters, and juggle school work. 

One Christmas Eve we had to prepare 135 turkeys as a result of my father’s desire to offer a Christmas celebration to his patrons. We began working at 11pm all the way to 5am. At one point, I noticed the large dark bags under my father’s eyes. This was the scene that ignited the question in my head: “Is this how I want to spend the rest of my life?” 

The answer was no.

So I started a list of goals. My first objective was to make it onto my school’s British English Olympics team that competed in an annual English competition in the U.K. After two unsuccessful attempts, I got in. The rigorous eight months of training paid off as we defeated over 150 international schools and lifted the 2nd Place cup; pride permeated throughout my hometown. 

Despite the euphoria brought by victory, my sense of stability would be tested again, and therefore my goals had to adjust to the changing pattern.

During the summer of 2014, my parents sent me to live in the United States on my own to seek better educational opportunities. I lived with my grandparents, who spoke Taishan (a Chinese dialect I wasn’t fluent in). New responsibilities came along as I spent that summer clearing my documentation, enrolling in school, and getting electricity and water set up in our new home. At 15 years old, I became the family’s financial manager, running my father’s bank accounts, paying bills and insurance, while also translating for my grandmother, and cleaning the house. 

In the midst of moving to a new country and the overwhelming responsibilities that came with it, I found an activity that helped me not only escape the pressures around me but also discover myself. MESA introduced me to STEM and gave me nourishment and a new perspective on mathematics. As a result, I found my potential in math way beyond balancing my dad’s checkbooks. 

My 15 years in Mexico forged part of my culture that I just cannot live without. Trying to fill the void for a familiar community, I got involved with the Association of Latin American students, where I am now an Executive Officer. I proudly embrace the identity I left behind. I started from small debates within the club to discussing bills alongside 124 Chicanos/Latinos at the State Capitol of California. 

The more I scratch off from my goals list, the more it brings me back to those days handling spatulas. Anew, I ask myself, “Is this how I want to spend the rest of my life?” I want a life driven by my passions, rather than the impositions of labor. I want to explore new paths and grow within my community to eradicate the prejudicial barriers on Latinos. So yes, this IS how I want to spend the rest of my life.  

— — —

It was Easter and we should’ve been celebrating with our family, but my father had locked us in the house. If he wasn’t going out, neither were my mother and I.

My mother came to the U.S. from Mexico to study English. She’d been an exceptional student and had a bright future ahead of her. But she fell in love and eloped with the man that eventually became my father. He loved her in an unhealthy way, and was both physically and verbally abusive. My mother lacked the courage to start over so she stayed with him and slowly let go of her dreams and aspirations. But she wouldn’t allow for the same to happen to me.

In the summer before my junior year I was offered a scholarship to study abroad in Egypt. Not to my surprise, my father refused to let me go. But my mother wouldn’t let him crush my dreams as well. I’d do this for myself and for my mothers unfulfilled aspirations. I accepted the scholarship.

    I thought I’d finally have all the freedom I longed for in Egypt, but initially I didn’t. On a weekly basis I heard insults and encountered harassment in the streets, yet I didn’t yield to the societal expectations for women by staying indoors. I continued to roam throughout Egypt, exploring the Great Pyramids of Giza , cruising on the Nile, and traveling to Luxor and Aswan. And before I returned to the U.S. I received the unexpected opportunity to travel to London and Paris. It was surreal: a girl from the ghetto traveling alone around the world with a map in her hands and no man or cultural standards could dictate what I was to do. I rode the subway from Cambridge University to the British Museum. I took a train from London to Paris and in two days I visited the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame Cathedral, and took a cruise on the Seine. Despite the language barrier I found I had the self-confidence to approach anyone for directions.

    While I was in Europe enjoying my freedom, my mother moved out and rented her own place. It was as if we’d simultaneously gained our independence. We were proud of each other. And she vicariously lived through my experiences as I sent her pictures and told her about my adventures.

Finally, we were free.

I currently live in the U.S with my mother. My father has gradually transformed from a frigid man to the loving father I had yearned for. Life isn’t perfect, but for the moment I’m enjoying tranquility and stability with my family and are communicating much better than before.

I’m involved in my school’s Leadership Council as leader of our events committee. We plan and execute school dances and create effective donation letters. I see this as a stepping-stone for my future, as I plan to double major in Women’s Studies and International Relations with a focus on Middle Eastern studies. After the political turmoil of the Arab Spring many Middle Eastern countries refuse to grant women equal positions in society because that would contradict Islamic texts. By oppressing women they are silencing half of their population. I believe these Islamic texts have been misinterpreted throughout time, and my journey towards my own independence has inspired me to help other women find liberation as well.

My Easter will drastically differ from past years. Rather than being locked at home, my mother and I will celebrate outdoors our rebirth and renewal.

— — —

Every weekend, my family and I go to the bowling alley. We either go to Lucky Strike in Orange County, to 300 in Pasadena or the AMF Bowladrome in Torrance. It’s been a tradition for us ever since I turned 11. But here’s a secret: 

I’ve never bowled a game in my life.

I began going when I was 11 because that’s when I was old enough to adroitly wipe down a table and spray Windex on a window without making a mess. Every Saturday night from 10pm to 4am, after entering the bowling alley through a back door, my parents dispatch my older sister Marlene and me to the lanes armed with broomsticks. 

“Try to clean around the bowlers,” she always says.

And we always do.

In 2003 my family’s stability was put to the test when my father suffered an accident: he was bitten by a horse and unable to work for three years. Some months later my year-old baby sister was hit by a car. My mother was our only financial support, so we sometimes ate Cup of Noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I prayed every night that things would get better but first they got worse.

In the eleventh grade my father suffered a muscle failure and my mother was diagnosed with a tumor. Due to my parents’ health problems I took on more responsibilities, sometimes missing school to care for my younger sisters and helping my father and mother at their work. Unfortunately, I pushed myself so hard that I ended up hurting myself, suffering a vain leakage in my brain. I was the fighter, the protector, and now I found myself needing someone to protect me. I was glad to have my mother by my side because she gave me the strength I needed.

After some rest, I returned to school more focused than ever on preparing for my future. I got involved in Leadership Council where I’m now part of the civics committee, planning events such as Day at the Park and school dances. I’ve also become a big supporter of the Gay Straight Alliance that deals with anti-bullying, and through this club I've given presentations that address unfairness and promote equity. But perhaps my biggest support system has come through the four years on my high school soccer team, where my commitment and love for soccer won me the captain position for the past two years.

I know I’m not like many students my age, but I'm happy with who I am. I am the student who works on the weekends scrubbing restrooms, carrying trash bags and mopping kitchen floors. I am the student who won't give a second thought to missing a party to help my parents babysit my sisters or accompany them to a new job. I know that one day I will not take my family to a bowling alley to clean it but to enjoy it. And who knows maybe one day I will learn to bowl. 

— — —

It was the first Sunday of April. My siblings and I were sitting at the dinner table giggling and spelling out words in our alphabet soup. The phone rang and my mother answered. It was my father; he was calling from prison in Oregon.

My father had been stopped by immigration on his way to Yakima, Washington, where he’d gone in search of work. He wanted to fulfill a promise he’d made to my family of owning our own house with a nice little porch and a dog.

Fortunately, my father was bailed out of prison by a family friend in Yakima. Unfortunately, though, most of our life savings was spent on his bail. We moved into a rented house, and though we did have a porch, it wasn’t ours. My father went from being a costurero (sewing worker) to being a water-filter salesman, mosaic tile maker, lemon deliverer, and butcher. 

Money became an issue at home, so I started helping out more. After school I’d rush home to clean up and make dinner. My parents refused to let me have a “real” job, so on Saturday afternoons I’d go to the park with my older brother to collect soda cans. Sundays and summertime were spent cleaning houses with my mother.

I worked twice as hard in school. I helped clean my church, joined the choir, and tutored my younger sister in math. As tensions eased at home, I returned to cheerleading, joined a school club called Step Up, and got involved in my school’s urban farm, where I learned the value of healthy eating. Slowly, life improved. Then I received some life-changing news.

My father’s case was still pending and, due to a form he’d signed when he was released in Yakima, it was not only him that was now in danger of being deported, it was my entire family. My father’s lawyer informed me that I’d have to testify in court and in fact our stay in the US was now dependent on my testimony. 

The lawyer had an idea: I had outstanding grades and recommendation letters. If we could show the judge the importance of my family remaining here to support my education, perhaps we had a chance. So I testified.

My father won his case and was granted residency.

Living in a low-income immigrant household has taught me to appreciate all I’ve been given.  Testifying in court helped me grow as a person, has made me more open-minded and aware of the problems facing my community. And my involvement in the urban farm has led me to consider a career as a nutritionist. 

Though neither of my parents attended college, they understand that college is a key factor to a bright future and therefore have been very supportive. And though we don't yet have the house with the small porch and the dog, we're still holding out hope. 

I believe college can help.

— — —

Does every life matter? Because it seems like certain lives matter more than others, especially when it comes to money.

I was in eighth grade when a medical volunteer group that my dad had led to Northern Thailand faced a dilemma of choosing between treating a patient with MDR-TB or saving $5000 (the estimated treatment cost for this patient) for future patients. I remember overhearing intense conversations outside the headquarters tent. My dad and his friend were arguing that we should treat the woman regardless of the treatment cost, whereas the others were arguing that it simply cost too much to treat her. Looking back, it was a conflict between ideals—one side argued that everyone should receive treatment whereas the other argued that interventions should be based on cost-effectiveness. I was angry for two reasons. First, because my father lost the argument. Second, because I couldn’t logically defend what I intuitively believed: that every human being has a right to good health. In short, that every life matters.

Over the next four years I read piles of books on social justice and global health equity in order to prove my intuitive belief in a logical manner. I even took online courses at the undergraduate and graduate level. But I failed to find a clear, logical argument for why every life mattered. I did, however, find sound arguments for the other side, supporting the idea that society should pursue the well-being of the greatest number, that interventions should mitigate the most death and disability per dollar spent. Essentially, my research screamed, “Kid, it’s all about the numbers.”

But I continued searching, even saving up pocket money to attend a summer course on global health at Brown University. It was there that I met Cate Oswald, a program director for Partners in Health (PIH), an organization that believed “the idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that is wrong with the world.” It was like finding a ray of light in the darkness.

Refueled with hope, I went back to find the answer, but this time I didn’t dive into piles of books or lectures. I searched my memories. Why was I convinced that every life mattered?  

When the woman with MDR-TB came to our team, she brought along with her a boy that looked about my age. Six years have passed since I met him, but I still remember the gaze he gave me as he left with his mother. It wasn’t angry, nor was it sad. It was, in a way, serene. It was almost as if he knew this was coming. That burdened me. Something inside me knew this wasn’t right. It just didn’t feel right. Perhaps it was because I, for a second, placed myself in his shoes, picturing what I’d feel if my mother was the woman with MDR-TB.

Upon reflection, I found that my answer didn’t exist in books or research, but somewhere very close from the beginning—my intuition. In other words, I didn’t need an elaborate and intricate reason to prove to myself that health is an inalienable right for every human being—I needed self-reflection.

So I ask again, “Does every life matter?” Yes. “Do I have solid, written proof?” No.

Paul Farmer once said, “The thing about rights is that in the end you can’t prove what is a right.” To me, global health is not merely a study. It’s an attitude—a lens I use to look at the world—and it’s a statement about my commitment to health as a fundamental quality of liberty and equity.

— — —

In eighth grade, I was asked to write my hobbies and career goals, but I hesitated. Should I just make something up? I was embarrassed to tell people that my hobby was collecting cosmetics and that I wanted to become a cosmetic chemist. I worried others would judge me as too girlish and less competent compared to friends who wanted to work at the UN in foreign affairs or police the internet to crack down on hackers. The very fact that I was insecure about my "hobby" was perhaps proof that cosmetics was trivial, and I was a superficial girl for loving it.

But cosmetics was not just a pastime, it was an essential part of my daily life. In the morning I got up early for my skincare routine, using brightening skin tone and concealing blemishes, which gave me the energy and confidence throughout the day. At bedtime I relaxed with a soothing cleansing ritual applying different textures and scents of liquids, creams, sprays, and gels. My cosmetic collection was a dependable companion - rather than hiding it away, I decided instead to learn more about cosmetics, and to explore.

However, cosmetic science wasn't taught at school so I designed my own training. It began with the search for a local cosmetician to teach me the basics of cosmetics, and each Sunday I visited her lab to formulate organic products. A year of lab practice taught me how little I knew about ingredients, so my training continued with independent research on toxins. I discovered that safety in cosmetics was a contested issue amongst scientists, policy makers, companies, and consumer groups, variously telling me there are toxic ingredients that may or may not be harmful. I was frustrated by this uncertainty, yet motivated to find ways of sharing what I was learning with others.

Research spurred action. I began writing articles on the history of toxic cosmetics, from lead in Elizabethan face powder to lead in today's lipstick, and communicated with a large readership online. Positive feedback from hundreds of readers inspired me to step up my writing, to raise awareness with my peers, so I wrote a gamified survey for online distribution discussing the slack natural and organic labeling of cosmetics, which are neither regulated nor properly defined. At school I saw opportunities to affect real change and launched a series of green chemistry campaigns: the green agenda engaged the school community in something positive and was a magnet for creative student ideas, such as a recent project to donate handmade organic pet shampoo to local dog shelters. By senior year, I was pleased my exploration had gone well.

But on a recent holiday back home, I unpacked and noticed cosmetics had invaded much of my space over the years. Dresser top and drawers were crammed with unused tubes and jars — once handpicked with loving care — had now become garbage. I sorted through each hardened face powder and discolored lotion, remembering what had excited me about the product and how I'd used it. Examining these mementos led me to a surprising realization: yes, I had been a superficial girl obsessed with clear and flawless skin.

