Water Bottle
In the tier of best friendship, my third best friend is Grant, my second best friend is Elsa, and my first best friend is a blue Nalgene water bottle that I befriended in Norway. While it may not seem like much, my Nalgene has been a constant pillar of support throughout our journey together.
My bottle and I first started to grow close when I gave it life through stickers. In a pivotal moment in our relationship, my water bottle ceased to be a water bottle when it took on its own personality of aliens and rainbows. No longer was it simply something to drink out of; it was a true friend with its own disposition.
We took our relationship to the next level this past summer when we tackled Norway. For two weeks I backpacked the backcountry with eleven other teenagers and two counselors. Throughout the entire thing, my water bottle was with me, a companion to re-energize me when I needed it most, constantly supporting me from the pocket of my massive green Osprey bag. This blue container and I bonded during the demanding twelve mile hikes until eventually, we were intertwined in a deep relationship.
When I returned home from this exhilarating adventure, my bottle continued to support me as I stepped foot into my high school for the last first day. Of course, I was nervous, but I had my water bottle with me to temper the anxiety. I walked into 12th grade knowing that whatever may happen, I will always have a friend in my Nalgene.
My water bottle isn’t my only azoic friend, though. For years I have befriended many inanimate objects: rocks, a microphone, a hammock, a smiley face stamp, and various other objects that represent who I am. While it may seem odd, my passion for object-friends stems not from a love for things, but instead from a desire to befriend. My whole life I have been able to make friends easily, attributed to my outgoing personality. Unfortunately, though, sometimes those I try to befriend do not reciprocate the same feelings. Middle school was tough for me, as it was for many. I could never find a place among my female classmates, so instead, I turned to objects to fill the void. My pink Swell water bottle would never insult me. My multi-colored pens would never exclude me. My personalized binder would never leave me in its dust. While in high school I finally found a place for myself, my quirky habit never ceased. Textbooks, stickers, and lunchboxes still continued to be my companions through the ups and downs of school; I was enamored with inanimate objects.
Now, as a senior in high school, I still turn to inanimate objects for support. Even though it may sound weird, I am proud to say I have found friendship in a plastic blue water bottle. Learning to admit that I love this Nalgene, and the multiple other objects I am infatuated with, has helped me to finally make peace with my social struggles. Looking back, I don’t notice the aching as much as I did. I now realize that despite a lack of human friends, I still harbored connections in other things. While they may not be able to talk to me, inanimate objects were, and still are, just as vital to my happiness and social well-being.
After years of turmoil, I am finally at peace socially, for I have found an unlikely friendship in a blue Nalgene with a Norwegian flag sticker. Hand in handle, we will tackle college together as a pair, full bottle ahead.
Student is attending UVA
My bottle and I first started to grow close when I gave it life through stickers. In a pivotal moment in our relationship, my water bottle ceased to be a water bottle when it took on its own personality of aliens and rainbows. No longer was it simply something to drink out of; it was a true friend with its own disposition.
We took our relationship to the next level this past summer when we tackled Norway. For two weeks I backpacked the backcountry with eleven other teenagers and two counselors. Throughout the entire thing, my water bottle was with me, a companion to re-energize me when I needed it most, constantly supporting me from the pocket of my massive green Osprey bag. This blue container and I bonded during the demanding twelve mile hikes until eventually, we were intertwined in a deep relationship.
When I returned home from this exhilarating adventure, my bottle continued to support me as I stepped foot into my high school for the last first day. Of course, I was nervous, but I had my water bottle with me to temper the anxiety. I walked into 12th grade knowing that whatever may happen, I will always have a friend in my Nalgene.
My water bottle isn’t my only azoic friend, though. For years I have befriended many inanimate objects: rocks, a microphone, a hammock, a smiley face stamp, and various other objects that represent who I am. While it may seem odd, my passion for object-friends stems not from a love for things, but instead from a desire to befriend. My whole life I have been able to make friends easily, attributed to my outgoing personality. Unfortunately, though, sometimes those I try to befriend do not reciprocate the same feelings. Middle school was tough for me, as it was for many. I could never find a place among my female classmates, so instead, I turned to objects to fill the void. My pink Swell water bottle would never insult me. My multi-colored pens would never exclude me. My personalized binder would never leave me in its dust. While in high school I finally found a place for myself, my quirky habit never ceased. Textbooks, stickers, and lunchboxes still continued to be my companions through the ups and downs of school; I was enamored with inanimate objects.
Now, as a senior in high school, I still turn to inanimate objects for support. Even though it may sound weird, I am proud to say I have found friendship in a plastic blue water bottle. Learning to admit that I love this Nalgene, and the multiple other objects I am infatuated with, has helped me to finally make peace with my social struggles. Looking back, I don’t notice the aching as much as I did. I now realize that despite a lack of human friends, I still harbored connections in other things. While they may not be able to talk to me, inanimate objects were, and still are, just as vital to my happiness and social well-being.
After years of turmoil, I am finally at peace socially, for I have found an unlikely friendship in a blue Nalgene with a Norwegian flag sticker. Hand in handle, we will tackle college together as a pair, full bottle ahead.
Student is attending UVA
Mud
Cold, slimy mud seeps through my jeans as I splay across the ground. A pair of baleful eyes gaze blankly down at me from behind a narrow snout, not quite concealed by a thick tuft of wool. This is her barn, she seems to inform me with a stomp, and no matter how much I desire to aid her in her struggles, she would rather toss me into the dirt again. But when a lamb is stuck, positioned in breach and log jammed with an overeager twin who cannot wait his turn, time spent waiting for a change in heart, or a veterinarian, is not in anyone's favor. Failing to act is not a viable option. With a heave of a soiled boot, I drag myself up the frame of the barn door. With a snap, pink rubber wrinkles as a glove swallows my whole arm, and I’m performing a complicated, yet muscle-memory guided procedure. This ain’t my first rodeo.
Long before that moment in the mud, I was five, and the first two sheep arrived on my farm. I was hooked. An incalculable number of scraped knees, sunburns and mosquito bites could not stop me from running wild in the pasture alongside those grand wooly beasts. Dragging hay bales, identifying every ailment under the sun, and deftly trimming hooves augmented my work ethic. I nailed boards to fences and stretched taut aluminum wire until my palms blistered and my knuckles bled. There were no days off. No late night animal escapade could be ignored. No urgent health crisis could be postponed. The weight of their world rested on my shoulders. By the time I turned 10, I had become the sole proprietor of the growing flock. As they multiplied to their current stock of 130, I learned them like no others. Their names, lineages, quirks and personalities are engraved into my soul. Each one unique, each one with a different story to tell. Each one subtly influencing the trajectory of my life.
I’ve been thrown in the mud outside my barn as well. A long, frigid November day seemed to stretch into oblivion, as I paced assuredly across the parking lot of a small rural church. Colorful literature in hand denoted that my candidate was humbly asking for a vote to serve this distant community in the statehouse. A figure representing the rival campaign at that same precinct received a warm reception, with hoots and hollers of support echoing from the steeple. Mine was far more mixed.
The race was admittedly unwinnable, yet someone had to run, and someone else had to do the grunt work of standing on their feet in the freezing rain, for 13 hours without reprieve, to offer a desperately needed alternative voice. This alternative was considered by some, but not many. Polite refusal was expected; the rowdy calls for my damnation to Hell, the explosive expletives and filthy insults that were thrown like glass bottles at a brick wall – those weren't. Those hurt. But I’d been in the mud. I’d been down on the ground and soaked to the bone, and I had survived then. I’d patched over gaping flesh wounds, and conducted midnight surgeries alone under the moon. I’d seen death and new life, hand in hand. Comparatively, this was nothing. So I endured. Each insult thickened my skin until I was impenetrable. I kept standing, even as my legs swayed in my boots. I wore a smile and flagged down the next voter. And then the one after that. Because giving up in the barn meant a dead lamb. In that parking lot, it meant dead values. An hour at a time, one leg dragging after the other, until those church doors shuttered and I could collapse, defeated surely, but victorious for fighting long enough to see defeat. Victorious for, regardless of the personal cost, getting the job done.
Student is attending Harvard
Long before that moment in the mud, I was five, and the first two sheep arrived on my farm. I was hooked. An incalculable number of scraped knees, sunburns and mosquito bites could not stop me from running wild in the pasture alongside those grand wooly beasts. Dragging hay bales, identifying every ailment under the sun, and deftly trimming hooves augmented my work ethic. I nailed boards to fences and stretched taut aluminum wire until my palms blistered and my knuckles bled. There were no days off. No late night animal escapade could be ignored. No urgent health crisis could be postponed. The weight of their world rested on my shoulders. By the time I turned 10, I had become the sole proprietor of the growing flock. As they multiplied to their current stock of 130, I learned them like no others. Their names, lineages, quirks and personalities are engraved into my soul. Each one unique, each one with a different story to tell. Each one subtly influencing the trajectory of my life.
I’ve been thrown in the mud outside my barn as well. A long, frigid November day seemed to stretch into oblivion, as I paced assuredly across the parking lot of a small rural church. Colorful literature in hand denoted that my candidate was humbly asking for a vote to serve this distant community in the statehouse. A figure representing the rival campaign at that same precinct received a warm reception, with hoots and hollers of support echoing from the steeple. Mine was far more mixed.
The race was admittedly unwinnable, yet someone had to run, and someone else had to do the grunt work of standing on their feet in the freezing rain, for 13 hours without reprieve, to offer a desperately needed alternative voice. This alternative was considered by some, but not many. Polite refusal was expected; the rowdy calls for my damnation to Hell, the explosive expletives and filthy insults that were thrown like glass bottles at a brick wall – those weren't. Those hurt. But I’d been in the mud. I’d been down on the ground and soaked to the bone, and I had survived then. I’d patched over gaping flesh wounds, and conducted midnight surgeries alone under the moon. I’d seen death and new life, hand in hand. Comparatively, this was nothing. So I endured. Each insult thickened my skin until I was impenetrable. I kept standing, even as my legs swayed in my boots. I wore a smile and flagged down the next voter. And then the one after that. Because giving up in the barn meant a dead lamb. In that parking lot, it meant dead values. An hour at a time, one leg dragging after the other, until those church doors shuttered and I could collapse, defeated surely, but victorious for fighting long enough to see defeat. Victorious for, regardless of the personal cost, getting the job done.
Student is attending Harvard
Portrait
Facing the camera, standing in front of the flower bed, my three-year-old self is wearing a black and white floral dress that matches the one on the doll I’m holding. Despite it being springtime, I’m wearing a single blue mitten on my right hand. A curl dangles in front of my eyes as I look dubiously at my photographer-grandmother behind the lens. I imagine her saying, “Smile, Lydia!” It’s clear from my expression I didn’t want to smile or have my photo taken. And yet it was. And it was printed. And framed. And hung in the various houses of my extended family. For years, I’ve only seen my scowl and stubbornness in this photo, my reluctance to have my picture taken. More recently, though, I’ve learned to appreciate it for capturing a fuller portrait of me than I first realized.
The little girl in the photo is an observer who is learning how to gauge a situation and the expectations of others. She doesn’t like being overwhelmed or caught unaware. Several years ago, my cello teacher asked me to perform a recital piece from memory at the last minute. I wasn't prepared for this, but I told her I would so as not to let her down. Walking onto the stage, I felt my nerves rising. I started the piece but soon couldn't remember what came next. I fumbled. I started over. I blanked. And then, to escape the sheer discomfort of it all, I stood up and bowed. My intuition told me I wasn’t quite ready for this performance, but I didn’t know how to say that to my teacher. In trying to live up to her expectations, I let myself down.
Rising early, walking the bridge over the gorge to the studio this summer, I stepped into something completely new: a six-week pre-college architecture program. Over the course of the summer, I learned how to integrate the critique and expectations of my professors while also staying true to my own design. This changed my thinking, developed my creativity, and sharpened my problem-solving. Never having studied architecture before, I was initially intimidated. It took me a couple of weeks to adjust to lectures, studio work, and life on campus. But I found that my brain thrived on such stimulation and autonomy. The independence I experienced—taking the bus to the farmer’s market, deciding when to wake up, and how I do my best work— allowed me to hear my voice more fully and take on my challenges. Pushing myself outside of my comfort zone while trusting my intuition and abilities, I flourished. I was learning to find the right balance between being challenged by my mentors and not losing sight of my own ideas.
I craved more of these stimulating moments. As I returned and began my senior year, I took on some of the most uncomfortable and difficult endeavors in my life, trusting my abilities. I interviewed with and now work for VMDO, a local architecture firm. I was elected to the executive board of my school’s chapter of the National Honor Society. And I auditioned for and joined a selective city youth orchestra where I bring a deeper insight and self-awareness into my playing and performances.
Now when I look at the portrait my grandmother made of me as a child, I have a new understanding. It reminds me of the wisdom in observing a situation, the importance of trusting myself, and choosing what challenges to pursue. That little girl on the wall looks at the camera and me now. I see now in her determined gaze an expression of her trust in herself, holding the openness for possibilities of the future—as I do today.
Student attends Cornell University Architecture School
The little girl in the photo is an observer who is learning how to gauge a situation and the expectations of others. She doesn’t like being overwhelmed or caught unaware. Several years ago, my cello teacher asked me to perform a recital piece from memory at the last minute. I wasn't prepared for this, but I told her I would so as not to let her down. Walking onto the stage, I felt my nerves rising. I started the piece but soon couldn't remember what came next. I fumbled. I started over. I blanked. And then, to escape the sheer discomfort of it all, I stood up and bowed. My intuition told me I wasn’t quite ready for this performance, but I didn’t know how to say that to my teacher. In trying to live up to her expectations, I let myself down.
Rising early, walking the bridge over the gorge to the studio this summer, I stepped into something completely new: a six-week pre-college architecture program. Over the course of the summer, I learned how to integrate the critique and expectations of my professors while also staying true to my own design. This changed my thinking, developed my creativity, and sharpened my problem-solving. Never having studied architecture before, I was initially intimidated. It took me a couple of weeks to adjust to lectures, studio work, and life on campus. But I found that my brain thrived on such stimulation and autonomy. The independence I experienced—taking the bus to the farmer’s market, deciding when to wake up, and how I do my best work— allowed me to hear my voice more fully and take on my challenges. Pushing myself outside of my comfort zone while trusting my intuition and abilities, I flourished. I was learning to find the right balance between being challenged by my mentors and not losing sight of my own ideas.
I craved more of these stimulating moments. As I returned and began my senior year, I took on some of the most uncomfortable and difficult endeavors in my life, trusting my abilities. I interviewed with and now work for VMDO, a local architecture firm. I was elected to the executive board of my school’s chapter of the National Honor Society. And I auditioned for and joined a selective city youth orchestra where I bring a deeper insight and self-awareness into my playing and performances.
Now when I look at the portrait my grandmother made of me as a child, I have a new understanding. It reminds me of the wisdom in observing a situation, the importance of trusting myself, and choosing what challenges to pursue. That little girl on the wall looks at the camera and me now. I see now in her determined gaze an expression of her trust in herself, holding the openness for possibilities of the future—as I do today.
Student attends Cornell University Architecture School
Playing Games
There I was, sitting in that dank, windowless room I had been in so many times before. Alejandro and I were still mad at each other from the fight earlier that had landed us in the in school suspension room. We were a bit bloodied and bruised after our clash over some trivial third-grade matter. It seemed like ages we waited, brooding as the tension grew, partly because Alejandro knew no English, partly because we had just finished pummeling each other. Finally, in walked the principal, counselor, teacher who had broken up the fight, and a translator.
“Gentlemen,” said our principal in a very stern voice as “Caballeros” was echoed by the translator. I was very used to this by now, listening to two voices overlapping, English and Spanish, low pitch and high pitch, harsh tone, and soft tone. “These actions are unacceptable. I will not condone--esto en mi escuela!” I enjoyed listening to both at once, while not paying attention to either. Tuning out one while hearing the other was a fun game I liked to play to avoid any kind of repercussion. I wasn't being reprimanded if I didn’t know what either of them was saying.
They went on and on while I continued to play my game of switching the language and avoiding responsibility. Suddenly, I picked up on “Not able to go outside for the rest of the year.” and “Dos días de suspensión.” My hearing was very selective, but I had heard my punishment. Finally, the principal said, “Alejandro, follow me,” and as “Siga la director” was repeated by the translator, the four adults and Alejandro walked out, leaving me alone at last. Until my dad walked in.
Everything was child’s play up until that point. I thought my dad would never take off work, especially for something as simple as a fight. Nevertheless, there he was, and I couldn’t have been more ashamed of myself. Leaving work was something he would never do, and here he was because of my stupidity. I immediately looked down and away from him, knowing what would most likely happen. But instead of yelling and becoming angry as I expected, he gently grabbed me by the shoulders.
“What the hell are you doing?”
It was so full of worry and concern that instead of playing my game of not listening and dodging responsibilities, I genuinely asked myself what the hell I was doing.
And I stayed silent. What was I doing? My parents were both working hard, and here I was, causing trouble for everyone. I didn’t gain anything from it and I just hurt people in the process. We sat in contemplative silence for the next ten minutes, but it was the most profound silence I’d ever experienced.
The principal came in again with Alejandro and his mother, we were going to switch, and I would talk with the adults while he talked with his mother.
“Lo siento Alejandro y la Señora Jimenez”
I surprised everyone, even myself, when the apology left my mouth. As I stepped into the principal’s office, I was ready to listen. I held onto every word, no more games, and started to understand. When I left the principal’s office I had a new perspective. I couldn’t be getting into trouble anymore. It just caused grief for myself and the people around me.
I took this event to heart and began taking up writing as a means of expressing myself in a more appropriate manner. I was able to use this previously destructive energy more productively and even won a writing contest at my elementary school. I learned that day that I could not be so selfish; I had to begin acting better for the sake of others. And all it took was 45 minutes and six words from my dad.
Student is attending VCU
“Gentlemen,” said our principal in a very stern voice as “Caballeros” was echoed by the translator. I was very used to this by now, listening to two voices overlapping, English and Spanish, low pitch and high pitch, harsh tone, and soft tone. “These actions are unacceptable. I will not condone--esto en mi escuela!” I enjoyed listening to both at once, while not paying attention to either. Tuning out one while hearing the other was a fun game I liked to play to avoid any kind of repercussion. I wasn't being reprimanded if I didn’t know what either of them was saying.
They went on and on while I continued to play my game of switching the language and avoiding responsibility. Suddenly, I picked up on “Not able to go outside for the rest of the year.” and “Dos días de suspensión.” My hearing was very selective, but I had heard my punishment. Finally, the principal said, “Alejandro, follow me,” and as “Siga la director” was repeated by the translator, the four adults and Alejandro walked out, leaving me alone at last. Until my dad walked in.
Everything was child’s play up until that point. I thought my dad would never take off work, especially for something as simple as a fight. Nevertheless, there he was, and I couldn’t have been more ashamed of myself. Leaving work was something he would never do, and here he was because of my stupidity. I immediately looked down and away from him, knowing what would most likely happen. But instead of yelling and becoming angry as I expected, he gently grabbed me by the shoulders.
“What the hell are you doing?”
It was so full of worry and concern that instead of playing my game of not listening and dodging responsibilities, I genuinely asked myself what the hell I was doing.
And I stayed silent. What was I doing? My parents were both working hard, and here I was, causing trouble for everyone. I didn’t gain anything from it and I just hurt people in the process. We sat in contemplative silence for the next ten minutes, but it was the most profound silence I’d ever experienced.
The principal came in again with Alejandro and his mother, we were going to switch, and I would talk with the adults while he talked with his mother.
“Lo siento Alejandro y la Señora Jimenez”
I surprised everyone, even myself, when the apology left my mouth. As I stepped into the principal’s office, I was ready to listen. I held onto every word, no more games, and started to understand. When I left the principal’s office I had a new perspective. I couldn’t be getting into trouble anymore. It just caused grief for myself and the people around me.
I took this event to heart and began taking up writing as a means of expressing myself in a more appropriate manner. I was able to use this previously destructive energy more productively and even won a writing contest at my elementary school. I learned that day that I could not be so selfish; I had to begin acting better for the sake of others. And all it took was 45 minutes and six words from my dad.
Student is attending VCU
Old Blue
As I was growing up, there were two things that impacted my life - trucks, and men. When I was eight-years-old, I met a local farmer by accident during a snowstorm. His name was Chris Morton. Locally known as the “Pullet Man,” he raised and sold chickens while also farming cattle and hay fields. By the time I was twelve, I ended up working on his farm just to help out and learn more about farming. Farmer Morton, whom I eventually called Chris, didn’t know it at first, but I fell in love with his truck the first time I saw him driving Old Blue in the snowstorm. This truck was nothing but a 1985 Ford F250 work truck beat all to pieces, but it ran, and it ran strong.
By the end of that first summer, Chris taught me how to drive it. The truck was a manual transmission and wasn't the easiest to drive without power steering, but I muscled through it. At the end of that day, after glancing at that old truck more than fourteen times, I told Chris that I was going to own that truck one day.
Fast forward about four years and I got a call. Chris told me it was time for me to come get MY truck. I was shocked - he was just giving me this possession he knew that I loved. Soon after, I went to his farm to get the truck where it had been parked for a few years in the field. Together, we got it cranked up by putting in a new battery and fuel. Even though it was running rough on only three cylinders and smoking, I had the biggest smile on my face. There was smoke everywhere, it was making all sorts of noise, and it had no brakes but I was still like a kid in a candy store. Later, we had it towed to my house and I went right to work cleaning it up and getting it running right.
Eventually, we moved the truck up nearer to the house where my grandfather and I would tinker with Old Blue from time to time. My Pop-Pop and I made a lot of memories that summer working on our trucks together. That same summer, my grandfather bought a brand new blue Ford truck. We took a picture of our trucks nose to nose, proudly grinning next to our respective vehicles. Right after that summer, my Pop-Pop passed away, so I was very thankful to have those memories at the end of his life. Old Blue was already sentimental to me, but these memories have made an old steel truck even more special. Lots of people ask me why I wanted to fix this old farm truck and that's exactly what I tell them.
Student is attending Randolph College (essay won a $3,000 scholarship)
By the end of that first summer, Chris taught me how to drive it. The truck was a manual transmission and wasn't the easiest to drive without power steering, but I muscled through it. At the end of that day, after glancing at that old truck more than fourteen times, I told Chris that I was going to own that truck one day.