But there was something more too.

My makeup had given me confidence and comfort, and that was okay. I am glad I didn't abandon the superficial me, but instead acknowledged her, and stood by her to take her on an enlightening and rewarding journey. Cosmetics led me to dig deeper into scientific inquiry, helped me develop an impassioned voice, and became a tool to connect me with others. Together, I've learned that the beauty of a meaningful journey lies in getting lost for it was in the meandering that I found myself.

— — —

I have been pooped on many times. I mean this in the most literal sense possible. I have been pooped on by pigeons and possums, house finches and hawks, egrets and eastern grays.

I don’t mind it, either. For that matter, I also don’t mind being pecked at, hissed at, scratched and bitten—and believe me, I have experienced them all.

I don’t mind having to skin dead mice, feeding the remaining red embryonic mass to baby owls. (Actually, that I do mind a little.)

I don’t mind all this because when I’m working with animals, I know that even though they probably hate me as I patch them up, their health and welfare is completely in my hands. Their chances of going back to the wild, going back to their homes, rely on my attention to their needs and behaviors.

My enduring interest in animals and habitat loss led me to intern at the Wildlife Center of Silicon Valley over the summer, and it was there that I was lucky enough to meet those opossum joeys that defecated on my shoes whenever I picked them up (forcing me to designate my favorite pair of shoes as animal hospital shoes, never to be worn elsewhere again). It was there that a juvenile squirrel decided my finger looked fit to suckle, and that many an angry pigeon tried to peck off my hands.

And yet, when the internship ended, I found myself hesitant to leave. That hesitation didn’t simply stem from my inherent love of animals. It was from the sense of responsibility that I developed while working with orphaned and injured wildlife. After all, most of the animals are there because of us—the baby opossums and squirrels are there because we hit their mothers with our cars, raptors and coyotes end up there due to secondary rodenticide poisoning and illegal traps. We are responsible for the damage, so I believe we are responsible for doing what we can to help. And of course, there is empathy—empathy for the animals who lost their mothers, their homes, their sight and smell, their ability to fly or swim. I couldn’t just abandon them.

I couldn’t just abandon them the same way I couldn’t let big oil companies completely devastate the Arctic, earth’s air conditioner. The same way I couldn’t ignore the oceans, where destructive fishing practices have been wiping out ocean life.

These are not jobs that can be avoided or left half-finished. For some, the Arctic is simply too far away, and the oceans will always teem with life, while for others these problems seem too great to ever conquer. And while I have had these same feelings many times over, I organized letter-writing campaigns, protested, and petitioned the oil companies to withdraw. I campaigned in local parks to educate people on sustaining the seas. I hold on to the hope that persistent efforts will prevent further damage.

I sometimes wonder if my preoccupation with social and environmental causes just makes me feel less guilty. Maybe I do it just to ease my own conscience, so I can tell people “At least I did something.” I hope that it’s not just that. I hope it’s because my mother always told me to treat others as I want to be treated, even if I sometimes took this to its logical extreme, moving roadkill to the bushes along the side of the road because “Ma, if I was hit by a car I would want someone to move me off the road, too.”

The upshot is that I simply cannot walk away from injustice, however uncomfortable it is to confront it. I choose to act, taking a stand and exposing the truth in the most effective manner that I think is possible. And while I’m sure I will be dumped on many times, both literally and metaphorically, I won’t do the same to others.

— — —

My story begins at about the age of two, when I first learned what a maze was. For most people, solving mazes is a childish phase, but I enjoyed artistically designing them. Eventually my creations jumped from their two dimensional confinement, requiring the solver to dive through holes to the other side, or fold part of the paper over, then right back again. At around the age of eight, I invented a way for mazes to carry binary-encoded messages, with left turns and right turns representing 0s and 1s. This evolved into a base-3 maze on the surface of a tetrahedron, with crossing an edge representing a 2. For me, a blank piece of paper represented the freedom to explore new dimensions, pushing the boundaries of traditional maze making.

I found a similar freedom in mathematics. Here's what I wrote when I was 9:

N+B=Z
M^2=P
E-(L+B)=G
C/Y=Z-Q
B+B=Y
(D-V)^9-(P*L)=J
W=(I-V)^2
Y+B+C=R
O^2+(Y*O)=T
F^3-(T+W)=F^2
V-R=H-U
A^3-C=N
Y^2+B=L
J^2-J=J+(P+I)
Y^3=X
X-R=M-O
D*A-B-(V+Y)=E
U-X-O=W
P/P=B
S-A=U
(Z+B)*C=P
C(+/-)B=A
U+C=H
R-L=S-T

The object of puzzles like these was to solve for every letter, assuming they each represented a unique positive integer, and that both sides of each equation are positive. These are not typical assumptions for practical mathematics, and I didn't even need 26 equations. Upon formally learning algebra, I was dismayed that "proper math" operated under a different set of assumptions, that two variables can be equal, or be non-integers, and that you always need as many equations as variables. Yet looking back, I now see that mathematics was so inspirational because there really is no "proper" way, no convention to hold me from discovering a completely original method of thought. Math was, and still is, yet another way for me to freely express my creativity and different way of thinking without constraint.

It's all about freedom. The thoughts are there, they just need a way to escape. The greatest single advancement that delivered even more freedom was my first computer, and on it, one of the first computer games I ever played: "Maze Madness." It was a silly and simple game, but I remember being awed that I could create my own levels. Through the years, I've made thousands (not exaggerating) of levels in a variety of different computer games. I get most excited when I discover a bug that I can incorporate to add a new twist to the traditional gameplay.

A few years ago I grew tired of working within the constraints of most internet games and I wanted to program my own, so I decided to learn the language of Scratch. With it, I created several computer games, incorporating such unordinary aspects of gameplay as the avoidance of time-travel paradoxes, and the control of "jounce," the fourth derivative of position with respect to time. Eventually, I came to realize that Scratch was too limited to implement some of my ideas, so I learned C#, and my potential expanded exponentially. I continue to study programming knowing that the more I learn, the more tools I have to express my creativity.

To me, studying computer science is the next step of an evolution of boundary breaking that has been underway since my first maze.

— — —

On “Silent Siege Day,” many students in my high school joined the Students for Life club and wore red armbands with “LIFE” on them. As a non-Catholic in a Catholic school, I knew I had to be cautious in expressing my opinion on the abortion debate. However, when I saw that all of the armband-bearing students were male, I could not stay silent.

I wrote on Instagram, “pro-choice does not necessarily imply pro-abortion; it means that we respect a woman’s fundamental right to make her own choice regarding her own body.”

Some of my peers expressed support but others responded by calling me a dumb bitch, among other names. When I demanded an apology for the name-calling, I was told I needed to learn to take a joke: “you have a lot of anger, I think you need a boyfriend.” Another one of my peers apparently thought the post was sarcastic (?) and said “I didn’t know women knew how to use sarcasm.”

One by one, I responded. I was glad to have sparked discussion, but by midnight, I was mentally and emotionally exhausted.

Completely overwhelmed by the 140+ comments, I looked to my parents for comfort, assuming they would be proud of me for standing up for my beliefs. But instead, they told me to remove the post and to keep quiet, given the audience. I refused to remove the post, but decided to stay silent.

For months, I heard students talking about “The Post,” and a new sense of self-consciousness felt like duct tape over my mouth. As I researched the history of Planned Parenthood (to respond to someone accusing it of “the genocide of black babies”), I became interested in the history of the feminist movement. At the same time, I was studying the Civil Rights Movement in my history class, and researching my feminist critique of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. I gradually began to realize that refusing to conform to the conventions of society is what propels us toward equality. Martin Luther King was arrested nearly thirty times for ‘civil disobedience’ and Susan B. Anthony for ‘illegal voting.’ Letting the social media backlash silence my own fight for social justice seemed silly and unacceptable.

Before The Post, I naïvely thought that sexism was dead, but I came to see its ubiquity, whether it’s painfully conspicuous or seemingly innocuous. Knowing that young girls are especially vulnerable to constricting gender stereotypes, I Googled “girls empowerment programs” and called Girls on the Run to see how I could help. As a junior coach, I spend my Monday and Thursday afternoons with middle school girls, running, singing Taylor Swift songs, discussing our daily achievements (I got 100 on my math test!), and setting goals for the next day. The girls celebrate their accomplishments and talk about themselves positively, fully expressing their self-esteem.

After The Post, I also Googled ‘how to be politically active,’ and signed petitions for the Medicare for All Act, the Raise the Wage Act, and the EACH Woman Act, among others. In response to the transgender military ban, I called the White House (they hung up as soon as I said “as a human rights advocate...,” but I tried). It feels good to sign petitions, but I’m still not doing enough. I want to fight for social justice in the courtroom.

My role model Ruth Bader Ginsburg says, “dissent[ers] speak to a future age... they are writing not for today but for tomorrow.” Retrospectively, I realize that The Post was my voice of dissent―through it, I initiated a campus-wide discussion and openly challenged the majority opinion of my school for the first time. As I aspire to become a civil rights attorney and the first Asian woman on the Supreme Court (I hope it doesn’t take that long!), I am confident that I will continue to write and speak out for justice ―for tomorrow.

— — —

Most people who know me also know that I dream of becoming a civil rights attorney. But I also have two lesser known dreams: becoming a political philosopher and economist as well as a well-travelled historian. With unparalleled opportunities such as the Philosophy, Politics, and Economics (PPE) concentration, unique history-related minors, and exchange programs at various Sciences Po locations, I believe the University of Michigan will provide me with incredible resources that will help me achieve all three of my dreams. 

The interdisciplinary nature of PPE perfectly suits my desire to understand human beings through different lenses. I strongly believe that social and geopolitical issues must be approached in a multidimensional context--complex relationships between individuals and communities demand equally sophisticated analyses. For example, the topic of immigration has philosophical implications regarding human dignity, political implications regarding border security, as well as economic implications relating to employment. Attempting to understand an extensive topic like immigration through one academic area feels like a gross oversimplification. However, by combining  philosophy, politics, and economics, PPE would allow me to develop the theoretical and empirical knowledge necessary for acquiring a multidimensional understanding of global issues. I look forward to courses such as PHIL359: Law and Philosophy and POLSCI369: Politics of International Economic Relations, as they not only harmoniously blend my areas of interest, but they will also equip me with the critical and rhetorical skills I need for law school and beyond.

At LSA, I also hope to pursue the minors of Global History and the History of Law and Policy. I believe that history is another indispensable component of understanding humanity and the world we live in today. During my internship at the Sejong Institute, I translated Korean research publications on topics like denuclearizing North Korea and resolving the South China Sea disputes. While translating and researching, I drew heavily from what I learned of the region’s past, coming to understand that international conflicts cannot be resolved in the absence of historical insight. The same principle applies to national conflicts as well, which is why I believe that the two minors will be a synergistic addition to my studies in PPE.

While academic concentrations offer different lenses to study the world, languages offer different lenses to experience the world. I look forward to exploring the options of immersing myself in the French culture through UM’s partnership with Sciences Po in Paris, Reims, and Aix-en-Provence. After spending a semester in France, I hope to return to the UM community with the knowledge I’ve gained from courses like CSPO2935: La vie politique américaine (what do the French think about American political life?) and CHUM1580: La saga des intellectuels français: 1944-1968 (reading and discussing seminal works in intellectual history by Aron, Sartre, and Foucault). My Monday and Wednesday nights as a Wolverine will consist of Le Comité Francophone meetings at Amer’s Café on State Street, where I will join my fellow francophiles in celebrating French culture, practicing conversational French, and sharing my study abroad experience at Sciences Po.

There is no other place than the University of Michigan where I will be able to achieve all my dreams without having to sacrifice one for the other. As a Wolverine, I know my future will be limitless.

— — —

Growing up, my world was basketball. My summers were spent between the two solid black lines. My skin was consistently tan in splotches and ridden with random scratches. My wardrobe consisted mainly of track shorts, Nike shoes, and tournament t-shirts. Gatorade and Fun Dip were my pre-game snacks. The cacophony of rowdy crowds, ref whistles, squeaky shoes, and scoreboard buzzers was a familiar sound. I was the team captain of almost every team I played on—familiar with the Xs and Os of plays, commander of the court, and the coach’s right hand girl.

But that was only me on the surface.

Deep down I was an East-Asian influenced bibliophile and a Young Adult fiction writer.

Hidden in the cracks of a blossoming collegiate level athlete was a literary fiend. I devoured books in the daylight. I crafted stories at night time. After games, after practice, after conditioning I found nooks of solitude. Within these moments, I became engulfed in a world of my own creation. Initially, I only read young adult literature, but I grew to enjoy literary fiction and self-help: Kafka, Dostoevsky, Branden, Csikszentmihalyi. I expanded my bubble to Google+ critique groups, online discussion groups, blogs, writing competitions and clubs. I wrote my first novel in fifth grade, my second in seventh grade, and started my third in ninth grade. Reading was instinctual. Writing was impulsive.

I stumbled upon the movies of Hayao Miyazaki at a young age. I related a lot to the underlying East Asian philosophy present in his movies. My own perspective on life, growth, and change was echoed in his storytelling. So, I read his autobiographies, watched anime, and researched ancient texts—Analects, The Way, Art of War. Then, I discovered the books of Haruki Murakami whom I now emulate in order to improve my writing.

Like two sides of a coin, I lived in two worlds. One world was outward—aggressive, noisy, invigorating; the other, internal—tempestuous, serene, nuanced.

Internal and external conflict ensued. Many times I was seen only as an athlete and judged by the stereotypes that come with it: self-centered, unintelligent, listens to rap. But off the court, I was more reflective, empathetic and I listened to music like Florence and the Machine. I was even sometimes bullied for not acting “black enough.” My teammates felt that my singular focus should be basketball and found it strange that I participated in so many extracurriculars.

But why should I be one-dimensional? I had always been motivated to reach the pinnacle of my potential in whatever I was interested in. Why should I be defined by only one aspect of my life? I felt like I had to pick one world.

Then I had an ACL injury. And then another. And then another.

After the first ACL surgery, my family and I made the decision to homeschool. I knew I wanted to explore my many interests—literature, novel writing, East Asian culture, and basketball—equally. So I did. I found time to analyze Heart of Darkness and used my blog to instruct adult authors how to become self-published authors. I researched Shintoism, read dozens of books on writing and self-improvement. My sister and I had been talking for a while about starting a nonprofit focused on social awareness, education, and community outreach. Finally, we had the time to do it.

While basketball has equipped me with leadership skills and life experiences, it is only one part of who I am. As a socially aware, intellectual, and introspective individual, I value creative expression and independence. My life’s mission is to reach my full potential in order to help others reach their own.

— — —

I am [Student’s name]. I was named after my father and grandfather. I was born, raised and currently reside in the Phoenician city of Sidon, a port city in the south of Lebanon along the Mediterranean. I was raised speaking Arabic and, at age 6, I began attending French Community School where the language of instruction is French. Thus, English is my third language.

While I have been fortunate in many ways, I have had my share of challenges growing up in Lebanon. In 2006, I witnessed my first war, which broke in the south of Lebanon and resulted in the displacement of thousands of people into my hometown. Hearing the bombs and seeing the images of destruction around me certainly impacted me. However, the greater impact, was working with my father to distribute basic aid to the refugees. I visited one site where three families were cramped up in one small room but still managed to make the best of the situation by playing cards and comforting each other. Working with the refugees was very rewarding and their resilience was inspiring. The refugees returned home and the areas destroyed were largely rebuilt. This experience showed me the power of community and the importance of giving back.

I am blessed with a family who has supported my ambitious academic and social pursuits. My parents have always worked hard to provide me with interesting developmental opportunities, be it a ballet performance at the Met, a Scientific Fair at Beirut Hippodrome, or a tour of London’s Houses of Parliament. Because of the value they placed on education, my parents placed me in a competitive Catholic school despite my family’s Muslim background. Today, my close friends consist of my classmates from various religious and social backgrounds.

In 2012 and 2013, I had the opportunity to attend summer programs at UCLA and Yale University. The programs were incredibly rewarding because they gave me a taste of the excellent quality and diversity of education available in the United States. At Yale University, my roommate shared with me stories about the customs in his hometown of Shanghai. Other experiences, such as the mock board meeting of a technology company to which students from different backgrounds brought in divergent business strategies, affirmed my belief in the importance of working toward a more inclusive global community. I believe the United States, more so than any other country, can offer a challenging, engaging and rewarding college education with opportunities for exposure to a diverse range of students from across the globe.

I intend to return to Lebanon upon graduation from college in order to carry on the legacy of my grandfather and father through developing our family business and investing in our community. My grandfather, who never graduated from high school started a small grocery store with limited resources. Through hard work, he grew his business into the largest grocery store in my hometown, Khan Supermarket. My father, who attended only one year of college, transformed it into a major shopping center.

Like my father, I grew up involved in the business and have a passion for it. I’ve worked in various roles at the store, and, in 2012, I worked on a project to implement an automated parking system, contacting vendors from around the globe and handling most of the project on my own from planning to organization and coordination. I enjoyed every bit of it, taking pride in challenging myself and helping my father.

My hard work has driven me to become the top-ranked student in my school, and I am confident that my ambition and desire to contribute to the community will ensure my success in your program. I look forward to learning from the diverse experiences of my peers and sharing my story with them, thus enriching both our learning experiences. And I look forward to becoming the first man in my family to finish college.

— — —

 Smeared blood, shredded feathers. Clearly, the bird was dead. But wait, the slight fluctuation of its chest, the slow blinking of its shiny black eyes. No, it was alive.

I had been typing an English essay when I heard my cat's loud meows and the flutter of wings. I had turned slightly at the noise and had found the barely breathing bird in front of me.

The shock came first. Mind racing, heart beating faster, blood draining from my face. I instinctively reached out my hand to hold it, like a long-lost keepsake from my youth. But then I remembered that birds had life, flesh, blood.

Death. Dare I say it out loud? Here, in my own home?

Within seconds, my reflexes kicked in. Get over the shock. Gloves, napkins, towels. Band-aid? How does one heal a bird? I rummaged through the house, keeping a wary eye on my cat. Donning yellow rubber gloves, I tentatively picked up the bird. Never mind the cat's hissing and protesting scratches, you need to save the bird. You need to ease its pain.

But my mind was blank. I stroked the bird with a paper towel to clear away the blood, see the wound. The wings were crumpled, the feet mangled. A large gash extended close to its jugular rendering its breathing shallow, unsteady. The rising and falling of its small breast slowed. Was the bird dying? No, please, not yet. 

Why was this feeling so familiar, so tangible?

Oh. Yes. The long drive, the green hills, the white church, the funeral. The Chinese mass, the resounding amens, the flower arrangements. Me, crying silently, huddled in the corner. The Hsieh family huddled around the casket. Apologies. So many apologies. Finally, the body  lowered to rest. The body. Kari Hsieh. Still familiar, still tangible.

Hugging Mrs. Hsieh, I was a ghost, a statue. My brain and my body competed. Emotion wrestled with fact. Kari Hsieh, aged 17, my friend of four years, had died in the Chatsworth Metrolink Crash on Sep. 12, 2008. Kari was dead, I thought. Dead.

But I could still save the bird.

My frantic actions heightened my senses, mobilized my spirit. Cupping the bird, I ran outside, hoping the cool air outdoors would suture every wound, cause the bird to miraculously fly away. Yet there lay the bird in my hands, still gasping, still dying. Bird, human, human, bird. What was the difference? Both were the same. Mortal.

But couldn't I do something? Hold the bird longer, de-claw the cat? I wanted to go to my bedroom, confine myself to tears, replay my memories, never come out. 

The bird's warmth faded away. Its heartbeat slowed along with its breath. For a long time, I stared thoughtlessly at it, so still in my hands.

Slowly, I dug a small hole in the black earth. As it disappeared under handfuls of dirt, my own heart grew stronger, my own breath more steady.

The wind, the sky, the dampness of the soil on my hands whispered to me, “The bird is dead. Kari has passed. But you are alive.” My breath, my heartbeat, my sweat sighed back, “I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.”

— — —

From page 54 of the maroon notebook sitting on my mahogany desk:

“Then Cain said to the Lord, “My punishment is greater than I can bear. I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth and whoever finds me will kill me.” - Genesis 4:13

Here is a secret that no one in my family knows: I shot my brother when I was six. Luckily, it was a BB gun. But to this day, my older brother Jonathan does not know who shot him. And I have finally promised myself to confess this eleven year old secret to him after I write this essay.

The truth is, I was always jealous of my brother. Our grandparents, with whom we lived as children in Daegu, a rural city in South Korea, showered my brother with endless accolades: he was bright, athletic, and charismatic.

“Why can’t you be more like Jon?” my grandmother used to nag, pointing at me with a carrot stick. To me, Jon was just cocky. He would scoff at me when he would beat me in basketball, and when he brought home his painting of Bambi with the teacher’s sticker “Awesome!” on top, he would make several copies of it and showcase them on the refrigerator door. But I retreated to my desk where a pile of “Please draw this again and bring it to me tomorrow” papers lay, desperate for immediate treatment. Later, I even refused to attend the same elementary school and wouldn’t even eat meals with him.

Deep down I knew I had to get the chip off my shoulder. But I didn’t know how.

That is, until March 11th, 2001.

That day around six o’clock, juvenile combatants appeared in Kyung Mountain for their weekly battle, with cheeks smeared in mud and empty BB guns in their hands. The Korean War game was simple: to kill your opponent you had to shout “pow!” before he did. Once we situated ourselves, our captain blew the pinkie whistle and the war began. My friend Min-young and I hid behind a willow tree, eagerly awaiting our orders.

Beside us, our comrades were dying, each falling to the ground crying in “agony,” their hands clasping their “wounds.” Suddenly a wish for heroism surged within me: I grabbed Min-young’s arms and rushed towards the enemies’ headquarters, disobeying our orders to remain sentry duty. To tip the tide of the war, I had to kill their captain. We infiltrated the enemy lines, narrowly dodging each attack. We then cleared the pillars of asparagus ferns until the Captain’s lair came into view. I quickly pulled my clueless friend back into the bush.

Hearing us, the alarmed captain turned around: It was my brother.

He saw Min-young’s right arm sticking out from the bush and hurled a “grenade,” (a rock), bruising his arm.

“That’s not fair!” I roared in the loudest and most unrecognizable voice I could manage.

Startled, the Captain and his generals abandoned their post. Vengeance replaced my wish for heroism and I took off after the fleeing perpetrator. Streams of sweat ran down my face and I pursued him for several minutes until suddenly I was arrested by a small, yellow sign that read in Korean: DO NOT TRESPASS: Boar Traps Ahead. (Two summers ago, my five year old cousin, who insisted on joining the ranks, had wandered off-course during the battle; we found him at the bottom of a 20 ft deep pit with a deep gash in his forehead and shirt soaked in blood) “Hey, stop!” I shouted, heart pounding. “STOP!” My mind froze. My eyes just gazed at the fleeing object; what should I do?

I looked on as my shivering hand reached for the canister of BBs. The next second, I heard two shots followed by a cry. I opened my eyes just enough to see two village men carrying my brother away from the warning sign. I turned around, hurled my BB gun into the nearby Kyung Creek and ran home as fast as I could.

* * *

Days passed. My brother and I did not talk about the incident.

‘Maybe he knew it was me,’ I thought in fear as I tried to eavesdrop on his conversation with grandpa one day. When the door suddenly opened, I blurted, “Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said pushing past me, “Just a rough sleep.”

But in the next few weeks, something was happening inside me.

All the jealousy and anger I’d once felt had been replaced by a new feeling: guilt.

That night when my brother was gone I went to a local store and bought a piece of chocolate taffy, his favorite. I returned home and placed it on my brother’s bed with a note attached: “Love, Grandma.”

Several days later, I secretly went into his room and folded his unkempt pajamas.

Then, other things began to change. We began sharing clothes (something we had never done), started watching Pokémon episodes together, and then, on his ninth birthday, I did something with Jon that I hadn’t done in six years: I ate dinner with him. I even ate fishcakes, which he loved but I hated. And I didn’t complain.

Today, my brother is one of my closest friends. Every week I accompany him to Carlson Hospital where he receives treatment for his obsessive compulsive disorder and schizophrenia. While in the waiting room, we play a noisy game of Zenga, comment on the Lakers’ performance or listen to the radio on the registrar’s desk.

Then, the door to the doctor’s office opens.

“Jonathan Lee, please come in.”

I tap his shoulder and whisper, “Rock it, bro.”

After he leaves, I take out my notebook and begin writing where I left off.

Beside me, the receptionist’s fingers hover over the radio in search of a new station, eventually settling on one. I hear LeAnn Rimes singing “Amazing Grace.” Her voice slowly rises over the noise of the bustling room.

“’Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear. And Grace, my fears relieved...”

Smiling, I open Jon’s Jansport backpack and neatly place this essay inside and a chocolate taffy with a note attached.

Twenty minutes have passed when the door abruptly opens.

“Guess what the doctor just said?” my brother cries, unable to hide his exhilaration.

I look up and I smile too.

— — —

“If the ink of my writing morphed into ants, would they march along with my thoughts?” ~ Jarod Kintz

Wooden bookshelves protrude regally from my wall.  The wall’s deep purple stucco contrasts starkly with the boards’ glossy white granules.  Atop the shelves, several volumes rise in lofty columns.  The columns tremble.  A strange commotion ripples through their pages. 

Sprawled upon one such page, I feel the parchment beneath me shuddering like the earth beneath a wild stampede.  Before my incredulous eyes, the typed letters before me quiver, totter… morph into ants!  The ants march to and fro across the page, ravenously following thoughts of quarks, hidden dimensions, and string theory.  I am in Brian Greene’s scientific novel, The Elegant Universe.  I want to join the ants and delve into the author’s thoughts.  Instead, I reflect on my memories:

Awe overwhelmed my middle-school mind.  My hand, a bottle cap, everything, was composed of not only atoms, but of smaller quarks, which were not static points, but oscillating strings.  Everything in my life might be controlled by infinitesimal, interconnected loops... the universe, a mind-bogglingly large space, might be only one of an infinite number of universes.  After studying cosmology at an extra-curricular astro-camp, I was certain: I wanted to be a theoretical physicist.  

I haul myself out of Greene’s novel and observe a stream of ants spilling from Pride and Prejudice, Gone with the Wind, and Crime and Punishment.  I join their ranks, revisiting scenes of ballrooms, Civil War battles, 19th century St. Petersburg.  Again, my thoughts wander:

 As a sophomore, I loved venturing into the worlds of historic characters.  AP European History quickly became my favorite class.  I obsessed with particulars: Queen Elizabeth I and her rumored romantic interest in Sir Walter Raleigh, the infamous schemes and bizarre execution of the Russian monk, Rasputin.  Studying history was like reading a novel, and I was determined to uncover the plots.  I aspired to become an historian.

As we vacate Crime and Punishment, the ant before me halts jarringly.  I pitch forward precariously.  My arms whirl in a windmill-like motion.  I plunge over the ant’s back into another novel. 

An ant nudges me from the left.  Another from the right.  All around me, the ants careen spasmodically – here, there, everywhere!  As I listen to the thoughts swirling about I deduce the cause of the chaos: the little creatures cannot decipher my Latin copy of Carmina.