Fast forward about four years and I got a call. Chris told me it was time for me to come get MY truck. I was shocked - he was just giving me this possession he knew that I loved. Soon after, I went to his farm to get the truck where it had been parked for a few years in the field. Together, we got it cranked up by putting in a new battery and fuel. Even though it was running rough on only three cylinders and smoking, I had the biggest smile on my face. There was smoke everywhere, it was making all sorts of noise, and it had no brakes but I was still like a kid in a candy store. Later, we had it towed to my house and I went right to work cleaning it up and getting it running right.
Eventually, we moved the truck up nearer to the house where my grandfather and I would tinker with Old Blue from time to time. My Pop-Pop and I made a lot of memories that summer working on our trucks together. That same summer, my grandfather bought a brand new blue Ford truck. We took a picture of our trucks nose to nose, proudly grinning next to our respective vehicles. Right after that summer, my Pop-Pop passed away, so I was very thankful to have those memories at the end of his life. Old Blue was already sentimental to me, but these memories have made an old steel truck even more special. Lots of people ask me why I wanted to fix this old farm truck and that's exactly what I tell them.
Student is attending Randolph College (essay won a $3,000 scholarship)
Learning to Fly
In elementary school, I attended Meriwether Lewis. I had undiagnosed dyslexia which was hard. I felt frustrated, like everyone was doing better than me, yet I knew I was smart. The teachers, bless their hearts, had no clue how to help me. I felt like an outsider: while all my peers were doing lessons and reading books, I was in special classes still trying to learn my ABC’s.
In first grade I joined Cub Scouts and loved it from the beginning. Pack 114 met in the same school, same room, and had the same kids as in my first grade class, but it was a totally different experience. I had fun, lead my peers in knot-tying, map-reading, cast-iron cooking, and many other things. Cub Scouts allowed me to be me the kid I always knew I was – bright, excited to learn, and completely engaged in life in a way I wasn’t in class.
My parents decided to homeschool me so I could get the help I needed to overcome my now diagnosed dyslexia. Going from public school to homeschooling was very hard for me because in my mind, I felt like I was perpetually stuck in second grade, forever behind my peers. But by the end of my sophomore year, I had straight As and a solid friend group. I had my first aid, motor boating, and 24 other merit badges required for Eagle Scout Rank, and hundreds of community service hours for planting trees, painting fences, and building benches. I’d held numerous leadership positions in Scouts including six consecutive terms as patrol leader and passed my Life Scout Board of Review. All that was left was to find a worthy Eagle Project.
While attending two outdoor high adventure scout expeditions, I learned another thing about me and my dyslexia. Learning how to read had been daunting and overwhelming. Every expedition has frustrating and difficult situations whether a flooded tent or social conflicts within the group. To many scouts dealing with challenging circumstances was new. But to me it was familiar. My quiet calm, enduring spirit, and different point of view often helped the troop overcome obstacles. My dyslexia has made me different, but now instead of being called stupid for it, I was being praised for my out of the box problem solving skills. My differences make me stand out, but now I stand out for seeing what others don’t, thinking in ways others don’t, and most of all doing things others don't.
On my way to high school I drive by Meriwether Lewis everyday. Often I would ponder over the Mace then and the Mace now. Memories of anger, frustration, and loneliness accompanied my pondering. One day it dawned on me, there was probably a new little Mace there now, facing all the same problems I did. What would I say to this little Mace and how could I help? I started thinking about the Book Buddy program, where students are paired up to read their favorite books. Though I couldn’t read, I loved being part of this. It was a bright spot in an otherwise crummy week. How grand would it be if the Book Buddy program had a two seater outdoor Adirondack bench that a child like myself could use to escape the stuffy classroom and enjoy a book along with some fresh air with their Book Buddy?
My Eagle project was a step in healing. My anger melted away as I realized I could make a difference in another kid’s life. Understanding that opened the door for me to accept the limitations of the school and forgive them. Without my struggle I would not have lived the life I have and become the person I am – a person with grit, determination, and compassion. I think my struggle set me up to make a difference- and that's what I intend to do.
Student is a Posse Scholar at William & Mary
In first grade I joined Cub Scouts and loved it from the beginning. Pack 114 met in the same school, same room, and had the same kids as in my first grade class, but it was a totally different experience. I had fun, lead my peers in knot-tying, map-reading, cast-iron cooking, and many other things. Cub Scouts allowed me to be me the kid I always knew I was – bright, excited to learn, and completely engaged in life in a way I wasn’t in class.
My parents decided to homeschool me so I could get the help I needed to overcome my now diagnosed dyslexia. Going from public school to homeschooling was very hard for me because in my mind, I felt like I was perpetually stuck in second grade, forever behind my peers. But by the end of my sophomore year, I had straight As and a solid friend group. I had my first aid, motor boating, and 24 other merit badges required for Eagle Scout Rank, and hundreds of community service hours for planting trees, painting fences, and building benches. I’d held numerous leadership positions in Scouts including six consecutive terms as patrol leader and passed my Life Scout Board of Review. All that was left was to find a worthy Eagle Project.
While attending two outdoor high adventure scout expeditions, I learned another thing about me and my dyslexia. Learning how to read had been daunting and overwhelming. Every expedition has frustrating and difficult situations whether a flooded tent or social conflicts within the group. To many scouts dealing with challenging circumstances was new. But to me it was familiar. My quiet calm, enduring spirit, and different point of view often helped the troop overcome obstacles. My dyslexia has made me different, but now instead of being called stupid for it, I was being praised for my out of the box problem solving skills. My differences make me stand out, but now I stand out for seeing what others don’t, thinking in ways others don’t, and most of all doing things others don't.
On my way to high school I drive by Meriwether Lewis everyday. Often I would ponder over the Mace then and the Mace now. Memories of anger, frustration, and loneliness accompanied my pondering. One day it dawned on me, there was probably a new little Mace there now, facing all the same problems I did. What would I say to this little Mace and how could I help? I started thinking about the Book Buddy program, where students are paired up to read their favorite books. Though I couldn’t read, I loved being part of this. It was a bright spot in an otherwise crummy week. How grand would it be if the Book Buddy program had a two seater outdoor Adirondack bench that a child like myself could use to escape the stuffy classroom and enjoy a book along with some fresh air with their Book Buddy?
My Eagle project was a step in healing. My anger melted away as I realized I could make a difference in another kid’s life. Understanding that opened the door for me to accept the limitations of the school and forgive them. Without my struggle I would not have lived the life I have and become the person I am – a person with grit, determination, and compassion. I think my struggle set me up to make a difference- and that's what I intend to do.
Student is a Posse Scholar at William & Mary
Country Music
I’ve never sat on the tailgate of a pickup truck while watching the stars and drinking a beer with my friend. I’ve never worked on a farm from sunup to sundown. I’ve never even had a girlfriend and the inevitable heartbreak that comes with the ensuing breakup. The closest I came was with a girl I asked out in the summer between my sophomore and junior year. She rejected me, so I guess that was kind of heartbreak, but the point remains. I barely know how to play a lick of guitar, although I’m getting better. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a honky-tonk and a regular bar. I’ve never fished. I don’t live in a small town, and we don’t have a water tower. I don’t have an accent. My friends and I don’t go and tear up fields in our hand-me-down Chevys that we fixed up when we get bored. I own a pair of cowboy boots, but I’ll begrudgingly admit that they are definitely for show. I couldn’t tell you what a rodeo is like. I’m not Protestant. I don’t hunt or own a gun. I’ve never tasted Jack Daniels. Both my parents are from New York, as well as all of my grandparents. I was born in northern Virginia, far from the cultural south. I live in central Virginia, in a liberal college town known for its crowning mistake of letting the freaking KKK hold a rally, and, of course, good basketball. Anyways, I’m what a native Mississippian would probably categorize as ‘yuppy as hell.’ Yet, if I played you my Spotify playlist, it would be nonstop country music for hours. Almost all of the music I listen to is country.
If there were requirements to be a country music fan, there is no doubt that I wouldn’t meet them, but there is an emotional side to the genre that I can’t separate myself from and that I thoroughly relate to. The great part about country music is that you don’t have to be a part of a club or live in the South to listen to it. An artist named Hardy released a song in late July that shows country music is more than what meets the eye. The title of the song is Give Heaven Some Hell. I thought probably the same thing you’re thinking, another song about drinking with his friends. Yes, but no. This is what the greatest country songwriters do, they take a simple concept and turn it into something so real that you can’t ignore it. “Can’t believe that you got me in a suit and tie,” the song starts after an ominous guitar entrance. Two lines later he says, “You got a line out the church door saying goodbye.” And now you know that someone died. In the chorus, you find out that it was his friend by Hardy telling you all the crazy things he did with him and hopes that he’ll do it in heaven. Less than a year ago my friend died, he was only 12, and while I never did the things that Hardy did with his friends the sentiment rang true with me. When I first heard that song I cried my eyes out. My friend was wild like Hardy’s friend was, and all I could hope for is that he is giving heaven some hell right now.
You don’t need to be a stereotype. You don’t need to be like everyone else. I love country music because its messages transcend trucks, fishing, and cowboy boots. I’m not from Mississippi, but Hardy is, and I can still relate to every emotion he was feeling when he was writing that song. You have more in common with people than you think.
Student is attending Christopher Newport University
If there were requirements to be a country music fan, there is no doubt that I wouldn’t meet them, but there is an emotional side to the genre that I can’t separate myself from and that I thoroughly relate to. The great part about country music is that you don’t have to be a part of a club or live in the South to listen to it. An artist named Hardy released a song in late July that shows country music is more than what meets the eye. The title of the song is Give Heaven Some Hell. I thought probably the same thing you’re thinking, another song about drinking with his friends. Yes, but no. This is what the greatest country songwriters do, they take a simple concept and turn it into something so real that you can’t ignore it. “Can’t believe that you got me in a suit and tie,” the song starts after an ominous guitar entrance. Two lines later he says, “You got a line out the church door saying goodbye.” And now you know that someone died. In the chorus, you find out that it was his friend by Hardy telling you all the crazy things he did with him and hopes that he’ll do it in heaven. Less than a year ago my friend died, he was only 12, and while I never did the things that Hardy did with his friends the sentiment rang true with me. When I first heard that song I cried my eyes out. My friend was wild like Hardy’s friend was, and all I could hope for is that he is giving heaven some hell right now.
You don’t need to be a stereotype. You don’t need to be like everyone else. I love country music because its messages transcend trucks, fishing, and cowboy boots. I’m not from Mississippi, but Hardy is, and I can still relate to every emotion he was feeling when he was writing that song. You have more in common with people than you think.
Student is attending Christopher Newport University
Where Are You From?
When people ask me, “Where are you from?” I often have more than one answer. They may be asking for my cultural background: Korean-American. Or, they could be asking me where I used to live: North Carolina. Or, they want to know where I grew up in my elementary years: Columbia, Missouri. Or, maybe, they want the long-winded explanation that I was born in Maine, spent my toddler years in Korea, lived in Ohio for a year, grew up in Missouri, spent three years in North Carolina, and finally settled in Virginia. To avoid further questions, I usually prefer to go with the latter. Despite my complaints to my dad as a kid, asking him how I could possibly make new friends again, moving has taught me to be more open to the world.
The longest place I have ever lived in was Columbia, Missouri. Columbia taught me American culture and English as I grew up in a house where we only spoke Korean and ate Korean food. While I had great experiences in Missouri, I also had some unfortunate instances where people did not accept my cultural background. These hurtful remarks taught me to use ignorance as an opportunity to educate others. I can’t blame people for the environment they grew up in, so I did my best to provide an alternative perspective. So, no, not everyone with the last name Kim is related to Kim Jung-Un. And, for the last time, Koreans don’t eat dogs or cats. We enjoy chicken just as much as the next American. I learned how to articulate my thoughts effectively and educationally, cultivating relationships that created safe spaces for people to ask questions. Questioning is one of the greatest privileges anyone could have. While Google is free, I always want to ensure that I am someone to go to for unsure moments, especially questions that pertain to my culture, ones that the internet can’t directly answer.
My education mission continued when my dad moved us to Chapel Hill, North Carolina- an annoyingly precise three months before my fifth-grade graduation, which I still sometimes mention during dinner. I wasn’t the one educating, but I was the one being educated. In Chapel Hill, there was a larger population of Asian-Americans. There were more people like me. I had friends who celebrated similar holidays and had parents with the same odd habits when it came to superstitions and house rules that my non-Asian-American friends would only rumple their eyebrows over. I had more inclusive conversations about culture and sexuality, conversations that rarely happened in Missouri. My worldview expanded and humbled my perspective from an all-knowing “nothing can hurt me” middle schooler to a more contemplative and insightful person. We often assume that the world is all we know it to be; I try to step beyond that mindset and dive in head-first to the unknown, realizing that what I know is only the spec of dust on the bookshelf.
Living and meeting new people in various places in the US taught me to be more approachable and sociable with others, even though I had started as a shy introvert. It has made me value the relationships that I have forged as I keep in touch with friends, even after leaving. My experiences have opened me to different learning methods, exploring various pathways, especially those that make me hesitant and doubtful to challenge my inner hubris. It has made me realize that in all the places I have lived and the people that I have met, no matter how different we are, everyone is in the same boat when it comes to life. We all want to fit in and seek acceptance from others, so I always strive to give a friendly smile when walking by or, now, turning on my ZOOM camera during class because it can often make all the difference.
Student is attending William and Mary
The longest place I have ever lived in was Columbia, Missouri. Columbia taught me American culture and English as I grew up in a house where we only spoke Korean and ate Korean food. While I had great experiences in Missouri, I also had some unfortunate instances where people did not accept my cultural background. These hurtful remarks taught me to use ignorance as an opportunity to educate others. I can’t blame people for the environment they grew up in, so I did my best to provide an alternative perspective. So, no, not everyone with the last name Kim is related to Kim Jung-Un. And, for the last time, Koreans don’t eat dogs or cats. We enjoy chicken just as much as the next American. I learned how to articulate my thoughts effectively and educationally, cultivating relationships that created safe spaces for people to ask questions. Questioning is one of the greatest privileges anyone could have. While Google is free, I always want to ensure that I am someone to go to for unsure moments, especially questions that pertain to my culture, ones that the internet can’t directly answer.
My education mission continued when my dad moved us to Chapel Hill, North Carolina- an annoyingly precise three months before my fifth-grade graduation, which I still sometimes mention during dinner. I wasn’t the one educating, but I was the one being educated. In Chapel Hill, there was a larger population of Asian-Americans. There were more people like me. I had friends who celebrated similar holidays and had parents with the same odd habits when it came to superstitions and house rules that my non-Asian-American friends would only rumple their eyebrows over. I had more inclusive conversations about culture and sexuality, conversations that rarely happened in Missouri. My worldview expanded and humbled my perspective from an all-knowing “nothing can hurt me” middle schooler to a more contemplative and insightful person. We often assume that the world is all we know it to be; I try to step beyond that mindset and dive in head-first to the unknown, realizing that what I know is only the spec of dust on the bookshelf.
Living and meeting new people in various places in the US taught me to be more approachable and sociable with others, even though I had started as a shy introvert. It has made me value the relationships that I have forged as I keep in touch with friends, even after leaving. My experiences have opened me to different learning methods, exploring various pathways, especially those that make me hesitant and doubtful to challenge my inner hubris. It has made me realize that in all the places I have lived and the people that I have met, no matter how different we are, everyone is in the same boat when it comes to life. We all want to fit in and seek acceptance from others, so I always strive to give a friendly smile when walking by or, now, turning on my ZOOM camera during class because it can often make all the difference.
Student is attending William and Mary
Unicycle
The minute I set eyes on my neighbor’s shiny silver unicycle, I knew I had to ride one too.
I was ten, and Emma was just a couple years older. One day, while our parents chatted, she let me ride her new unicycle. I sat on the too-big seat and rolled around her porch, clutching at the railings in a near-futile attempt to keep myself from wiping out. Immediately, my mind was set: I was going to learn to ride the unicycle.
I badgered my parents about my newfound goal for months, hoping to someday possess the one-wheeled object of my dreams. Finally, that Christmas, it was there: a silver unicycle, just the right size. As soon as it got warm enough, I was outside practicing every day. I was never an athletic kid, but I was a determined one.
I couldn’t get up over the seat on my own, so every time I wanted to start, I’d prop myself up using the steps leading up to our side door, steadying myself against the adjacent wall with my left hand. It was slow going at first—I’d edge across the brick wall, my left hand scraping against it. The driveway at the end of those five feet was hostile territory. Time after time, I would push off of the corner and hardly make it a foot before the unicycle tilted, dumping me unceremoniously onto the pavement. Frustrating as it was, I was not giving up. Every time I fell, I got up again. Little by little, I made it farther.
The first time I made it out of my driveway, I’d pushed off the wall with the expectation that this try would be like any other. Suddenly, I found myself looking out into the road, teetering, but upright. Elated, I pedaled into the middle of my cul-de-sac, where I promptly fell over, stood there for a second in complete shock, and ran inside to loudly inform my parents of my victory. In the coming weeks I continued to improve, first making it halfway down my little street, then to the end, then there and back.
I was never an accomplished unicyclist. I was ten, and my motor skills were rather rudimentary. Really, I wouldn’t even describe the movement of the unicycle as rolling—I had more of a lurching thing going on. But that wasn’t important. What was important was that I had done it, and, in the process, learned to trust myself. At that age, I hadn’t yet encountered many activities toward which I had to put a concerted effort. Elementary school academics came easily to me, and while my parents put me in a number of different sports lessons, my mediocrity there didn’t cause me any concern. The unicycle, however, ignited a passion in me. I knew I wanted to ride it, and I didn’t care how hard it was going to be.
In the years since I learned to ride the unicycle, my life has certainly gotten more complicated. My goals are no longer as simple as wanting to pedal to the next crack in the pavement—and there’s sure a lot more of them to accomplish than when I was ten. But even though it might seem inconsequential, learning to ride the unicycle taught me that no matter what it was I wanted to do, if I was willing to put in the effort, I would find success. The confidence I found has given me the ability to thrive in what I choose to do and the courage to undertake new activities that I’ve gotten excited about: horseback riding, dance classes, acting, playing the piano… The list goes on.
And of course, sometimes starting something new is frustrating. But every time I fail, I know I have to try again. Eventually, somewhere down the road, I trust that I’ll get it.
Student is attending the Acting Program at the University of California Los Angeles
I was ten, and Emma was just a couple years older. One day, while our parents chatted, she let me ride her new unicycle. I sat on the too-big seat and rolled around her porch, clutching at the railings in a near-futile attempt to keep myself from wiping out. Immediately, my mind was set: I was going to learn to ride the unicycle.
I badgered my parents about my newfound goal for months, hoping to someday possess the one-wheeled object of my dreams. Finally, that Christmas, it was there: a silver unicycle, just the right size. As soon as it got warm enough, I was outside practicing every day. I was never an athletic kid, but I was a determined one.
I couldn’t get up over the seat on my own, so every time I wanted to start, I’d prop myself up using the steps leading up to our side door, steadying myself against the adjacent wall with my left hand. It was slow going at first—I’d edge across the brick wall, my left hand scraping against it. The driveway at the end of those five feet was hostile territory. Time after time, I would push off of the corner and hardly make it a foot before the unicycle tilted, dumping me unceremoniously onto the pavement. Frustrating as it was, I was not giving up. Every time I fell, I got up again. Little by little, I made it farther.
The first time I made it out of my driveway, I’d pushed off the wall with the expectation that this try would be like any other. Suddenly, I found myself looking out into the road, teetering, but upright. Elated, I pedaled into the middle of my cul-de-sac, where I promptly fell over, stood there for a second in complete shock, and ran inside to loudly inform my parents of my victory. In the coming weeks I continued to improve, first making it halfway down my little street, then to the end, then there and back.
I was never an accomplished unicyclist. I was ten, and my motor skills were rather rudimentary. Really, I wouldn’t even describe the movement of the unicycle as rolling—I had more of a lurching thing going on. But that wasn’t important. What was important was that I had done it, and, in the process, learned to trust myself. At that age, I hadn’t yet encountered many activities toward which I had to put a concerted effort. Elementary school academics came easily to me, and while my parents put me in a number of different sports lessons, my mediocrity there didn’t cause me any concern. The unicycle, however, ignited a passion in me. I knew I wanted to ride it, and I didn’t care how hard it was going to be.
In the years since I learned to ride the unicycle, my life has certainly gotten more complicated. My goals are no longer as simple as wanting to pedal to the next crack in the pavement—and there’s sure a lot more of them to accomplish than when I was ten. But even though it might seem inconsequential, learning to ride the unicycle taught me that no matter what it was I wanted to do, if I was willing to put in the effort, I would find success. The confidence I found has given me the ability to thrive in what I choose to do and the courage to undertake new activities that I’ve gotten excited about: horseback riding, dance classes, acting, playing the piano… The list goes on.
And of course, sometimes starting something new is frustrating. But every time I fail, I know I have to try again. Eventually, somewhere down the road, I trust that I’ll get it.
Student is attending the Acting Program at the University of California Los Angeles
Thunderstorm at Camp
Muddy water sloshed at my feet facing the huge hill. Drenched in a thunderous downpour, a wailing five-year-old on my hip, sixty campers and fifteen other counselors running around shouting, I thought to myself, “Well, it can’t get any worse now.”
As if in response, I suddenly felt warm water trickling over my hands and arms and down my legs, coming from the child I was holding. “That better not be urine...?” I thought, repulsed at the quick realization I had just been peed on. On the heels of disgust, compassion dawned as I noticed how desperately he clung to my neck, and remembered the tantrum he threw at the first thunder-clap. I hadn’t fully appreciated until that moment how innocently terrified he was of the mid-summer afternoon thunderstorm.
I stood in the small clearing, at the mercy of the endless deluge and body-rattling claps of thunder erupting without cadence. The camp was in disarray. Dejected children stood in the clearing with me, shrouding their heads in their sopping cotton t-shirt collars. Some counselors followed suit, cursing their jobs under their breath. Others, like me, were occupied with children. Still other counselors were doggedly attempting to push the pick-up truck out of the mud, getting caked in muck every time the engine revved. The last few counselors were impatiently explaining to several little girls why it was unsafe to stand under the trees. All of the thunder, shouts, and cries were interrupted randomly by the whoops and hollers of the rest of the young boys and girls, delighted by the dreary scene that had the rest of the group so depressed.