I remembered translating Catullus’ poetry, analyzing his dysfunctional relationship with Lesbia.  Wishing to grasp Catullus’ motivations and thought processes, I realized that it would be fascinating to study psychology. 

I squeeze beneath Carmina’s cover and spot my ceramic teddy-bear bookend looming above me.  Struck by a sudden impulse, I scale its towering form and settle comfortably between the figurine’s ears, my legs dangling over its eyes, and survey my bedroom.  Around me, my books pitch and heave mightily as ants swell from their covers.  A black sea of scuttling limbs, the ants pour out of Atlas Shrugged, A Long Way Gone, Star Trek, Harry Potter, and Dickens novels, and dozens more.  They surge toward the center of my room, billow beneath my bed, and… disappear.  The boisterous, animate rabble of thoughts vanishes, leaving behind the whisper of empty pages rustling blankly.

I withdraw from my daydream and scrutinize my college application.  The old, but now more pressing, question batters my brain: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”  I contemplate my bookshelves and the stories that have shaped my identity and aspirations and am struck by the power of ink on paper to persuade, inform, and inspire.  I select the English option from the application menu.  My future might be undecided but surely pursuing my passionate interest in literature is the best way to fill its pages.  I eye my copy of One L.  

Perhaps an English degree will lead to a J.D. in law…

— — —

February 2011– My brothers and I were showing off our soccer dribbling skills in my grandfather’s yard when we heard gunshots and screaming in the distance. We paused and listened, confused by sounds we had only ever heard on the news or in movies. My mother rushed out of the house and ordered us inside. The Arab Spring had come to Bahrain.

I learned to be alert to the rancid smell of tear gas. Its stench would waft through the air before it invaded my eyes, urging me inside before they started to sting. Newspaper front pages constantly showed images of bloodied clashes, made worse by Molotov cocktails. Martial Law was implemented; roaming tanks became a common sight. On my way to school, I nervously passed burning tires and angry protesters shouting “Yaskut Hamad! “ [“Down with King Hamad!”]. Bahrain, known for its palm trees and pearls, was waking up from a slumber. The only home I had known was now a place where I learned to fear.

September 2013– Two and a half years after the uprisings, the events were still not a distant memory. I decided the answer to fear was understanding. I began to analyze the events and actions that led to the upheaval of the Arab Springs. In my country, religious and political tensions were brought to light as Shias, who felt underrepresented and neglected within the government, challenged the Sunnis, who were thought to be favored for positions of power. I wanted equality and social justice; I did not want the violence to escalate any further and for my country to descend into the nightmare that is Libya and Syria.

September 2014– Pursuing understanding helped allay my fears, but I also wanted to contribute to Bahrain in a positive way. I participated in student government as a student representative and later as President, became a member of Model United Nations (MUN), and was elected President of the Heritage Club, a charity-focused club supporting refugees and the poor.

As an MUN delegate, I saw global problems from perspectives other than my own and used my insight to push for compromise. I debated human rights violations in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict from an Israeli perspective, argued whether Syrian refugees should be allowed entry into neighboring European countries, and then created resolutions for each problem. In the Heritage Club, I raised funds and ran food drives so that my team could provide support for less fortunate Bahrainis. We regularly distributed boxed lunches to migrant workers, bags of rice to refugees and air conditioners to the poor.

April 2016 – The Crown Prince International Scholarship Program (CPISP) is an intensive leadership training program where participants are chosen on merit, not political ideologies. Both Shia and Sunni candidates are selected, helping to diversify the future leadership of my country. I was shortlisted to attend the training during that summer.

July 2016 – The CPISP reaffirmed for me the importance of cooperation. At first, building chairs out of balloons and skyscrapers out of sticks didn’t seem meaningful. But as I learned to apply different types of leadership styles to real-life situations and honed my communication skills to lead my team, I began to see what my country was missing: harmony based on trust. Bringing people together from different backgrounds and successfully completing goals—any goal—builds trust. And trust is the first step to lasting peace.

October 2016 – I have only begun to understand my people and my history, but I no longer live in fear. Instead, I have found purpose. I plan to study political science and economics to find answers for the issues that remain unresolved in my country. Bahrain can be known for something more than pearl diving, palm trees, and the Arab Spring; it can be known for the understanding of its people, including me.

— — —

J.R.R. Tolkien introduced us to Middle Earth. George R.R. Martin invited us to King’s Landing. J.K. Rowling enrolled us in Hogwarts. In order to craft fantasy worlds that resonate with the widest audiences, the best writers combine their formal education with personal experience and distinct interests. Creatives must draw inspiration by integrating the depths of their psyche with their environment and, by studying creative writing and Asian studies, I believe the University of Michigan will provide me with opportunities to develop a strong minority voice in the predominantly Caucasian world of young adult fiction. 

Through the Residential Colleges, I hope to be a part of a living-learning community that emphasizes critical thinking and creative expression while immersing myself in the development process. The ability to work one-on-one with an RC Professor and receive personalized instruction is invaluable, as it will give me the unique opportunity to address my weaknesses and improve my strengths. And a fiction writer cannot mold young minds to connect deeply and read critically complex works of art without having done so herself, so I am looking forward to First-Year Seminars such as “Topics in the Science of Creativity” and “Saving the World with a Story: Writers’ Voices of Conscience in Fiction,” as these will help me to analyze my writing on both a microscopic and macroscopic level.

The Center of Japanese Studies and the Department of Asian Languages and Cultures will enable me to deepen my understanding of Japanese culture in the classroom and apply my knowledge by studying abroad in Japan. The Residential College intensive language program will help me develop Japanese proficiency, allowing me to take full advantage of overseas study in Kyoto. Courses like Early East Asian Transformations, First-Year Japanese through Anime and Manga, and Spirits of Contemporary Japan will teach me to analyze spirituality, existentialism, and society in the context of classical and contemporary Japan. This can ultimately serve as a thematic basis for my writing. I can see myself attending live action and anime screenings on campus with club Animania and participating in cultural initiatives by the Japan Students Association.

Although writing and Asian Studies are my passions, I look forward to attending a large school with diverse opportunities and want to remain open to post-graduate careers in either business or law. As my sister and I have started a nonprofit, I may want to explore organizational studies. I  also want to contribute to the UM community by becoming a Sweetland writing consultant and a creative writing intern at Ypsilanti District Libraries with 826Michigan.

Over the course of my interactions with Brittany Simmons and Logan Corey and after much research, I have come to see that what UM has to offer aligns with so many of my interests and core values. (No other school I know of offered courses in 2015 exploring my literary heroes Miyazaki and Murakami.) In short, Michigan has become a top choice for me and, if I am able to afford it financially, I would love to attend.

— — —

“Beat your face!” “Looking fishy hunty.” “You betta work!” These quotes don’t come from a school fight, a fish market, or a demanding boss. They come from RuPaul’s Drag Race, the only show featuring an eclectic mix of dancing, modeling, lip syncing, comedy, drama, fashion, and of course drag queens. It’s a beautiful whirlwind of a little bit of TV and a whole lot of crazy—but Drag Race isn’t just a source of entertainment for me, it has shown me the beauty of pure, uninhibited self-expression and empowered me to be me. 

Throughout 9th and 10th grade I was overwhelmed by the barrage of imagery that told me that being gay was about being the “right” body type and saying the sassiest, most opinionated things I could think of. This left me, a chubby pubescent 15-year-old, obsessed with losing weight and walking around the halls exclaiming “That’s faabbuulloouuss!”  I was determined to become the type of gay boy that popular culture suggested I was meant to be. Drag Race showed me the endless possibilities of what being gay could mean. I saw men who looked like me being praised for their “delicious curves;” I saw gay men who liked sports or math or exercise or all of the above or none of it. I learned that I can define my own queerness; I could love biology, be oblivious as to what a “sophisticated color palette” is, and still want to experiment with drag and gender and what “me” is. 

The queens on Ru Paul’s Drag Race have created a space in which they give each other unwavering love and support. They’ve shown me an ideal to aspire to, a community in which inner truths are more than accepted, they are embraced. Before watching the show, I was deathly afraid of putting on pride socks, even though they were hidden beneath my clothes. I wasn’t able to speak about things that mattered to me without a shaking voice and sweaty palms. The queens’ courage to show the world their most inner selves demonstrated to me that being brave and speaking out doesn’t only open you up to failure, it opens you up to greater success. They inspired me to march in DC Pride, wearing a rainbow tutu, dancing like nobody was watching. They gave me the strength to speak up in class, to push past the nerves and allow my voice to be heard. I took leadership positions in clubs, fostering safe spaces for my peers to share their perspectives without inhibition. As a president of poetry club, I created a platform for queer students to share their stories. I was selected to attend the NAIS Student Leadership and Diversity Conference. At the conference, I learned how to expound upon my beliefs and was inspired to make a difference in my community. I developed an independent study focused on diversifying the English and History curriculum, to give a voice to the unheard minorities at my school. Now I have a newfound confidence, a passion for leadership, and a motivation to make change. 

Today, I walk through the halls unafraid to be me—to dance in the middle of the hallway, to put on my pride socks and a pin too, to sing Chicago in the airport. My hope is that I can be to others what Drag Race was for me; I want to share my experiences with my peers and reach new conclusions with them, to be brave and inspire braveness in others, and to help create a community where all can share their beliefs without fear of rejection. I can’t wait for the next season.

— — —

Lola the lamb. Diego the snake. Jack the Dog. Nutmeg the rabbit. And a Bearded Dragon named Zigzag.

No, these aren’t weird titles for kids books. 

These are actually some of my greatest teachers.

In my life, in addition to those named above, I’ve had as pets: a ball python, a fire bellied frog, a hedgehog, three birds, countless hamsters, 22 quails, several cats, chickens, a seahorse, ducks, caterpillars, rabbits, and a number of anoles.

But why have I grown up with such a diverse cast? Was I an animal in a past life and that’s why I feel close to them? Do I just enjoy the prospect of unspoken understanding, interpreting the complex, and actually succeeding? For many reasons, my connection and experiences with these animals have been a major part of shaping who I am today. 

Nothing teaches patience like trying to catch 22 rogue quail in your backyard. I incubated 32 quail eggs and every day I dedicated my afternoons to watching the eggs, checking the water levels, and making sure the temperature was okay. In the days leading up to the expected hatch date, I sat there, face centimeters away from the glass, talking to them and waiting for any signs of movement. Once they did hatch, taking care of them wasn't easy and I had to learn a lot about how they acted. I have taken these traits of patience and adaptability into other areas of my life. For example, in crew, creating the ideal “set” in a boat takes eight people working in perfect unison and this is rarely the case. Learning how to love crew for what it is took time. 

I’ve perhaps learned more about trust from my foster lamb, Lola, than I have from humans. She came from a farm that we later learned abused (and abuses) its animals and experiences high death rates of baby animals. Lola was really sick and needed constant attention 24 hours a day. Because of her previous bad experiences with humans, letting herself be vulnerable with me was significant to me. I had to trust that it was worth all of the effort and if I gave her my attention, she would get better. This ability to build trust has been important in my life in other areas, whether it be animals, plants, or working with my peers in Peer Connections. Though some of the students in Peer Connections or challenges communicating, I’ve been able to create trust and form real friendships through the things I learned from Lola: empathy, openness, and attentive care.

And trying to maintain a saltwater aquarium for my seahorse taught me a lot about science. Saltwater aquariums are especially difficult because they involve simulating a large and complicated ecosphere. The levels of alkanes, nitrates, nitrites, ammonia, salinity, and pH are extremely important and must be maintained by an established community of nitrifying bacteria that will detoxify the water. Although the process of creating this ecosystem took many months, I was also able to connect with my dad. I learned from him how to take something you are passionate about and apply it in a practical way. 

Some lessons I have had to learn the hard way. I was heartbroken when my bird Jules died by hand, for example, or when I had to watch my dad cut the heads off chickens I had raised. And even though at the time these seemed like the worst thing that could happen, learning how to grieve and being able to honor life after it’s gone has been valuable. Raising animals exposed me to quantitative things like science and animal husbandry, but also qualitative things such as intuition and communication. All my interactions with my animals have been transformative in my development and understanding of myself and society. 

— — —

Since 1941, my family has had an odd tradition.

Three days a week, my great-grandfather Pop brought home ribs. After dinner, he'd go around the table inspecting each plate, making sure each rib was stripped down to the bone. If he found one morsel, you couldn't be excused. Pop believed that, before you could leave the table, you had to finish your ribs.

This lesson has stuck with me. Whether I'm staying up until two in the morning to figure out the Radius of Convergence of a Power Series or identifying solutions to countless concerns issued by my school district, I strive to finish my ribs.

But this is just one of many lessons food has taught me ...

During Thanksgiving, instead of going around the table to express "thanks," my family writes notes on the tablecloth—the same one for the past 26 years. You'll find thoughts from my Dad. But only until 2004. Or corny jokes from my step-dad. But only until 2016. And you'll read "Family is everything" from my great-grandmother Non. But only until 2017.

My family is far from perfect, but it's in the presence of a tablecloth where time freezes and I begin to feel an unfamiliar sense of stability. It's where my brother Noah told my Dad he loved him after six years of not communicating; where Mom sat next to Dad without a lawyer by their side, and where my family has gathered for every birthday at the same restaurant since I was four.

To me, eating means celebrating—culture, people, life. And I celebrated Non's life by trying a dish I've feared since my first Passover: Gefilte fish, a stuffed seafood concoction. It's not the taste I remember clearly but rather how it began a cascade of tasting other Jewish foods—chopped liver, beef tongue, pickled herring. In the time since, I've realized Gefilte fish is more than just the unfamiliar food tucked away in my great-grandma's fridge, it represents the opportunities that arise from trying new things.

Because Gefilte fish is everywhere.