Absorbing the absurdity of my situation, I felt oddly serene despite the clamorous symphony of simultaneous misery and ecstasy. I came to a realization. The world will not wait for you. Like rain drops, the thought simultaneously hurtled at and suspended over me in a momentary paradox of emotions which felt both nihilistic and intensely empowering
Growing up in a big family, independence was simply learned with walking: inconvenient circumstance was the norm and stoicism was simply the easiest way to avoid friction. This expectation made remaining calm and collected under my current circumstances easier for me. Listening to Gino wail, I realized not everyone grew up developing this skill set. The storm kept raging despite Gino’s obvious objection and unpreparedness for it. The realization dawned; the world does not stop despite how well or unprepared you are for unpredictable circumstances.
The expectation that you should always be prepared for anything is ludicrous. Circumstances that are impossible to foresee are inevitable. What’s important is how you seize agency with what you have and what you can do. After realizing this, I decided it was time for me and Gino to stop cowering and waiting for the storm to be over. Instead, it was time to go join Gino’s brother running in the rain and choose to enjoy this moment to the fullest.
I wish I could say that once I got back to the tents I was completely carefree and have eschewed all anxiety since this epiphany. Unfortunately, I am human and I continue to constantly worry about what I cannot control . This insight has, however, enabled me to pause when I feel as if I am raging against a heedless storm and re-examine whether or not my stress is about something I can control.
This has been especially helpful with the unpredictability of COVID 19. For many of us, the disease has opened our eyes to how chaotic life really is. With the whole world caught in a storm right now, adaptability and the ability to focus on the present moment have never before been so imperative for survival. Looking back I am grateful for the rain, mud, and other messes at the bottom of a hill during a summer storm.
Student is attending Clemson after a Gap Year in Hawaii
As if in response, I suddenly felt warm water trickling over my hands and arms and down my legs, coming from the child I was holding. “That better not be urine...?” I thought, repulsed at the quick realization I had just been peed on. On the heels of disgust, compassion dawned as I noticed how desperately he clung to my neck, and remembered the tantrum he threw at the first thunder-clap. I hadn’t fully appreciated until that moment how innocently terrified he was of the mid-summer afternoon thunderstorm.
I stood in the small clearing, at the mercy of the endless deluge and body-rattling claps of thunder erupting without cadence. The camp was in disarray. Dejected children stood in the clearing with me, shrouding their heads in their sopping cotton t-shirt collars. Some counselors followed suit, cursing their jobs under their breath. Others, like me, were occupied with children. Still other counselors were doggedly attempting to push the pick-up truck out of the mud, getting caked in muck every time the engine revved. The last few counselors were impatiently explaining to several little girls why it was unsafe to stand under the trees. All of the thunder, shouts, and cries were interrupted randomly by the whoops and hollers of the rest of the young boys and girls, delighted by the dreary scene that had the rest of the group so depressed.
Absorbing the absurdity of my situation, I felt oddly serene despite the clamorous symphony of simultaneous misery and ecstasy. I came to a realization. The world will not wait for you. Like rain drops, the thought simultaneously hurtled at and suspended over me in a momentary paradox of emotions which felt both nihilistic and intensely empowering
Growing up in a big family, independence was simply learned with walking: inconvenient circumstance was the norm and stoicism was simply the easiest way to avoid friction. This expectation made remaining calm and collected under my current circumstances easier for me. Listening to Gino wail, I realized not everyone grew up developing this skill set. The storm kept raging despite Gino’s obvious objection and unpreparedness for it. The realization dawned; the world does not stop despite how well or unprepared you are for unpredictable circumstances.
The expectation that you should always be prepared for anything is ludicrous. Circumstances that are impossible to foresee are inevitable. What’s important is how you seize agency with what you have and what you can do. After realizing this, I decided it was time for me and Gino to stop cowering and waiting for the storm to be over. Instead, it was time to go join Gino’s brother running in the rain and choose to enjoy this moment to the fullest.
I wish I could say that once I got back to the tents I was completely carefree and have eschewed all anxiety since this epiphany. Unfortunately, I am human and I continue to constantly worry about what I cannot control . This insight has, however, enabled me to pause when I feel as if I am raging against a heedless storm and re-examine whether or not my stress is about something I can control.
This has been especially helpful with the unpredictability of COVID 19. For many of us, the disease has opened our eyes to how chaotic life really is. With the whole world caught in a storm right now, adaptability and the ability to focus on the present moment have never before been so imperative for survival. Looking back I am grateful for the rain, mud, and other messes at the bottom of a hill during a summer storm.
Student is attending Clemson after a Gap Year in Hawaii
Tower Climb
On February 15th, 2020, I climbed a tower for the first time. The tower is a type of firefighting apparatus that has a massive ladder attached to it. The length of this ladder varies by manufacturer, but the one I conquered on this ceremonious day was about 90 feet tall. Before the day in question, I had a healthy fear of ladders, and only climbed them when it was absolutely necessary. Every time I put my feet on the rungs, I felt a twinge of panic in my chest, something I had grown quite accustomed to.
The instructor began explaining our task, “Today you will. . .” To be honest I was barely listening, my focus was entirely on one thing: a second instructor at the tower’s crest. He looked about one inch tall, capturing my attention because I knew that I would soon become that speck in the sky. Simply put, I was terrified. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, my turn finally arrived. I had a short conversation with myself while approaching the ladder, “Are we doing this?” I asked, “Yep. This is happening.” Stepping up to the base of the tower, I made eye contact with the instructor. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just don’t look down.”
As I took a deep breath and began the ascent, my body was wracked with anxiety. My only thoughts were about my inevitable slip, fall, and prompt demise; I could practically hear the thud of my body against the asphalt. I tried to distract myself throughout the trek, but in the final third, a familiar voice popped into my head, “Don’t worry, just don’t look down.” Of course, I immediately looked down, and was petrified by my elevation. However, I embraced this panic and flew up the rungs as quickly as possible. Shortly thereafter, I reached the top.
I wish I could provide a grandiose depiction of me surveying the world from the tower’s summit. I would love to explain how that peak changed my life, how it made me realize I am more than my apprehension. But that’s not what happened. I reached the top, and, eager to get off, began my speedy descent. I didn’t notice the effect that climbing the tower had on me until the next time I mounted a ladder; the familiar twinge of anxiety I usually experienced was missing. I realized the tower is the most extreme ladder I’ll ever have to climb, and because I did it, I wasn’t scared to climb anything anymore. I came to understand that by facing an extreme version of what scared me, I had conquered my fear.
This has happened to me before. I used to be terrified of getting the flu shot until I donated blood, now I have no dismay around needles. I used to be incredibly stressed before band performances until I performed multiple consecutive solos, now I don’t have any trepidation before going on stage.
Maybe it’s just the Gryffindor in me, but I’ve grown to appreciate my old fears. I’ve discovered that for me, the best way to conquer fears is to act, despite being afraid. I can look at my old fears and say, “I beat that”. I’m proud of the fact that I donated blood, performed in my school’s band, and climbed up a 90-foot tall ladder. I’m even more proud of the fact that I was terrified of these things, but did them anyway. Because, ultimately, no one can let their life be dictated by fear. I’m not naïve enough to think this is a foolproof plan; I know it’s not. For the small things though, or in my case, big ladders, I think we could all stand to stand up against what makes us afraid.
Student is attending the University of Aukland, New Zealand
The instructor began explaining our task, “Today you will. . .” To be honest I was barely listening, my focus was entirely on one thing: a second instructor at the tower’s crest. He looked about one inch tall, capturing my attention because I knew that I would soon become that speck in the sky. Simply put, I was terrified. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, my turn finally arrived. I had a short conversation with myself while approaching the ladder, “Are we doing this?” I asked, “Yep. This is happening.” Stepping up to the base of the tower, I made eye contact with the instructor. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just don’t look down.”
As I took a deep breath and began the ascent, my body was wracked with anxiety. My only thoughts were about my inevitable slip, fall, and prompt demise; I could practically hear the thud of my body against the asphalt. I tried to distract myself throughout the trek, but in the final third, a familiar voice popped into my head, “Don’t worry, just don’t look down.” Of course, I immediately looked down, and was petrified by my elevation. However, I embraced this panic and flew up the rungs as quickly as possible. Shortly thereafter, I reached the top.
I wish I could provide a grandiose depiction of me surveying the world from the tower’s summit. I would love to explain how that peak changed my life, how it made me realize I am more than my apprehension. But that’s not what happened. I reached the top, and, eager to get off, began my speedy descent. I didn’t notice the effect that climbing the tower had on me until the next time I mounted a ladder; the familiar twinge of anxiety I usually experienced was missing. I realized the tower is the most extreme ladder I’ll ever have to climb, and because I did it, I wasn’t scared to climb anything anymore. I came to understand that by facing an extreme version of what scared me, I had conquered my fear.
This has happened to me before. I used to be terrified of getting the flu shot until I donated blood, now I have no dismay around needles. I used to be incredibly stressed before band performances until I performed multiple consecutive solos, now I don’t have any trepidation before going on stage.
Maybe it’s just the Gryffindor in me, but I’ve grown to appreciate my old fears. I’ve discovered that for me, the best way to conquer fears is to act, despite being afraid. I can look at my old fears and say, “I beat that”. I’m proud of the fact that I donated blood, performed in my school’s band, and climbed up a 90-foot tall ladder. I’m even more proud of the fact that I was terrified of these things, but did them anyway. Because, ultimately, no one can let their life be dictated by fear. I’m not naïve enough to think this is a foolproof plan; I know it’s not. For the small things though, or in my case, big ladders, I think we could all stand to stand up against what makes us afraid.
Student is attending the University of Aukland, New Zealand
Fishing
“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” -Henry David Thoreau
I remember catching my first fish. I was seven and my family was on our summer vacation at Smith Mountain Lake in Virginia. The feeling of joy I felt when I pulled up that tiny sunfish was like nothing I ever felt before. Ten years later, that feeling of catching my first fish is still with me.
Over the years, fishing has become about more than just catching fish. Since I first started fishing I’ve gone on many adventures: fly fishing in New York and Vermont with my dad, backpacking in Shenandoah National Park, exploring places in my hometown I wouldn’t otherwise see, and getting lost in the mountains while looking for prime secluded fishing spots. Not every trip is a monumental expedition though, I find that the more routine aspects of fishing prove to be the most rewarding. Almost every day during the spring and summer, once school was canceled due to COVID-19 and life seemed uncertain, I went fishing at a pond close to my house. At first, I turned to fishing as a way to cure my boredom, but I quickly found out that it was a perfect opportunity to clear my head and be alone with my thoughts.
After a couple months of fishing nearly every day, I wondered why I liked it so much and why I kept going back to it. At the time, I thought I just really liked catching fish. That, of course, was true (because who doesn’t?) However, as Thoreau pointed out, I thought I was after fish when I was really after peace of mind.
I used to find myself stressed out and worried a lot. I would worry about whatever presented itself; school, family, sports; it was all fair game. When I started fishing regularly, my stress melted away and I was able to live in the moment. Something about being in nature, listening to what was going on around me, and just focusing on doing one thing at a time, brought me real peace. It took me all summer to realize this, and now I feel that I can apply Thoreau’s words to almost anything in life. Before, I went out looking for one thing, so focused on my eventual goal that I was not able to appreciate what I found and experienced along the way.
During this time of transition from high school to college I am going to keep these words in mind. I realize that what I’m excited about in the years to come isn’t just getting a degree. Of course, going to college is an opportunity to learn, but it’s also about meeting new people, going new places, having new experiences, and getting to pursue my passions.
And now, whenever I find that I’m in a rut, I get up and go fishing because I know it can always put me in a better mood and give me a chance to clear my head. And who knows, maybe I’ll even catch a fish while I’m at it.
Student is attending The University of Wyoming
I remember catching my first fish. I was seven and my family was on our summer vacation at Smith Mountain Lake in Virginia. The feeling of joy I felt when I pulled up that tiny sunfish was like nothing I ever felt before. Ten years later, that feeling of catching my first fish is still with me.
Over the years, fishing has become about more than just catching fish. Since I first started fishing I’ve gone on many adventures: fly fishing in New York and Vermont with my dad, backpacking in Shenandoah National Park, exploring places in my hometown I wouldn’t otherwise see, and getting lost in the mountains while looking for prime secluded fishing spots. Not every trip is a monumental expedition though, I find that the more routine aspects of fishing prove to be the most rewarding. Almost every day during the spring and summer, once school was canceled due to COVID-19 and life seemed uncertain, I went fishing at a pond close to my house. At first, I turned to fishing as a way to cure my boredom, but I quickly found out that it was a perfect opportunity to clear my head and be alone with my thoughts.
After a couple months of fishing nearly every day, I wondered why I liked it so much and why I kept going back to it. At the time, I thought I just really liked catching fish. That, of course, was true (because who doesn’t?) However, as Thoreau pointed out, I thought I was after fish when I was really after peace of mind.
I used to find myself stressed out and worried a lot. I would worry about whatever presented itself; school, family, sports; it was all fair game. When I started fishing regularly, my stress melted away and I was able to live in the moment. Something about being in nature, listening to what was going on around me, and just focusing on doing one thing at a time, brought me real peace. It took me all summer to realize this, and now I feel that I can apply Thoreau’s words to almost anything in life. Before, I went out looking for one thing, so focused on my eventual goal that I was not able to appreciate what I found and experienced along the way.
During this time of transition from high school to college I am going to keep these words in mind. I realize that what I’m excited about in the years to come isn’t just getting a degree. Of course, going to college is an opportunity to learn, but it’s also about meeting new people, going new places, having new experiences, and getting to pursue my passions.
And now, whenever I find that I’m in a rut, I get up and go fishing because I know it can always put me in a better mood and give me a chance to clear my head. And who knows, maybe I’ll even catch a fish while I’m at it.
Student is attending The University of Wyoming
The Purple Play House
Sitting in my backyard lies my playhouse. The first thing one notices is the lilac purple color that is painted throughout the whole house. The floors, walls, siding, and shingles are all covered in that magical color. To any onlooker it looks strange, out of place, but anyone who knows me knows it is my sanctuary. I can’t remember a time without seeing the purple playhouse in my backyard; it has been a constant throughout my life.
If you were to travel back in time ten years ago, the inside was covered with handmade decorations. A baby doll sat in her crib in one corner and in the other corner was my little broom that I used to clean the house. Cut out stars bedazzled with pink and purple gems hung from the ceiling. I had my own personal galaxy and at any given moment I could wish upon a star or pretend I lived on Mars.
The one thing I really loved about the playhouse was that I got to decide the rules. So when I was eight-years-old and feeling rebellious I took to the inside walls with a marker. I wrote anything and everything. On one side there is a list of my favorite foods and on another is the story of the time my best friends and I saved a caterpillar named Clark from getting run over by a car. Over the years the walls became covered in stories of other people I had met in my life. Kids I played with on the street, people from school, stories of random people I saw sitting on a bench. If I didn’t know their personal story I made one up for them. I listened to the stories of others and learned from them. My handwriting slowly changed from messy scribbles to neat sentences and my grammar improved. I realize now this is where my passion for writing stories stemmed from; the purple playhouse that had hundreds of stories to tell. It became a tradition that anyone who entered the playhouse had to tell me their most extravagant story, real or fake so I could write it on the wall.
When I went to summer camp my stories came with me. The rustic, old cabins were covered in signatures from others who had left her mark years before I was even born. I spent dozens of rest hours lying in my bunk reading notes from campers I would never meet. I left my own mark, finding the perfect spot to sign my name. Of course, I also documented the events that had happened in the small cabin full of eight other girls on the wall beside my bunk. For six weeks every summer I got to know girls from all over the world. I wrote many stories in my brown journal saving the most iconic ones to write on the cabin for other curious girls to read in the years after I was gone from camp, my favorite being the time my friend laughed so hard she peed her pants in the cabin.
Now as a senior in high school I can no longer fit inside the purple playhouse without having to crouch down. The outside is worn down from harsh weather conditions, and the writing inside has started to fade. Looking back on my time spent inside the purple playhouse I am reminded of where my passion for storytelling came from: the place that I ran to all of my childhood. As I plan to move out of the “house” and start my new journey in life, I can say with confidence that I am ready to find a new purple playhouse somewhere in the world. The stories that once revolved around my life and childhood in Crozet will be replaced by stories I have yet to discover.
Student is attending The Ohio State University Journalism Program
If you were to travel back in time ten years ago, the inside was covered with handmade decorations. A baby doll sat in her crib in one corner and in the other corner was my little broom that I used to clean the house. Cut out stars bedazzled with pink and purple gems hung from the ceiling. I had my own personal galaxy and at any given moment I could wish upon a star or pretend I lived on Mars.
The one thing I really loved about the playhouse was that I got to decide the rules. So when I was eight-years-old and feeling rebellious I took to the inside walls with a marker. I wrote anything and everything. On one side there is a list of my favorite foods and on another is the story of the time my best friends and I saved a caterpillar named Clark from getting run over by a car. Over the years the walls became covered in stories of other people I had met in my life. Kids I played with on the street, people from school, stories of random people I saw sitting on a bench. If I didn’t know their personal story I made one up for them. I listened to the stories of others and learned from them. My handwriting slowly changed from messy scribbles to neat sentences and my grammar improved. I realize now this is where my passion for writing stories stemmed from; the purple playhouse that had hundreds of stories to tell. It became a tradition that anyone who entered the playhouse had to tell me their most extravagant story, real or fake so I could write it on the wall.
When I went to summer camp my stories came with me. The rustic, old cabins were covered in signatures from others who had left her mark years before I was even born. I spent dozens of rest hours lying in my bunk reading notes from campers I would never meet. I left my own mark, finding the perfect spot to sign my name. Of course, I also documented the events that had happened in the small cabin full of eight other girls on the wall beside my bunk. For six weeks every summer I got to know girls from all over the world. I wrote many stories in my brown journal saving the most iconic ones to write on the cabin for other curious girls to read in the years after I was gone from camp, my favorite being the time my friend laughed so hard she peed her pants in the cabin.
Now as a senior in high school I can no longer fit inside the purple playhouse without having to crouch down. The outside is worn down from harsh weather conditions, and the writing inside has started to fade. Looking back on my time spent inside the purple playhouse I am reminded of where my passion for storytelling came from: the place that I ran to all of my childhood. As I plan to move out of the “house” and start my new journey in life, I can say with confidence that I am ready to find a new purple playhouse somewhere in the world. The stories that once revolved around my life and childhood in Crozet will be replaced by stories I have yet to discover.
Student is attending The Ohio State University Journalism Program
Love is Love
“Would you like the check split or is it going to be all together,” our waitress asks after my mom, Carol, prompts her for the bill. My mother, Sarah, assures her that we will be paying all together, as a family.
It wasn’t until I was in seventh grade that the United States protected my parents’ marriage under law. Before that time, I remember being asked by one of my elementary school classmates if my mom Sarah, who had an androgynous haircut and was sporting long khaki shorts, was my father. At six years old, I found his remark laughable rather than impolite, though nonetheless, at a young age I knew my family’s dynamic was far from traditional.
I can’t say that I have always flaunted my unusual upbringing. In fact, growing up I was slightly embarrassed to tell people that I didn’t have a father, and more importantly, that my moms were gay, in fear of rejection and being thought different. Making new friends made me anxious due to the possibility that people would not accept me upon discovering my “secret.” Much to my surprise, most people weren’t judgmental but rather jealous that I had two loving moms to come home to instead of just one.
However, there were instances when peers were aggressive in nature when addressing my family. “That’s impossible!” and “Are you sure?” were frequent comments. By now, I’ve learned that these remarks are no more than the reflection of their or their parents’ ignorance. Explaining artificial insemination and sperm donation to second graders, though, was no easy feat, especially when I was unsure of the process myself. My parents had to clarify a bit when I said, “Don’t they know you can just buy it from the store?”
Another question I grew up being asked was: “So which one is your real mom?” I recall being baffled by this as my parents are obviously both real moms. Over time, I realized what my friends really wanted to know was which mom gave birth to me-- as if that matters. Carol, my mom with my same fiery red hair and fair skin, is biologically related to me while Sarah is not. Blood has never been a prerequisite to love or necessary for strong relationships in my family and shouldn’t be in any family.
Although my birth certificate might not reflect it, both my moms are equally my parents. I have the endless fourteen-letter last name to prove it. Despite this, there is a part of my identity which is not necessarily missing, but certainly ambiguous because I am an in vivo baby.
While some may believe growing up without a father figure would be detrimental to a child’s development, it has been quite the opposite in my situation. Being raised by two confident women has taught me to never apologize for being authentically me. By simply being themselves, my parents have demonstrated that societal standards should not dictate my decisions whatsoever.
My experiences placed a motivating chip on my shoulder to prove that I can be as successful as a child brought up in a “conventional” nuclear family. In fact, my upbringing, in many ways, could be the epitome of convention. I have always come home to two supportive parents who provide for me and my brother, raise us to be responsible and respectful adults, and still strive to embarrass us whenever given the opportunity. By having such a normal life our family has confirmed that children of same-sex parents grow up as no more than children… with two moms or two dads. Regardless, justifying my hyper-qualified parents has at times exacerbated my stubborn perfectionism but has primarily given me sustained motivation in all aspects of my life. In my opinion, there’s no “right way” to grow up; after all, love is love.
Student is attending Syracuse University
It wasn’t until I was in seventh grade that the United States protected my parents’ marriage under law. Before that time, I remember being asked by one of my elementary school classmates if my mom Sarah, who had an androgynous haircut and was sporting long khaki shorts, was my father. At six years old, I found his remark laughable rather than impolite, though nonetheless, at a young age I knew my family’s dynamic was far from traditional.
I can’t say that I have always flaunted my unusual upbringing. In fact, growing up I was slightly embarrassed to tell people that I didn’t have a father, and more importantly, that my moms were gay, in fear of rejection and being thought different. Making new friends made me anxious due to the possibility that people would not accept me upon discovering my “secret.” Much to my surprise, most people weren’t judgmental but rather jealous that I had two loving moms to come home to instead of just one.
However, there were instances when peers were aggressive in nature when addressing my family. “That’s impossible!” and “Are you sure?” were frequent comments. By now, I’ve learned that these remarks are no more than the reflection of their or their parents’ ignorance. Explaining artificial insemination and sperm donation to second graders, though, was no easy feat, especially when I was unsure of the process myself. My parents had to clarify a bit when I said, “Don’t they know you can just buy it from the store?”
Another question I grew up being asked was: “So which one is your real mom?” I recall being baffled by this as my parents are obviously both real moms. Over time, I realized what my friends really wanted to know was which mom gave birth to me-- as if that matters. Carol, my mom with my same fiery red hair and fair skin, is biologically related to me while Sarah is not. Blood has never been a prerequisite to love or necessary for strong relationships in my family and shouldn’t be in any family.