In some cases, Gefilte fish has meant testing different locations of bins to minimize food waste in a school with no cafeteria. Or researching how biofortification can create an allosteric inhibitor reducing the release of ethylene, thus increasing the shelf life of produce.

The lessons I learn through food aren't just limited to traditional meals, though.

For the past five years, I've sold Otter Pops, a type of popsicle, at Spokane's annual race. Every year my business grows---I hire new employees to manage new stands throughout the course to sell thousands of Pops. But while my popsicle empire expands, one thing remains true: I take a break amid the chaos to eat my own Otter Pops. It's the same reason I play volleyball with friends after a long week of school and swim in the river with my football teammates after we finish conditioning. I take tremendous pride in these things; in fact, I find them necessary.

And when I cook, I transform a part of raw Earth into raw culture. Preparing steak enables me to remember my great-grandfather while eating it reminds me of its destruction to the environment. This is how I understand the world— I cook to discover myself; I eat to learn about the world around me.

But we've become a product of the industrial food system, leading us to believe food is just another commodity and rendering us unable to identify that it exists at the seed of our very identity. This is why I want to study Anthropology and Public Policy--to restore the bond between humans, food, and culture and to create the policies that will ensure those who are food insecure have the same opportunity to do so themselves.

I have so much left to eat in this world---so much to change, so much to create, and even more to impact.

I'm hungry ...

— — —

BTW: The author didn’t title his essay (and no need to title yours), and he didn’t bold his thesis sentence; I’ve done that just so you can easily see his topic. 

Six years ago, a scrawny twelve year old kid took his first steps into Home Depot: the epitome of manliness. As he marched through the wood section, his eyes scrolled past the options. Red Oak? No, too ubiquitous. Pine? No, too banal. Mahogany? Perfect, it would nicely complement his walls. As days went on, the final product was almost ready. 91 degree angles had been perfected to 90. Drawer slides had been lubricated ten times over. Finally, the masterpiece was finished, and the little boy couldn’t help but smile. A scrawny 12-year-old kid had become a scrawny 12-year-old man. This desk I sit at has not only seen me through the last six years, but its story and the story of the objects I keep on it provide a foundation for my future pursuits.

My trustworthy, five-year old laptop sits in the center of the desk. From accompanying me on my ventures to track Null Pointer Errors in my apps to playing classic Billy Joel after a rough day, my laptop is my first-choice vehicle as I drive through a life of curiosity. Whether executing my simulations of stress-analysis tests, teaching me how to make an origami lily, or showing me a TED talk on why people find it difficult to poop away from home, my laptop has allowed me to find different versions of myself. Though I will probably call myself an engineer someday, my heart is in so many different places. I’m a philosopher, a historian, an economist, a black belt in TaeKwonDo, a tech-y, a farmer, a teacher, an inventor, an entrepreneur, a TED-talk lover, and a sports enthusiast. With each Google search, a new world opens.

To my left is a stack of books. To earn a coveted top spot in the stack, the “winning” book has to have taught me a life lesson OR made me cry. Currently, the book on top is The Way of the Seal by Mark Divine. Divine’s memoir details the training required to become an elite warrior and how that mentality can be applied to success in all aspects of life (social, mental, physical, and spiritual). Like Divine, I try to avoid a tunnel-vision attitude and consider the implications of my actions on society at large, as a leader and a role model. While running my company, a non-profit that kindles interest in STEM around the world, I have been particularly guided by the principle of leading from the battlefield. This mantra of collaborative leadership helps me facilitate many processes, from managing social media to collaborating with potential investors. I’m also reminded to sometimes take a step back in the midst of a crisis and let the universe give me the answers.

To the right of the books is a bead bracelet identical to the ones my parents and brother wear. When I look at it, I remember my parents’ secret sign language as I stood on the stage of FBLA nationals. One thumbs up means “remember to breathe”, two thumbs up means “remember to smile for the photos.” Regardless, I forgot to smile for the photo. When I look at the bracelet, I also see my little brother tugging on me, asking me countless questions as I repair my cube-stacking robot. “What’s that weird looking spinny thing?” It’s obviously a 0.81 lb, 5mm shaft diameter, 5700 rpm, 35 oz-in stall torque, 22 amp stall current, brushless DC motor. Duh.

One day you’ll find me in a corner office somewhere, running a couple of different tech startups, but the desk I’ll be sitting at is this same one. I never want to forget that, at heart, I am a confident skinny little nerd unafraid and eager to take my next Home Depot trip.

— — —

My laptop is like a passport. It is plastered with stickers all over the outside, inside, and bottom. Each sticker is a stamp, representing a place I've been, a passion I've pursued, or community I've belonged to. These stickers make for an untraditional first impression at a meeting or presentation, but it's one I'm proud of. Let me take you on a quick tour:

"We < 3 Design," bottom left corner. Art has been a constant for me for as long as I can remember. Today my primary engagement with art is through design. I've spent entire weekends designing websites and social media graphics for my companies. Design means more to me than just branding and marketing; it gives me the opportunity to experiment with texture, perspective, and contrast, helping me refine my professional style.

"Common Threads," bottom right corner. A rectangular black and red sticker displaying the theme of the 2017 TEDxYouth@Austin event. For years I've been interested in the street artists and musicians in downtown Austin who are so unapologetically themselves. As a result, I've become more open-minded and appreciative of unconventional lifestyles. TED gives me the opportunity to help other youth understand new perspectives, by exposing them to the diversity of Austin where culture is created, not just consumed.

Poop emoji, middle right. My 13-year-old brother often sends his messages with the poop emoji 'echo effect,' so whenever I open a new message from him, hundreds of poops elegantly cascade across my screen. He brings out my goofy side, but also helps me think rationally when I am overwhelmed. We don't have the typical "I hate you, don't talk to me" siblinghood (although occasionally it would be nice to get away from him); we're each other's best friends. Or at least he's mine.

"Lol ur not Harry Styles," upper left corner. Bought in seventh grade and transferred from my old laptop, this sticker is torn but persevering with layers of tape. Despite conveying my fangirl-y infatuation with Harry Styles' boyband, One Direction, for me Styles embodies an artist-activist who uses his privilege for the betterment of society. As a $42K donor to the Time's Up Legal Defense Fund, a hair donor to the Little Princess Trust, and promoter of LGBTQ+ equality, he has motivated me to be a more public activist instead of internalizing my beliefs.

"Catapult," middle right. This is the logo of a startup incubator where I launched my first company, Threading Twine. I learned that business can provide others access to fundamental human needs, such as economic empowerment of minorities and education. In my career, I hope to be a corporate advocate for the empowerment of women, creating large-scale impact and deconstructing institutional boundaries that obstruct women from working in high-level positions. Working as a women's rights activist will allow me to engage in creating lasting movements for equality, rather than contributing to a cycle that elevates the stances of wealthy individuals.

"Thank God it's Monday," sneakily nestled in the upper right corner. Although I attempt to love all my stickers equally (haha), this is one of my favorites. I always want my association with work to be positive.

And there are many others, including the horizontal, yellow stripes of the Human Rights Campaign; "The Team," a sticker from the Model G20 Economics Summit where I collaborated with youth from around the globe; and stickers from "Kode with Klossy," a community of girls working to promote women's involvement in underrepresented fields.

When my computer dies (hopefully not for another few years), it will be like my passport expiring. It'll be difficult leaving these moments and memories behind, but I probably won't want these stickers in my 20s anyways (except Harry Styles, that's never leaving). My next set of stickers will reveal my next set of aspirations. They hold the key to future paths I will navigate, knowledge I will gain, and connections I will make.

— — —

Since childhood, I have been an obsessive builder and problem solver. When I was 6, I spent two months digging a hole in my backyard, ruining the grass lawn, determined to make a giant koi pond after watching a show on HGTV. After watching Castaway when I was 7, I started a fire in my backyard--to my mother's horror--using bark and kindling like Tom Hanks did. I neglected chores and spent nights locked in my room drawing pictures and diagrams or learning Rubik's Cube algorithms while my mother yelled at me through the door to go to sleep. I've always been compulsive about the things I set my mind to. The satisfaction of solving problems and executing my visions is all-consuming.

But my obsessive personality has helped me solve other problems, too.

When I was 8, I taught myself how to pick locks. I always dreamed of how cool it must have been inside my brother’s locked bedroom. So I didn't eat at school for two weeks and saved up enough lunch money to buy a lockpicking set from Home Depot. After I wiggled the tension wrench into the keyhole and twisted it counterclockwise, I began manipulating the tumblers in the keyhole with the pick until I heard the satisfying click of the lock and entered the room.  Devouring his stash of Lemonheads was awesome, but not as gratifying as finally getting inside his room. 

As the projects I tackled got bigger, I had to be more resourceful. One day in history class after reading about early American inventions, I decided to learn how to use a Spinning Jenny.  When my parents unsurprisingly refused to waste $500 on an 18th century spinning wheel, I got to work visiting DIY websites to construct my own by disassembling my bike and removing the inner tube from the wheel, gathering string and nails, and cutting scrap wood. For weeks, I brushed my two cats every day until I had gathered enough fur. I washed and soaked it, carrded it with paddle brushes to align the fibers, and then spun it into yarn, which I then used to crochet a clutch purse for my grandmother on mother's day. She still uses it to this day. 

In high school, my obsessive nature found a new outlet in art. Being a perfectionist, I often tore up my work in frustration at the slightest hint of imperfection. As a result, I was slowly falling behind in my art class, so I had to seek out alternate solutions to actualize the ideas I had in my head.  Often times that meant using mixed media or experimenting with unconventional materials like newspaper or cardboard. Eventually I went on to win several awards, showcased my art in numerous galleries and magazines, and became President of National Art Honors Society. Taking four years of art hasn't just taught me to be creative, it’s taught me that there are multiple solutions to a problem. 

After high school I began to work on more difficult projects and I channeled my creativity into a different form of art: programming. I’m currently working on an individual project at the Schepens Institute at Harvard University. I'm writing a program in Matlab that can measure visual acuity and determine what prescription glasses someone would need. I ultimately plan to turn this into a smartphone app to be released to the general public.

The fact is that computer coding is in many ways similar to the talents and hobbies I enjoyed as a child--they all require finding creative ways to solve problems.  While my motivation to solve these problems might have been a childlike sense of satisfaction in creating new things, I have developed a new and profound sense of purpose and desire to put my problem solving skills to better our world.

— — —

I am an instrument.

My being reduced to sonic waves, my face contorts repeatedly, straining to squeeze out rapid vocal oscillations. Obscure sounds sputter through my throat as combinations of inward snare and hi-hat. After years of training in Indian classical music, beatboxing felt foreign.

My first memories of Indian classical music come from family road trips. During summer trips to Yosemite, I spent hours absorbed in the unique sounds of ragas from Indian classical music. We greeted the sunrise with surya-namaskar, 108 repetitions of the same verse honoring the Sun God. I began to appreciate the beauty in vocal expression, and in sixth grade, embarked on a formal study of Indian classical music. The lessons started with the same invocations that I had come to associate with beautiful wilderness mornings. Tranquil, clear, deep.

As a teenager, I transitioned into mainstream American music. I joined the school's a capella group, which I had admired since freshman orientation. Given my Indian classical singing, I was inclined to be the resonant voice of the tenor. I longed to relive the ragas in my tenor role. When tryouts rolled around, I thought I was a shoo-in, but my choir director had different plans. She wanted me to be the beatboxer, to unify the group and guide the singers to greater heights. She wanted me to be an instrument.

Being an instrument was harder than being a singer. It required incredible skill and discipline, as well as a concrete understanding of both vocal anatomy and yogic breathing. While I struggled initially, I refused to let down my group. I committed to mastering the mechanical intonations and buzzing sounds, uninterrupted coordination of the lips, tongue and throat. For inspiration, I looked to different cultures emblematic of the roots of rhythm. I discovered the percussive African Güiro, drew from the Cuban Clave, Puerto Rican Reggaetón and Colombian Cumbia, merging these diverse sounds into synchronous patterns. I even returned to my roots as a Punjabi, using sounds of the dholki and tabla.

My performances became a colorful mélange of vocals and rhythm. I was thrilled with my progress -- until one quiet child changed my understanding of beatboxing. Every month, our acapella group taught music to the giggling fifth-graders at Bella Vista Elementary, in Oakland. There was one girl, however, who rarely looked up or sang with the rest of the group. Her name was Rachel, and she had autism. When we encouraged her, she shied away. Slowly though, as I beatboxed more and more, she began to tap her hands on her knees. The next session, she was bobbing her head from side to side. Finally, on Halloween, I saw a different Rachel. As I beatboxed, she began to make the kick drum—BOP!—and joined me in a raucous cacophony.

I then realized, words are superfluous. Creativity can transcend musical harmony. Beatboxing became more than something for my enjoyment; it was now a tool to connect with others and help them. Rachel opened my mind to the power of the human beat, taking me beyond just rhythm. In a sense, my love of beatboxing has influenced an insatiable curiosity for personal connection—in music, language, and human expression. More than anything, being a beatboxer has humbled me. I have found joy in my supporting role, in its power to propel everyone forward.

As I prepare for college, I intend to learn with an open mind and a willingness to embrace failure. To continue to beatbox in all aspects of my life, combine fun with responsibility, and to move beyond stereotypes of situations or roles. I have come to believe that the pursuit of excellence is not a linear path of mastering skills but a commitment to explore new possibilities.

I still enjoy singing, but I am happiest as an instrument.

— — —

Note: This author didn’t title his essay or bold any of his sentences, so there’s no need for you to do either. In case you’re curious, I’ve titled it to make referring to it easier and bolded a few sentences to make a point about structure in a future lesson.