Although my birth certificate might not reflect it, both my moms are equally my parents. I have the endless fourteen-letter last name to prove it. Despite this, there is a part of my identity which is not necessarily missing, but certainly ambiguous because I am an in vivo baby.
While some may believe growing up without a father figure would be detrimental to a child’s development, it has been quite the opposite in my situation. Being raised by two confident women has taught me to never apologize for being authentically me. By simply being themselves, my parents have demonstrated that societal standards should not dictate my decisions whatsoever.
My experiences placed a motivating chip on my shoulder to prove that I can be as successful as a child brought up in a “conventional” nuclear family. In fact, my upbringing, in many ways, could be the epitome of convention. I have always come home to two supportive parents who provide for me and my brother, raise us to be responsible and respectful adults, and still strive to embarrass us whenever given the opportunity. By having such a normal life our family has confirmed that children of same-sex parents grow up as no more than children… with two moms or two dads. Regardless, justifying my hyper-qualified parents has at times exacerbated my stubborn perfectionism but has primarily given me sustained motivation in all aspects of my life. In my opinion, there’s no “right way” to grow up; after all, love is love.
Student is attending Syracuse University
1190 Orchard Drive
A few months ago, as I was driving home from work, I almost pulled into the wrong driveway. Autopilot had kicked in, and when it was finally time to go home, that is where I went. Except that the driveway was no longer mine, and home had changed locations. After sixteen years of living in the house that my tired brain will always think of as home, we had moved.
I stopped for a while in front of my old house. For my whole life, I had taken it for granted, but my home was special. All alone on top of a hill with peeling green paint and a half finished fence; it could be seen from the road and everyone knew it as they drove by. When I heard the news that they had to knock it down in order to build a park for the new apartment buildings down the street, I didn’t feel like it was actually going to happen. When people asked me how I felt, I would always reply with “Its fine I guess, it is what it is.” I didn’t allow myself to feel sad or angry until it truly set in that not only were we moving, but my home was going to disappear forever.
It had taken me one day to pack up the contents of my room, and one afternoon to take all of our possessions from the old house to the new. Something about that was bittersweet; sixteen years of Christmas brunches, fairy houses in the front yard, and rock collections could be packed up in an afternoon.
As I packed, I was clutched by the overwhelming sense of nostalgia, and I could not decide whether or not all of my belongings were important. I learned that many of the things I brought with me, were not needed in my new house, and I ended up giving them away.
So when habit brought me to the old house on the hill, there was a deep ache in my heart as I looked on. It was empty. The grass had not been mowed, and the gardens that my mom had worked so hard on, were overgrown and tired. I remembered, how on my last night, I sat on the roof outside my window and just thought about all that my house had given me. It was where late nights were spent chatting with friends or having tea parties on that same roof in the middle of summer. It was where I fell down the stairs as a toddler and chipped my tooth. Those memories could not be packed in a box.
The house is gone, but the memories are not, and there is something to be said for that. Many of the things worth keeping did not end up in a box; I did not need a box to take with me, the memories of the past, and the future to come. I have found that leaving a place is not as important as being able to take all that it has given me as I move forward.
Student is attending JMU
I stopped for a while in front of my old house. For my whole life, I had taken it for granted, but my home was special. All alone on top of a hill with peeling green paint and a half finished fence; it could be seen from the road and everyone knew it as they drove by. When I heard the news that they had to knock it down in order to build a park for the new apartment buildings down the street, I didn’t feel like it was actually going to happen. When people asked me how I felt, I would always reply with “Its fine I guess, it is what it is.” I didn’t allow myself to feel sad or angry until it truly set in that not only were we moving, but my home was going to disappear forever.
It had taken me one day to pack up the contents of my room, and one afternoon to take all of our possessions from the old house to the new. Something about that was bittersweet; sixteen years of Christmas brunches, fairy houses in the front yard, and rock collections could be packed up in an afternoon.
As I packed, I was clutched by the overwhelming sense of nostalgia, and I could not decide whether or not all of my belongings were important. I learned that many of the things I brought with me, were not needed in my new house, and I ended up giving them away.
So when habit brought me to the old house on the hill, there was a deep ache in my heart as I looked on. It was empty. The grass had not been mowed, and the gardens that my mom had worked so hard on, were overgrown and tired. I remembered, how on my last night, I sat on the roof outside my window and just thought about all that my house had given me. It was where late nights were spent chatting with friends or having tea parties on that same roof in the middle of summer. It was where I fell down the stairs as a toddler and chipped my tooth. Those memories could not be packed in a box.
The house is gone, but the memories are not, and there is something to be said for that. Many of the things worth keeping did not end up in a box; I did not need a box to take with me, the memories of the past, and the future to come. I have found that leaving a place is not as important as being able to take all that it has given me as I move forward.
Student is attending JMU
Pockets
I don’t remember when my pants became so heavy. I think it started when I bought a small planner that could fit into my cargo pocket. I fell in love with the efficiency of having a planner always in arm’s reach. Now I carry with me: a multi tool with a missing knife, a 3 inch long screw driver with 9 bits of 3 different shapes and sizes, a 6 by 3.5 inch planner no thicker than a pencil, a 4 by 3 inch journal roughly ½ an inch thick, my phone –as big as my journal, but as thick as my planner–, an average sized wallet, earbuds, six different pens each a color of the rainbow, a mechanical pencil, my house and car keys, an imperial allen wrench set of 9, a flashlight 4 inches in length, safety glasses, leather craftsman work gloves, TI-84 calculator, and my phone charger. My pants weigh more than a fat cat. The cargo pockets stick out with a huge bulge and droop when I sit. Clanking metal fills silent hallways with each step I take. There’s a black ink stain on the front right side of my pants, and it looks like I have 2 rectangular blocks stuffed into my back pocket. Nothing, however, is extraneous.
While many question why I stuff my pockets, the simple answer is it’s simply because I use it all. I’m not one for social media or going to the beach with friends. I prefer working in a shop on robots or 3D printers with friends as a team. I obsess over the fact that we can take an idea and build something tangible. Once I learned how to scavenge materials, my notebook became filled with list of items, stuff I want to make, and then shortly thereafter I began making tesla coils from an old scrapped TV, followed by wireless LEDs using wire from a broken motor, a 3D printer, an ARC Welder scrapped from microwave high voltage transformers, and lasers with diodes from a blu ray player. A burnt pair of gloves taught me to always do my research and learn to take proper safety precautions. The ARC Welder tripping the house voltage breaker taught me to make sure you have the right equipment before you do a job, while a dull jig saw blade taught me to always check the specifications of what you buy, and burn marks on my hand from a 216 degree celsius 3D printer nozzle taught me to have patience.
Not everything in my pockets is for building; It’s also about the plans for building. I’m not okay with being idle, so I carry my journal filled with drawings of robot spiders, and lists of experiments for what I can do with sulfuric acid from a car battery, sketches and concepts for ongoing projects like how to get tiny robots to communicate with each other through a server on a Raspberry Pi, or an ongoing project that involves designing a hang glider powered by a motorcycle engine to take off from the ground vertically, but at the moment I have have few ideas for how it will land.
There are only so many hours in the day. Last year I had a tough schedule and was diagnosed with ADHD late into junior year, and I discovered I can’t do everything. But I want to do everything within my limits, and the only way to do that is through efficiency. I don’t spend twenty minutes trying to remember the idea I had earlier. My pens and planner are used so I don’t sit around wasting time remembering when homework is due. The more time I have designing, planning, and building things, the happier I am, because that’s what I live for.
Student attends Virginia Tech Engineering
While many question why I stuff my pockets, the simple answer is it’s simply because I use it all. I’m not one for social media or going to the beach with friends. I prefer working in a shop on robots or 3D printers with friends as a team. I obsess over the fact that we can take an idea and build something tangible. Once I learned how to scavenge materials, my notebook became filled with list of items, stuff I want to make, and then shortly thereafter I began making tesla coils from an old scrapped TV, followed by wireless LEDs using wire from a broken motor, a 3D printer, an ARC Welder scrapped from microwave high voltage transformers, and lasers with diodes from a blu ray player. A burnt pair of gloves taught me to always do my research and learn to take proper safety precautions. The ARC Welder tripping the house voltage breaker taught me to make sure you have the right equipment before you do a job, while a dull jig saw blade taught me to always check the specifications of what you buy, and burn marks on my hand from a 216 degree celsius 3D printer nozzle taught me to have patience.
Not everything in my pockets is for building; It’s also about the plans for building. I’m not okay with being idle, so I carry my journal filled with drawings of robot spiders, and lists of experiments for what I can do with sulfuric acid from a car battery, sketches and concepts for ongoing projects like how to get tiny robots to communicate with each other through a server on a Raspberry Pi, or an ongoing project that involves designing a hang glider powered by a motorcycle engine to take off from the ground vertically, but at the moment I have have few ideas for how it will land.
There are only so many hours in the day. Last year I had a tough schedule and was diagnosed with ADHD late into junior year, and I discovered I can’t do everything. But I want to do everything within my limits, and the only way to do that is through efficiency. I don’t spend twenty minutes trying to remember the idea I had earlier. My pens and planner are used so I don’t sit around wasting time remembering when homework is due. The more time I have designing, planning, and building things, the happier I am, because that’s what I live for.
Student attends Virginia Tech Engineering
Noche Buena
The smells of Nochebuena fill my house as I wake on the 24th. The lechón has been brining for three days in a noisome slurry of olive oil, garlic, and sour orange juice, flown in from Miami, the only place where one can get such things. The deep fryer awaits the tostones and maduros, while the frijoles simmer on the stove, saturated in sherry and infused with garlic. The yuca has been assigned a colander anticipating its bath in bubbling oil. It looks to be the best Nochebuena yet.
The truth is, I don’t know what other people eat for Christmas. I assume it’s turkey or ham, or maybe a traditionally English meal of roast beef and yorkshire pudding, like what they eat on TV. We tried doing that once, but on the day after Nochebuena, it was too much work. Besides, the production of making sanduches cubanos, with everyone in an assembly line, layering lechón, ham, pickles, and cheese, was one of the things we missed.
In the 80’s, my abuelo had a quintuple bypass. Clearly, Cuban cuisine is not healthy, our palate having plenty of room for salt, sweet, umami, and not much else. Whenever you see a Cuban eating a salad, it’s on doctor’s orders, and even then, likely to be drenched in oil. Abuelo miraculously survived, and was ordered, unsurprisingly, to stick to lean protein and vegetables. He died in his sleep from cancer years later, with a freezer full of cream puffs that he frequently filched, a cafecito on his bedside table.
His widow, Nenita, moved to Miami after his death to join the massive enclave of Cuban ex-pats. Often, on visits, we’d eat at the perennial favorite, Versailles. Opened in 1971, it used to be a French restaurant, but fresh from Santiago de Cuba, the owner couldn’t afford to make any substantive changes. Today, it is still a poor imitation of the Hall of Mirrors, and would pass as such if it weren’t for the loud Cubans gorging themselves on pan cubano and drinking café con leche. One time, we were seated at one of the tables in the massive restaurant after ordering our cafés, when we suddenly heard “Óye profesor! E’ que hay que venir aquí, sabe’, pa’ comer bien.” Tony, the owner of the Cuban coffee shop in our hometown enthusiastically greeted us. Cubans always find each other no matter where they are.