As a kid I was always curious. I was unafraid to ask questions and didn’t worry how dumb they would make me sound. In second grade I enrolled in a summer science program and built a solar-powered oven that baked real cookies. I remember obsessing over the smallest details: Should I paint the oven black to absorb more heat? What about its shape? A spherical shape would allow for more volume, but would it trap heat as well as conventional rectangular ovens? Even then I was obsessed with the details of design.

And it didn’t stop in second grade.

A few years later I designed my first pair of shoes, working for hours to perfect each detail, including whether the laces should be mineral white or diamond white. Even then I sensed that minor differences in tonality could make a huge impact and that different colors could evoke different responses.

In high school I moved on to more advanced projects, teaching myself how to take apart, repair, and customize cell phones. Whether I was adjusting the flex cords that connect the IPS LCD to the iPhone motherboard, or replacing the vibrator motor, I loved discovering the many engineering feats Apple overcame in its efforts to combine form with function.

And once I obtained my driver’s license, I began working on cars. Many nights you’ll find me in the garage replacing standard chrome trim with an elegant piano black finish or changing the threads on the stitching of the seats to add a personal touch, as I believe a few small changes can transform a generic product into a personalized work of art.

My love of details applies to my schoolwork too.

I’m the math geek who marvels at the fundamental theorems of Calculus, or who sees beauty in A=(s(s-a)(s-b)(s-c))^(1/2). Again, it’s in the details: one bracket off or one digit missing and the whole equation collapses. And details are more than details, they can mean the difference between negative and positive infinity, an impossible range of solutions.

I also love sharing this appreciation with others and have taken it upon myself to personally eradicate mathonumophobiconfundosis, my Calculus teacher’s term for “extreme fear of Math.” A small group of other students and I have devoted our after-school time to tutoring our peers in everything from Pre-Algebra to AP Calculus B/C and I believe my fluency in Hebrew and Farsi has helped me connect with some of my school’s Israeli and Iranian students. There’s nothing better than seeing a student solve a difficult problem without me saying anything.

You probably think I want to be a designer. Or perhaps an engineer?

Wrong. Well, kind of.

Actually, I want to study Endodontics, which is (I’ll save you the Wikipedia look-up) a branch of dentistry that deals with the tooth pulp and the tissues surrounding the root of a tooth. As an Endodontist, I’ll be working to repair damaged teeth by performing precision root canals and implementing dental crowns. Sound exciting? It is to me.

The fact is, it’s not unlike the work I’ve been doing repairing cellphone circuits and modifying cars, though there is one small difference. In the future I’ll still be working to repair machines, but this machine is one of the most sophisticated machines ever created: the human body. Here, my obsession with details will be as crucial as ever. A one millimeter difference can mean the difference between a successful root canal and a lawsuit.

The question is: will the toothbrushes I hand out be mineral white or diamond white?

— — —

I've been dabbling in the dark arts for five years.

My weapon of choice: a set of Bicycle Cards, blue if I want to draw attention to the faces, red if I want my audience to focus on the backs. Though my tricks start the same way (square up the deck with my left hand, ask my spectator to shuffle), each then takes on a life of its own: sleight-of-hand, mathematical and self-working, or a combination.

After watching Matt Franco perform on America's Got Talent five years ago, I was hooked on the thrill of the unexplainable in card magic. I wondered why people liked magic so much, and rather than sit and ponder, I decided to follow my curiosity into the world of magic itself. When first learning the double lift, I watched tutorials for endless hours on end, constantly rewinding to determine exact thumb positions and wrist motions, fascinated by the nuanced distinctions between success and failure.

Eventually I grew dissatisfied with the full magic routines I saw. They weren't my style: not enough audience interaction, not enough intense sleight-of-hand distractions. I decided to develop my own tricks. My first original was a big one—transport a randomly chosen card from the deck into a sealed basketball. I stayed up late every night for three weeks, planning out every wrist turn and card palm. The thrill of sacrificing my sleep and health for something that was my own and finally seeing the finished product made me fall in love with inventing.

And my love for inventing and exploring didn't stop there. I once spent three days studying the science behind Rock Paper Scissors, for example, searching for logic behind why humans play as they do, and discovered why ⅔ of males choose rock on their first turn and why people on a losing cycle almost always choose rock, then paper, then scissors. In my junior year internship, I saw that my mentor was always late to meetings because of his chronic knee pain. After hearing his story and struggles with the healthcare system, I was inspired to come up with a solution to my mentor's knee problems. I worked with a team to create the SmartSleeve, a wearable device that aids post-surgery healing by monitoring a knee's activity and sending doctors weekly reports. As a kid who's always loved science, I use my scientific inventions to satisfy my urge to explore the unknown.

Not content to pursue invention simply for the sake of it, I also invent to make people happy. Cooking three course meals is my way of spending uninterrupted time with my parents. When we have cause for celebration, I grill veggie burgers topped with my signature sriracha-sour cream sauce. When we want to relax, I whip up fluffy scrambled eggs on sourdough bread with veggie turkey. Food, like magic, is my offering to my community.

Even when I started, magic has never been just a hobby. Each new trick, each discovery, has been an essential way I bring vivacity to my life. But of all of my tricks, my favorite is this essay. I said before I use blue cards to focus the audience on faces, red to focus them on backs. The words in this essay have been my red cards, and performing magic is the part I've made you focus on.

You've just been fooled by a classic misdirect, for although magic has been my life for so long, what I dream of doing professionally is becoming a neurosurgeon. And magic has actually played a big role in this: it has led me to questioning why people make the choices they do, taught me to approach life with attention to detail, dexterity, and care, and has inspired me to invent with passion.

I am addicted to the adventure and journey of making my own creations, something I will continue to do vigorously in the ever-evolving field of neuroscience.

— — —

I am Mexican.

The sound of frying empanadas and the smell of burning peppers. My mother calling me 'mi vida' and my relatives kissing my cheek. Running but never hiding from the dreaded chancla and always responding with, "Muy bien, y tu?" Childhood vacations to Puebla and Cancun, swimming in the ocean and playing in the sand. Feeling the need to be good at cross-country, feeling the need to be able to endure spicy.

Those are all me.

I am Chinese.

The utter preference for using chopsticks in every scenario and the unhealthy craving for rice with every meal. The sharing of every dish placed on the center turn table. Hotpot for celebration and tea eggs, of all things, as a favorite dish. My father's musical Cantonese conversations with my grandparents, and their constant inquiry asking, "How is school?" Being named after 龙, the dragon, for strength and living for three years in Shanghai. The constant pressure to get good grades, my father's desire for me to become a doctor, and the never-ending, “How are you so bad at math, you're Asian?”

Those are all me.

I am American.

A citizen with the freedom to vote. The freedom to speak my mind and the representation by all the cultures and countries of the world. Shopping sprees at Target and a constant diet of fast foods. Full acceptance of the consumer society and a rather unhealthy addiction to social media and technology. Going to football games on Friday nights and watching Netflix on Saturday nights. Always watching my weight. Always looking at others. Always wishing, always wanting for more.

Those are all me.

I am Catholic.

Sunday mornings always spent at church. The private Catholic middle and high schools each with masses for special occasions. Baptism, Eucharist, and Confirmation. Praying before each meal and saying, “Go away in the name of Jesus” to nighttime horrors. Theology classes and realizing there is so much more to religion than faith. Having something to believe in. Questioning what you believe in. Turning to God when I see the horrors in the world and getting no response.

Those are all me.

I am homosexual.

An unusual obsession with fashion and clothing. Watching Game of Thrones not for Daenerys or Cersei, but for Jon Snow and Jamie. Seeing Love Simon for the first time, and crying at least five times. Always conscious always thinking before talking. Going to an all-boys school. Dealing with gay being to go to expression for displeasure. Being called a faggot when I act gay. Fear of my parents finding out.

Those are all me.

I am Jonathan Kei-Lung Eng.

I love reading and am addicted to fanfiction. I have three siblings and love my two dogs more than anything in the world. I can't eat spicy food and I have the biggest sweet-tooth. I play League of Legends and soccer. I'm a Marvel geek and theater nerd. My friends call me Jenga. My teammates call me Jeng. My teachers call me Mr. Eng. I am Mexican. I am Chinese. I am American. I am Catholic. I am gay. I am all of this and more, and most of all, I am me. My identity is not a singular entity, but a conglomeration of experiences, believes, and origins. This is my identity.

This is me.

— — —

There is nothing worse than waking up and realizing you were meant to be a Pirate.

I was around the age of nine when it dawned on me. For years my grandpa educated me on the ways of the pirate. We would pretend to sail the seven seas looking for the lost city of El Dorado and go on adventures through the Amazonian rainforest. He romanticized the stories of pirates, hiding me from the atrocities they committed. Yet in a way it allowed me to see the true nature of adventure and exploration that the sailors of the seven seas stood for. The word "pirate" meant to sail and explore the world and that is when I realized I was born in the wrong era: I was meant to live a life of adventure, I was meant to be a Pirate. Had the powerful overlords of the world been more inquisitive and precise with their calculations when they created me, I would have actually been one. Alas, there is not much else that can be done; unless the invention of time travel is just around the corner, the prophecy I was once meant to fulfill would vanish into oblivion.

Throughout the years since the epiphany first came to me, I have worked to balance my responsible and organized self with my rebellious and adventurous pirate spirit. When I'm not filming a movie, organizing events, or counseling my friends, I often let my imagination run free, even if for a few minutes, allowing my inner pirate to come out and play. I never owned a sextant, nor plan on doing so, yet, I commonly gaze at the stars and the constellations they form, attempting to track their patterns in the night sky during nightly walks with my dog. And when my family goes to the beach, I take my brothers on a crab searching adventure (our version of scouting for a crew), scouring the crowded San Francisco beaches and tide pools for little crustaceans to gaze at in wonder. Even a hike through the Santa Cruz Mountains will often be accompanied by a little treasure map that my father and I will use to locate "geocaches" along the trail.

Now, at the age of seventeen, I regard myself as the modern Captain Kidd. Although I don't embody the "pillage and burn" side of the Pirate life, the way I have embraced an adventurous lifestyle has compelled me to explore any activity, concept, or subject that attracts my attention. Historical accounts of pirates tell of hunts for treasure and booty—an insatiable thirst for gold—but while Pirates scoured the world for money, I long for knowledge. Where Sir Francis Drake sought to conquer Spanish treasure ships, I conquered the realm of musicianship teaching myself guitar and piano. Captain Henry Avery searched for the perfect congregation of Pirates to create a republic of misfits; I did the same as I helmed the mental health club to help those at my high school in need. The image of Captain Kidd researching the metaphysical explanation of the ten dimensions may be strange, but to me, it is a perfect representation of the pirate spirit.

I know that when people think of the word pirate they don't think of a teenager who likes to air guitar in his room and dream of making movies in Iceland (it's also a chance to confront my rivals: the vikings!). But my unmistakable sense of adventure and curiosity defines me. I've become an avid astronomer, an aspiring filmmaker, philosophical nerd, a music geek, and an unqualified therapist. Every quest takes me to uncharted territory, breaching the limits of my knowledge and expanding my potential. I am an unappeasable pirate on a quest for knowledge, never satisfied with the treasure under the beach.

— — —

As I enter the double doors, the smell of freshly rolled biscuits hits me almost instantly. I trace the fan blades as they swing above me, emitting a low, repetitive hum resembling a faint melody. After bringing our usual order, the “Tailgate Special,” to the table, my father begins discussing the recent performance of Apple stock with my mother, myself, and my older eleven year old sister. Bojangle’s, a Southern establishment well known for its fried chicken and reliable fast food, is my family’s Friday night restaurant, often accompanied by trips to Eva Perry, the nearby library. With one hand on my breaded chicken and the other on Nancy Drew: Mystery of Crocodile Island, I can barely sit still as the thriller unfolds. They’re imprisoned! Reptiles! Not the enemy’s boat! As I delve into the narrative with a sip of sweet tea, I feel at home.

“Five, six, seven, eight!” As I shout the counts, nineteen dancers grab and begin to spin the tassels attached to their swords while walking heel-to-toe to the next formation of the classical Chinese sword dance. A glance at my notebook reveals a collection of worn pages covered with meticulously planned formations, counts, and movements. Through sharing videos of my performances with my relatives or discovering and choreographing the nuances of certain regional dances and their reflection on the region’s distinct culture, I deepen my relationship with my parents, heritage, and community. When I step on stage, the hours I’ve spent choreographing, creating poses, teaching, and polishing are all worthwhile, and the stage becomes my home.

Set temperature. Calibrate. Integrate. Analyze. Set temperature. Calibrate. Integrate. Analyze. This pulse mimics the beating of my heart, a subtle rhythm that persists each day I come into the lab. Whether I am working under the fume hood with platinum nanoparticles, manipulating raw integration data, or spraying a thin platinum film over pieces of copper, it is in Lab 304 in Hudson Hall that I first feel the distinct sensation, and I’m home. After spending several weeks attempting to synthesize platinum nanoparticles with a diameter between 10 and 16 nm, I finally achieve nanoparticles with a diameter of 14.6 nm after carefully monitoring the sulfuric acid bath. That unmistakable tingling sensation dances up my arm as I scribble into my notebook: I am overcome with a feeling of unbridled joy. 

Styled in a t-shirt, shorts, and a worn, dark green lanyard, I sprint across the quad from the elective ‘Speaking Arabic through the Rassias Method’ to ‘Knitting Nirvana’. This afternoon is just one of many at Governor’s School East, where I have been transformed from a high school student into a philosopher, a thinker, and an avid learner. While I attend GS at Meredith College for Natural Science, the lessons learned and experiences gained extend far beyond physics concepts, serial dilutions, and toxicity. I learn to trust myself to have difficult yet necessary conversations about the political and economic climate. Governor’s School breeds a culture of inclusivity and multidimensionality, and I am transformed from “girl who is hardworking” or “science girl” to someone who indulges in the sciences, debates about psychology and the economy, and loves to swing and salsa dance. As I form a slip knot and cast on, I’m at home.

My home is a dynamic and eclectic entity. Although I’ve lived in the same house in Cary, North Carolina for 10 years, I have found and carved homes and communities that are filled with and enriched by tradition, artists, researchers, and intellectuals. While I may not always live within a 5 mile radius of a Bojangle’s or in close proximity to Lab 304, learning to become a more perceptive daughter and sister, to share the beauty of my heritage, and to take risks and redefine scientific and personal expectations will continue to impact my sense of home.

— — —

I smell rubber mats, and I'm reminded of passion, respect, and motivation. I hear rap music blasting through speakers, and I know I'm in the weight room.

The first time I walked into the weight room my freshman year, I entered a room packed with football players reeking of sweat, intensity, and competition. Workouts written as acronyms across whiteboards looked like hieroglyphics to be deciphered only by members of an elite gym class. As I started my workout, I looked around to see not a single smile. When I approached the coach to ask a question, I was interrupted multiple times by athletes rushing past me. I was disheartened: how would I ever get stronger when I couldn't feel comfortable in this room?

As the weeks passed, however, I discovered a quiet solidarity in the weight room. We'd warm up together, then fall into our own workouts, supporting each other both physically and emotionally, quietly motivating each other by trying to surpass our own individual goals. I didn't need help lifting my ten pound weights, but as the only freshman girl in a room full of upperclassmen lifting over fifty pounds in each hand, I understood that with silent solidarity came respect. Running to the weight room right after school, I learned commitment to myself and my own ideals. I couldn't cheat my body out of a routine designed to optimize success. Even if I didn't feel like working out as the hour began, the moment I'd start a set of exercises, I had to finish them. I found my conscience in working out, an inner drive pushing me to stop complaining about the heat, about the pain, but instead, to embrace them.

As years have passed, I have been the only person, only female, only water polo player, only freshman, only sophomore, only junior, and only senior in the room. I fit into these singularities surrounded by individuals with different backgrounds and skill levels from my own. I am no longer afraid of being the "only one." As disillusioned as I was the first time I entered the weight room, I may have misjudged their initial reaction to my arrival. Maybe my presence was questioned because I was a petite water polo player who'd never heard of a deadlift before. Or maybe the dismissal I sensed was founded in my insecurities and the fact that I myself didn't feel as if I deserved to belong. I walked in expecting a warm welcome and was unsettled when I didn't receive even the simplest acknowledgement, validating my doubts. I've since realized that entering a room of strangers focused on keeping up with their rigorous exercises was not the place to expect a rousing reception. I acknowledge the perils of first impressions.

I now identify with the football players that once intimidated me. We welcome new minds that enter the room, whether outright—as I greet my friends and confused newcomers—or silently—as I receive the occasional nod from the football players in the hallways at school. We respect the diversity found in the weight room, one that helps establish a sense of equality amongst individuals. For the first time, I appreciate a different kind of balance: a balance in humanity, a profound equality that resonates with acceptance.

After one workout, my mood can completely flip. I leave the weight room refreshed and ready to tackle the next part of my day. As I think about college, I wonder if it might feel like the first day I walked into the weight room. This time, I'm excited by the prospect of new places to fit in, new challenges to overcome, and new solidarities to build. I do wonder what the rubber mats in my college's gym will smell like.

— — —

When I was in elementary school, I came home from school every day in the fall and took a five-minute walk to a pond near my house. I remember watching the white egrets strut along the water’s edge, peering in to look for sunfish, and counting the noses of snapping turtles resting at the water’s surface. I’d take a short hike around the pond through the crisp autumn air before finally heading back home.

These walks inspired me to enter Cub Scouts, and ultimately to cross over into Boy Scouting. Despite several of my friends quitting Scouting to focus on athletics or other activities, I stayed. I loved everything from creating makeshift slings from neckerchiefs to constructing shelters in the middle of the woods. I aspired to follow the trail to Eagle to its peak and become an Eagle Scout. However, what always excited me most was exploring the outdoors through hiking.       

As a history nerd, to the point where I would be that guy reading history textbooks for fun, hiking allowed me to immerse myself in historical settings. Through Boy Scouting, I was able to arrange and lead Historical Trail hikes, giving myself and my troop firsthand perspectives on a Valley Forge winter, or the actual walk up Breed’s Hill along Boston’s Freedom Trail. I became the troop storyteller along these hikes, adding my own tidbits of information such as pointing out Eisenhower’s five-star general flag waving from his personal putting green in Gettysburg, or how Spuyten Duyvil was perhaps named following one of the first reported shark attacks in America in 1642. While I may not remember every detail of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, I can certainly remember the chill of standing outside Rebecca Nurse’s house on a cold October day in Salem. And although I have read about Gouverneur Morris’s shrewd political maneuverings during the Philadelphia Convention in William H. Riker’s The Art of Political Manipulation, it is something else entirely to stand in Independence Hall’s assembly room and picture dozens of diplomats scrambling to craft the framework of a nation fresh out of war.

Hiking also gave me the opportunity to teach younger Scouts about various Scouting skills, from orienteering (using a map and compass) to conservation principles like Leave-No-Trace. My troop engages in trail maintenance projects, and we actively monitor a trail we adopted from the NY/NJ Trail Conference. I especially relished the opportunity to apply what I had learned in AP Biology towards actually helping preserve the environment from the harmful effects of invasive species by identifying and removing harmful plants such as thorny multiflora rose. It is one thing to learn about pollution, global warming, and invasive species in a classroom; it is another thing entirely to see the biodiversity of an ecosystem quickly succumb to man-made pressures.

 Just as my walks around the local pond were an escape from suburbia, hiking with the Boy Scouts has given me the chance to help others experience the beauty of the outdoors. On a recent hike, I was walking with a new Scout, Louis, who had just crossed over from Cub Scouts. Louis confided in me how disconnected he felt away from his video games. To get his mind off of his electronics withdrawal, I stayed with Louis for the remainder of the hike and pointed out everything from milkweed stalks to coyote scat. After the hike, Louis was exhausted but had a glimmer of excitement towards the environment around him, and could even tell the difference between poison ivy and Virginia creeper. Louis is currently one of my troop’s most active younger Scouts.

When I’m hiking, I’m not merely a hiker; I’m a historian, a conservationist, and a teacher all in one. 

— — —

Getting punched in the nose hurts. A lot. Your eyes start to water, all the blood rushes to your head, and you're disoriented in a haze of pain and anger.

My mom, the most aggressive pacifist I know, frequently condemns boxing as an uncivilized, animal-like sport. She says if all I want is to clear my head, I should try something more peaceful, like yoga. But the boxing gym, with its bright fluorescent lighting and pulsating beat of classic rock punctuated by the thappitta thappitta thappitta of pounded speed bags, is where I find my rhythm. It's alive. And it's taught me so much more than just how to fight.

The first time I hit a heavy bag, 80% of my understanding of boxing had come from Wii Sports, where a single well-placed nunchuck jab could send a bag flying across the room. And so, the second I walked up to the unassuming bag, vastly underestimating its rigidity, I unleashed the strongest right hook I could muster, aaaaand ended up spraining my wrist. Losing my first bout to a sack of rubber was, I can safely say, a new low. And boxing is full of moments like this, where one wrong move invites a sharp hook that bruises not just your ribs, but your ego. After a while, though, you get used to it; you develop a stronger core, physically and mentally.

It was clear from Day One that I, the lanky, grass-fed vegetarian, would not be fighting in a tournament anytime soon. But oddly enough, this quickly became liberating. In the absence of a "goal", I was free to learn. I experimented with everything from pressure fighting to out-boxing to even swarming. Boxing became a reminder to enjoy learning for the sake of learning. In Physics, I tried learning astrophysics that wasn't tested anywhere, but fulfilled my curiosity about space; in Latin, beyond memorizing basic facts about Republican-era comedies for IJCL, I began translating them, and fascinated by how much they revealed about Roman social norms, pursued an Independent Study on the topic.

The immediacy of each decision I make when I box engages my mind in a way few other things can. The constant, repeated feedback loop provided by a sparring session literally and figuratively keeps me on my toes, and trains my mind to think analytically in split-second intervals. The same way I rapidly gauge how my opponent's weight is shifting, I map out counterarguments in the two minutes I have to prepare a rebuttal in mock appeals. Time crunches on tests or toss-up questions in quiz bowl pale in comparison to the millisecond before you're struck with a left cross.

In boxing, patience is everything; one well-placed uppercut is worth 20 small jabs. And this idea, to avoid the low-hanging fruit in favor of a better opportunity, has guided how I approach emceeing. When writing material, it's easy to fall into the trap of coming up with filler punchlines that will generate weak chuckles at best, but to come up with that one joke guests will remember long after the night is over, that takes patience.

Getting punched in the nose still hurts. But I'm convinced there's more to boxing than just punches and counterpunches. To be able to spar with someone for 3 straight rounds, but then leave the ring as friends, says something profound about us as a species; we're able to compartmentalize our fundamental instincts and our rational thoughts, without sacrificing either. And it's our capacity to harbor this duality that makes boxing not just an "animal-like" sport, but rather something we can learn from.

— — —

As a young child, I was obsessed with flying. I spent hours watching birds fly, noting how the angle of their wings affected the trajectory of their flight. I would then waste tons of fresh printer paper, much to the dismay of my parents, to test out various wing types by constructing paper airplanes.

One day, this obsession reached its fever pitch.

I decided to fly.

I built a plane out of a wooden clothes rack and blankets, with trash bags as precautionary parachutes. As you can imagine, the maiden flight didn’t go so well. After being in the air for a solid second, the world came crashing around me as I slammed onto the bed, sending shards of wood flying everywhere.

Yet, even as a five-year-old, my first thoughts weren’t about the bleeding scratches that covered my body. Why didn’t the wings function like a bird’s wings? Why did hitting something soft break my frame? Why hadn’t the parachutes deployed correctly? Above all, why didn’t I fly?

As I grew older, my intrinsic drive to discover why stimulated a desire to solve problems, allowing my singular passion of flying to evolve into a deep-seated love of engineering.

I began to challenge myself academically, taking the hardest STEM classes offered. Not only did this allow me to complete all possible science and math courses by the end of my junior year, but it also surrounded me with the smartest kids of the grades above me, allowing me access to the advanced research they were working on. As such, I developed an innate understanding of topics such as protein function in the brain and differential equation modeling early in high school, helping me develop a strong science and math foundation to supplement my passion for engineering.

I also elected to participate in my school’s engineering pathway. As a team leader, I was able to develop my leadership skills as I identified and utilized each member’s strength to produce the best product. I sought to make design collaborative, not limited to the ideas of one person. In major group projects, such as building a hovercraft, I served as both president and devil’s advocate, constantly questioning if each design decision was the best option, ultimately resulting in a more efficient model that performed significantly better than our initial prototype.

Most of all, I sought to solve problems that impact the real world. Inspired by the water crisis in India, I developed a water purification system that combines carbon nanotube filters with shock electrodialysis to both desalinate and purify water more efficiently and cost-effectively than conventional plants. The following year, I ventured into disease detection, designing a piezoresistive microcantilever that detected the concentration of beta-amyloid protein to medically diagnose a patient with Alzheimer’s disease, a use for cantilevers that hadn’t yet been discovered. The project received 1st Honors at the Georgia Science Fair.

Working on these two projects, I saw the raw power of engineering – an abstract idea gradually becoming reality. I was spending most of my days understanding the why behind things, while also discovering solutions to prevalent issues. In a world that increasingly prioritizes a singular solution, I am captivated by engineering’s ability to continuously offer better answers to each problem.

Thirteen years have passed since that maiden flight, and I have yet to crack physical human flight. My five-year-old self would have seen this as a colossal failure. But the intense curiosity that I found in myself that day is still with me. It has continued to push me, forcing me to challenge myself to tackle ever more complex problems, engrossed by the promise and applicability of engineering.

I may never achieve human flight. However, now I see what once seemed like a crash landing as a runway, the platform off of which my love of engineering first took flight.

— — —

".miK ijniM" This is how I wrote my name until I was seven. I was a left-handed kid who wrote from right to left, which made my writing comprehensible only to myself. Only after years of practice did I become an ambidextrous writer who could translate my incomprehensible writing. As I look back on my life, I realized that this was my first act of translation. 

Translation means reinterpreting my Calculus teacher’s description of L’hospital’s rule into a useful tool for solving the limits. As I deciphered complex codes into comprehensible languages like rate of change and speed of an object, I gained the ability to solve even more complicated and fascinating problems. My Calculus teacher often told me, “It’s not until you can teach math concepts to somebody that you understand them completely.” Before I discovered the joy of teaching, I often explained difficult math concepts to my friends as a tool for reviewing what I’d learned. Now, I volunteer to tutor others: as a Korean tutor for friends who love Korean culture and a golf tutor for new team members. Tutoring is how I integrate and strengthen new concepts for myself.  

My talent for translating also applies to my role as a “therapist” for my family and friends. I’m able to identify their real feelings beneath superficial words by translating hand-gestures, facial expressions, and tones. I often put myself into their situation and ask, "What emotional support would I want or need if I was in this situation?" Through these acts of translation, I’ve grown into a more reliable and perceptive friend, daughter, and sister. 

However, my translation can't accurately account for the experiences I have yet to go through. After realizing the limitations of my experience, I created a bucket list full of activities out of my comfort zone, which includes traveling abroad by myself, publishing my own book, and giving a lecture in front of a crowd. Although it is a mere list written on the front page of my diary, I found myself vividly planning and picturing myself accomplishing those moments. By widening my experiences, I’ll be a therapist who can empathize fully and give meaningful advice based on rich experiences.

My knack for translating has led me to become a real-life Korean language translator. As an English to Korean letter translator in a non-profit organization, Compassion, I serve as a communication bridge between benefactors and children in developing countries, who communicate through monthly letters. I’ve translated hundreds of letters by researching each country to provide context that considers both cultural aspects and nuances of the language. This experience has motivated me to learn languages like Spanish and Mandarin. I’ve realized that learning various languages has been a journey of self-discovery: the way I talk and interact with people changed depending on the language I used. As I get to know more about myself through different languages, I grew more confident to meet new people and build new friendships.

While translating has been a huge part of my life, a professional translator is not my dream job. I want to be an ambulatory care clinical pharmacist who manages the medication of patients with chronic diseases. In fact, translating is a huge part of the job of a clinical pharmacist. I should substitute myself into patients’ situations to respond to their needs effectively, which requires my translating skill as a “therapist.” Moreover, as a clinical pharmacist, I’ll be the patients’ private tutor who not only guides them through the right use of medication but also gives them emotional support. As my qualities as a “therapist” and a “tutor” shaped me into a great translator, I will continue to develop my future as a clinical pharmacist by enhancing and discovering my qualities. In one form or another, I've always been and will be a translator.

— — —

Day 1: “Labbayka Allāhumma Labbayk. Labbayk Lā Sharīka Laka Labbayk,” we chant, sweat dripping onto the wispy sand in brutal Arabian heat, as millions of us prepare to march from the rocky desert hills of Mount Arafat to the cool, flat valleys of Muzdalifa. As we make our way into the Haram, my heart shakes. Tears rolling down my cheeks, we circumvent the Ka’ba one last time before embarking on Hajj, the compulsory pilgrimage of Islam. It became the spiritual, visceral, and linguistic journey of a lifetime.

Day 3:

“Ureed an Aśhtareę Hijab.”

“Al-harir aw al-Qathan?”

“Ķhilaahuma.”

“Kham ťhamanu-huma?”

“Mi’at Riyal.”

“La. Khizth sab’een.”

“Sa’uethikhá Sab’een.”

“Shukran laķ.”

“Show me hijabs.”

“Silk or cotton?”

“Both.”

“How much do these cost?”

“100 Riyal.”

“No. Take 70.”

“Fine. Thanks Hajjah.”

In Makkah, I quickly learn shopkeepers rip off foreigners, so exchanges like this, where I only have to say a few Arabic words, make me appear local. It also connects me with real locals: the Saudi Arabian pharmacist who sells me cough syrup, the Egyptian grandmother seeking directions to the restroom, the Moroccan family who educates me on the Algerian conflict. As the sounds of Arabic swirl around me like the fluttering sands (Jamal, Naqah, Ibl, Ba’eer…), I’m reconnecting with an old friend: we’d first met when I decided to add a third language to English and Bengali.

Day 6: The tents of Mina. Temperature blazing. Humidity high. I sleep next to an old woman who just embarked on her twentieth Hajj. When I discover she’s Pakistani, I speak to her in Urdu. Her ninety-year old energy--grounded, spiritual, and non-materialistic--inspires me. So far, every day has been a new discovery of my courage, spirit, and faith, and I see myself going on this journey many more times in my life. My new friend is curious where I, a Bengali, learned Urdu. I explain that as a Muslim living in America’s divided political climate, I wanted to understand my religion better by reading an ancient account of the life of Prophet Muhammad, but Seerat-un-Nabi is only in Urdu, so I learned to read it. I was delighted to discover the resonances: Qi-yaa-mah in Arabic becomes Qi-ya-mat in Urdu, Dh-a-lim becomes Zaa-lim… Urdu, which I had previously only understood academically, was the key to developing a personal connection with a generation different from mine.

Day 8: “Fix your hair. You look silly,” my mom says in Bengali. When my parents want to speak privately, they speak our native tongue. Phrases like, “Can you grab some guava juice?” draw us closer together. My parents taught me to look out for myself from a young age, so Hajj is one of the only times we experienced something formative together. Our “secret” language made me see Bengali, which I’ve spoken all my life, as beautiful. It also made me aware of how important shared traditions are.

As I think back to those sweltering, eclectic days, the stories and spiritual connections linger. No matter what languages we spoke, we are all Muslims in a Muslim country, the first time I’d ever experienced that. I came out of my American bubble and discovered I was someone to be looked up to. Having studied Islam my whole life, I knew the ins and outs of Hajj. This, along with my love for language, made me, the youngest, the sage of our group. Whether at the Al-Baik store in our camp or the Jamarat where Satan is stoned, people asked me about standards for wearing hijab or to read the Quran out loud. I left the journey feeling fearless. Throughout my life, I’ll continue to seek opportunities where I’m respected, proud to be Muslim, and strong enough to stand up for others. The next time I go to Hajj, I want to speak two more languages: donc je peux parler à plus de gens and quiero escuchar más historias.

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Meditation over a flaxen sunset with a friend and parmesan-topped spaghetti for dinner — “14.” Assignments piling up on my desk as a high fever keeps me sick at home — “3.” Taking a photo excursion through downtown Seattle for a Spanish project — “15.” For the past 700 days and counting, the Happiness Spreadsheet has been my digital collection for documenting numerical, descriptive, and graphical representations of my happiness. Its instructions are simple: Open the Google Sheet, enter a number between 1 and 20 that best represents my level of happiness, and write a short comment describing the day. But the practical aspect of the spreadsheet is only a piece of what it has represented in my life.

A “14” etched on November 15, 2018, marked the first Lakeside Cooking on the Stove Club meeting. What had started as a farcical proposition of mine transformed into a playground where high school classmates and I convene every two weeks to prepare a savory afternoon snack for ourselves. A few months later, a “16” scribbled on February 27, 2019, marked the completion of a fence my Spanish class and I constructed for the dusty soccer field at a small Colombian village. Hard-fought days of mixing cement and transporting supplies had paid off for the affectionate community we had immediately come to love. The Happiness Spreadsheet doesn’t only reflect my own thoughts and emotions; it is an illustration of the fulfillment I get from gifting happiness to others.

If happiness paves the roads of my life, my family is the city intertwined by those roads — each member a distinct neighborhood, a distinct story. In times of stress, whether it be studying for an upcoming derivatives test or presenting my research at an international conference, I dash to my father for help. Coming from the dusty, people-packed backstreets of Thiruvananthapuram, India, he guides me in looking past the chaos and noticing the hidden accomplishments that lie in the corners. When in need of confidence, I find my mother, who taps her experiences living in her tranquil and sturdy tatami-covered home in Hiroshima, Japan, helping me prepare for my first high school dance or my final match in a tennis tournament. Whenever my Happiness Spreadsheet numbers touch lows, my family is always there to level me out to “10.”

The Happiness Spreadsheet is also a battery monitor for enthusiasm. On occasion, it is on full charge, like when I touched the last chord on the piano for my composition's winner recital or when, one frosty Friday morning, I convinced a teacher to play over the school speakers a holiday medley I’d recorded with a friend. Other times, the battery is depleted, and I am frustrated by writer's block, when not a single melody, chord, or musical construct crosses my mind. The Happiness Spreadsheet can be a hall of fame, but it can likewise be a catalog of mistakes, burdens, and grueling challenges.

The spreadsheet began on a typical school day when I left my physics class following the most confusing test I’d taken. The idea was born spontaneously at lunch, and I asked two of my friends if they were interested in pursuing this exercise with me. We thought the practice would last only a couple of weeks or months at most, but after reaching 700 days, we now wonder if we’ll ever stop. To this day, I ponder its full importance in my life. With every new number I enter, I recognize that each entry is not what defines me; rather, it is the ever-growing line connecting all the data points that reflects who I am today. With every valley, I force myself onward and with every mountain's peak, I recognize the valleys I’ve crossed to reach the summit. Where will the Happiness Spreadsheet take me next?

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I subscribe to what the New York Times dubs “the most welcomed piece of daily e-mail in cyberspace.” Cat pictures? Kardashian updates? Nope: A Word A Day.

Out of the collection of diverse words I received, one word stuck out to me in particular.

Entoptic: relating to images that originate within the eye (as opposed to from light entering the eye). Examples of entoptic phenomena: floaters, thread-like fragments that appear to float in front of the eye but are caused by matter within the eye. (for a picture: https://wordsmith.org/words/entoptic.html)

As I read through this entry, I was suddenly transported back to the first grade, when I was playing Pokémon Go one day with my friends during recess. Our version was epic: we escaped into virtual reality with our imagination rather than our phone screens, morphing into different Pokémon to do battle.

My friend Ryan had just transformed into an invisible ghost-type Pokémon capable of evading my attacks. Flustered, I was attempting to evolve my abilities to learn to see the invisible. Between rubbing my eyes and squinting, I began to make out subtle specks in the air that drifted from place to place. Aha—the traces of the ghost Pokémon! I launched a thunderbolt straight through the air and declared a super-effective knockout.

...Of course, I never was able to explain what I was seeing to my bewildered friends that day in first grade. But after learning about entoptic phenomena, I realized that my entoptic adventure was not a hallucination but, in fact, one of my first intellectual milestones, when I was first able to connect meticulous observation of my environment to my imagination.

Nowadays, I don’t just see minuscule entoptic phenomena: I see ghosts, too. Two of their names are Larry and Kailan, and they are the top-ranked players in the Exynos League.

Exynos is the name of the elaborate basketball league I have created in my imagination over the last ten years of playing basketball on the neighborhood court in the evenings. As I play, I envision Larry and Kailan right there with me: reaching, stealing, and blocking. Undoubtedly, I might look a little silly when I throw the ball backwards as if Larry blocked my layup attempt—but imagining competitors defending me drives me to be precise in my execution of different moves and maneuvers. More than that, it is a constant motivator for all my endeavors: whether I’m researching for debate or studying for the next math contest, I am inventing and personifying new competitive ghosts that are hard at work every minute I’m off task.

But I perceive perhaps the most vivid images through music, as I tell a different story with each piece I play on the violin. When I play Bach’s lively Prelude in E Major, for example, I visualize a mouse dashing up and down hills and through mazes to escape from an evil cat (à la Tom and Jerry). But when I play Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, I describe a relationship plagued by unrequited love. I revel in the intellectual challenge of coming up with a story that is not only consistent with the composer’s annotations but also resonates with my own experiences.

Between re-living Tom and Jerry episodes and shooting fadeaway three-pointers against ghosts, then, perhaps entoptic phenomena don’t tell my whole story. So, here’s my attempt—in the form of a word of the day, of course:

Pokémon Boom: a legendary form of augmented reality so pure that it is commonly mistaken for hallucination. Denizens of this world are rumored to watch Netflix re-runs without Wi-Fi and catch many a Pikachu via psychokinesis.

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12 is the number of my idol, Tom Brady. It’s the sum of all the letters in my name. It’s also how old I was when I started high school.

In short, I skipped two grades: first and sixth. Between kindergarten and eighth grade, I attended five schools, including two different styles of homeschooling (three years at a co-op and one in my kitchen). Before skipping, I was perennially bored.

But when I began homeschooling, everything changed. Free to move as fast as I wanted, I devoured tomes from Jefferson, Hamilton, and Madison to London, Kipling, and Twain. I wrote 10-page papers on subjects from Ancient Sparta and military history to the founding of the United States and the resounding impact of slavery. I discovered more than I ever had, kindling a lifelong joy for learning.

While high school offered welcome academic opportunities--studying two languages and taking early science APs chief among them--the social environment was a different beast. Many classmates considered me more a little brother than a true friend, and my age and laser focus on academics initially made me socially inept. I joined sports teams in spring and built better relationships, but my lack of size (5’1”) and strength relegated me to the end of the bench. Oftentimes, I secretly wished I was normal age.

That secret desire manifested itself in different ways. While I’ve loved football since I was a little kid, I soon became obsessed with personal success on the gridiron--the key, I figured, to social acceptance and the solution to my age problem. I had grown up obsessively tracking my New England Patriots. Now, instead of armchair quarterbacking, I poured hours into throwing mechanics and studying film after my homework each night. Itching to grow, I adopted Brady’s diet, cutting dairy, white flour, and processed sugar. But in the rush to change, my attitude towards academics shifted; I came to regard learning as more a job than a joy. No matter what talents I possessed, I viewed myself as a failure because I couldn’t play.

That view held sway until a conversation with my friend Alex, the fastest receiver on the team. As I told him I wished we could switch places so I could succeed on the gridiron, he stared incredulously. “Dude,” he exclaimed, “I wish I was you!” Hearing my friends voice their confidence in my abilities prompted me to reflect: I quickly realized I was discounting my academic talents to fit a social construct. Instead of pushing myself to be something I wasn’t, I needed to meld my talents and my passions. Instead of playing sports, I recognized, I should coach them.

My goal to coach professionally has already helped me embrace the academic side of the game--my side--rather than sidelining it. I have devoured scouting tomes, analyzed NFL game film, spoken with pros like Dante Scarnecchia, and even joined the American Football Coaches Association. Translating that coach’s mentality into practice, I began explaining the concepts behind different plays to my teammates, helping them see the subtleties of strategy (despite Coach Whitcher’s complaints that I was trying to steal his job). And I discovered that my intellectual understanding of the game is far more important in determining my success than my athletic tools: with the discipline, adaptability, and drive I had already developed, I’ve become a better player, student, and friend.

Physically and mentally, I’ve changed a lot since freshman year, growing 11 inches and gaining newfound confidence in myself and my abilities. Instead of fighting for social acceptance, I’m free to focus on the things I love. Academically, that change re-inspired me. Able to express my full personality without social pressure, I rededicated myself in the classroom and my community. I still secretly wish to be Tom Brady. But now, I’m happy to settle for Bill Belichick.

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