On a different late night, many years ago, my mother served vaca frita at a dinner party for my father’s colleagues. The guest of honor, a visiting professor, still insists that it is one of the best meals that he has ever eaten. Like him, Cubans prize this dish, but its power comes not from the infusion of limón and garlic but from the magic of the inclusiveness of gathering to eat together. The conversations, interactions, and serendipitous new friends that are invariably created lead to memorable nights and everyone leaves both with full stomachs and full spirits.
My Abuelos are gone now, and I rarely get to eat this food. I never have the Friday night family dinners to look forward to, where the rice is molded into a mound using a bowl, and potatoes are a vegetable. Yet, their presence remains, not necessarily in a tangible way, but in the congregating of people for however long a time it takes to eat and enjoy one another. The occasion doesn’t matter. It can be Christmas, The Fourth of July, Arbor Day, or National Chocolate Covered Raisins Day (March 24). To be Cuban is to be part of la familia, and that’s not just blood. It’s friends, neighbors, people on the street, and even Ted from accounting, who you secretly hate but helps with your taxes. The lechón is waiting, and everyone is welcome.
Student graduated from Macalester College
The truth is, I don’t know what other people eat for Christmas. I assume it’s turkey or ham, or maybe a traditionally English meal of roast beef and yorkshire pudding, like what they eat on TV. We tried doing that once, but on the day after Nochebuena, it was too much work. Besides, the production of making sanduches cubanos, with everyone in an assembly line, layering lechón, ham, pickles, and cheese, was one of the things we missed.
In the 80’s, my abuelo had a quintuple bypass. Clearly, Cuban cuisine is not healthy, our palate having plenty of room for salt, sweet, umami, and not much else. Whenever you see a Cuban eating a salad, it’s on doctor’s orders, and even then, likely to be drenched in oil. Abuelo miraculously survived, and was ordered, unsurprisingly, to stick to lean protein and vegetables. He died in his sleep from cancer years later, with a freezer full of cream puffs that he frequently filched, a cafecito on his bedside table.
His widow, Nenita, moved to Miami after his death to join the massive enclave of Cuban ex-pats. Often, on visits, we’d eat at the perennial favorite, Versailles. Opened in 1971, it used to be a French restaurant, but fresh from Santiago de Cuba, the owner couldn’t afford to make any substantive changes. Today, it is still a poor imitation of the Hall of Mirrors, and would pass as such if it weren’t for the loud Cubans gorging themselves on pan cubano and drinking café con leche. One time, we were seated at one of the tables in the massive restaurant after ordering our cafés, when we suddenly heard “Óye profesor! E’ que hay que venir aquí, sabe’, pa’ comer bien.” Tony, the owner of the Cuban coffee shop in our hometown enthusiastically greeted us. Cubans always find each other no matter where they are.
On a different late night, many years ago, my mother served vaca frita at a dinner party for my father’s colleagues. The guest of honor, a visiting professor, still insists that it is one of the best meals that he has ever eaten. Like him, Cubans prize this dish, but its power comes not from the infusion of limón and garlic but from the magic of the inclusiveness of gathering to eat together. The conversations, interactions, and serendipitous new friends that are invariably created lead to memorable nights and everyone leaves both with full stomachs and full spirits.
My Abuelos are gone now, and I rarely get to eat this food. I never have the Friday night family dinners to look forward to, where the rice is molded into a mound using a bowl, and potatoes are a vegetable. Yet, their presence remains, not necessarily in a tangible way, but in the congregating of people for however long a time it takes to eat and enjoy one another. The occasion doesn’t matter. It can be Christmas, The Fourth of July, Arbor Day, or National Chocolate Covered Raisins Day (March 24). To be Cuban is to be part of la familia, and that’s not just blood. It’s friends, neighbors, people on the street, and even Ted from accounting, who you secretly hate but helps with your taxes. The lechón is waiting, and everyone is welcome.
Student graduated from Macalester College
Failure
One time that I experienced failure was when I first sat down to write this essay, and indeed, every time following. So many times film scores sparked my inspiration, yet not for any of the prompts laid before me. But, by the time you're reading this document, I have overcome my failure, and written my essay. This is not to say that there weren’t plenty of struggles on the serpentine road leading to this end product. It was a vicious cycle of endless revisions, endless stress, and endless rage quits. However, this daunting task did teach me an important lesson: whether or not you, dear college admission officer, like this essay or not does not mean my future will be a failure.
These essay topics, when I first reached them after answering endless questions about me, my family, my favorite ice cream flavor (well, not really, but you get the point), I must admit, I turned on Netflix and took a break, because after all, it was September, and I had time. But later that evening as I was counting sheep, the prompts haunted my mind. “Who’s to say that I have become an adult? Or that there is one problem I want to fix, when I see so many?” I was stumped.
And, on top of choosing a topic, I knew that I also had to make sure that my personality shows through my words. I should make sure I come off as a cognizant human. How? By using words like, well, cognizant, when really, ‘I think’ works just as well. Finally, to top this all off, there’s the fact that I’m not willing to pay someone to tell me how to get into your college. I don’t want someone to write my essay. I do want you to see me for me. But as I wrote, I just didn’t know how to achieve this with the prompts given to me.
As you’ve probably realized, at least I hope, this essay has given me a lot of stress. I have written at least five drafts, and they have all been labeled as failures. Do you know how much time that takes out of my day? I mean, sure you do, because you read thousands of these in a day. What are the odds mine will stand out like a diamond in the rough? Not well.
This isn’t because I’m overly critical of myself, but rather the opposite. I trust myself as a writer, and I trust those around me to help refine my words. It’s the others, my competitors and peers, that I give too much credit to. If I write about how much I like writing, I’m sure there’s someone out there in the realm of applications that can do it better. The pressure! The potential for failure!
The lesson I’ve taken from this whole process of essay writing is that, you know what, I’m more than these 600 words on a page. Is quite a bit of me here? Of course. But I can’t tell you properly just how much I like writing, or how integral a part of my life music is. I’m a girl who identifies as liberal-artsy, and yet somehow fell in love with statistics. I know that my transcript will tell a different story than this essay. My supplemental essays will hopefully tell a similar story, but probably not the same one. People are all different, which is why it is okay if this essay is not going to be perfect to you. No one’s will be. Bottom line? As much as I really want to go to college to continue to learn, failure is not the end of this world, and while this essay may shape the direction of my future a bit, it doesn’t mean that it’s the end-all.
Student graduated from Davidson College
These essay topics, when I first reached them after answering endless questions about me, my family, my favorite ice cream flavor (well, not really, but you get the point), I must admit, I turned on Netflix and took a break, because after all, it was September, and I had time. But later that evening as I was counting sheep, the prompts haunted my mind. “Who’s to say that I have become an adult? Or that there is one problem I want to fix, when I see so many?” I was stumped.
And, on top of choosing a topic, I knew that I also had to make sure that my personality shows through my words. I should make sure I come off as a cognizant human. How? By using words like, well, cognizant, when really, ‘I think’ works just as well. Finally, to top this all off, there’s the fact that I’m not willing to pay someone to tell me how to get into your college. I don’t want someone to write my essay. I do want you to see me for me. But as I wrote, I just didn’t know how to achieve this with the prompts given to me.
As you’ve probably realized, at least I hope, this essay has given me a lot of stress. I have written at least five drafts, and they have all been labeled as failures. Do you know how much time that takes out of my day? I mean, sure you do, because you read thousands of these in a day. What are the odds mine will stand out like a diamond in the rough? Not well.
This isn’t because I’m overly critical of myself, but rather the opposite. I trust myself as a writer, and I trust those around me to help refine my words. It’s the others, my competitors and peers, that I give too much credit to. If I write about how much I like writing, I’m sure there’s someone out there in the realm of applications that can do it better. The pressure! The potential for failure!
The lesson I’ve taken from this whole process of essay writing is that, you know what, I’m more than these 600 words on a page. Is quite a bit of me here? Of course. But I can’t tell you properly just how much I like writing, or how integral a part of my life music is. I’m a girl who identifies as liberal-artsy, and yet somehow fell in love with statistics. I know that my transcript will tell a different story than this essay. My supplemental essays will hopefully tell a similar story, but probably not the same one. People are all different, which is why it is okay if this essay is not going to be perfect to you. No one’s will be. Bottom line? As much as I really want to go to college to continue to learn, failure is not the end of this world, and while this essay may shape the direction of my future a bit, it doesn’t mean that it’s the end-all.
Student graduated from Davidson College
Bad Runner
“Ready, set, go!” The hill workout began. But as I started running up the hill, I watched with alarm as my group sped away from me. As though in slow motion, the bottom group of runners on my team caught up to me and I reflected with self-pity: I had hit rock-bottom in my running career.
From the moment I joined cross country in ninth grade, I began to train with the varsity team. Running was nothing new to me; I had run throughout middle school, winning many races around town. I was good and I knew it, ending my ninth grade season confident I would join the top seven varsity squad the following year.
But when I resumed cross country in the fall of my sophomore year, my ranking on the team began to drop. I kept making excuses about my lackluster performance: “I didn’t hydrate enough, I’m sleep deprived, my lunch was bad…” I grew bitter watching girls who I never dreamed would beat me coast by in races, and transformed into a grumbling pessimist as I recounted with nostalgia my exceptional performance as a freshman. The races grew longer and harder as my running continued to deteriorate; the humiliation of finishing among the last runners even made me consider quitting the team.
Seeing no improvement the following year, I completely gave up. I was running only to stay in shape and to put “cross country” on my college application. But as I declined as a runner, I began to know my team on a more personal level, no longer confined to train with the “top seven.” I cheered for the teammates I could no longer compete with, and I could genuinely assure my teammates that they had run well, since almost any time was better than mine. I had been freed from the bonds of competitiveness that are present in all varsity sports, and this freedom opened my eyes to the most important part of a sport: my team. I realized that being a good team member was just as important as being a good runner. My job had shifted from scoring points for the team to pacing younger girls and leading warm ups and cool downs.
And as I became a slower runner, the races became more difficult. While I used to see 20 minutes on my watch and think, The race is almost over, I now thought to myself, Over seven minutes to go! Races passed by in slow motion, one excruciating minute after another, as I slogged over never-ending hills all alone, no longer pushed by my beloved teammates who had long since surged ahead of me.
Over the course of my high school running career, I added five minutes to my 5k time. But in doing so, I learned a few things. Becoming a worse runner humbled me to the extreme: I could forget about swallowing my pride…I had watched it be trodden on by every single girl that ran past me. Losing my ability to run fast made me appreciate the things I was good at, like math, computer coding, and playing the violin. It also gave me some perspective; when I had been a fast runner, I saw the slow girls as lazy and unathletic, simply people who wanted to do a sport and picked cross country from their list of options. Now I know that the very last girl to finish a cross country race put just as much effort into the race as the first.
It took me a long time, perhaps too long, to appreciate that my deteriorated performance as a runner was in fact a blessing, a sort of slap in the face from God saying, “You’re not that special, so stop acting like you are.” Because though I may be an excellent student and a hard worker, I will never be a fast runner.
Student Graduated from UVA Engineering
From the moment I joined cross country in ninth grade, I began to train with the varsity team. Running was nothing new to me; I had run throughout middle school, winning many races around town. I was good and I knew it, ending my ninth grade season confident I would join the top seven varsity squad the following year.
But when I resumed cross country in the fall of my sophomore year, my ranking on the team began to drop. I kept making excuses about my lackluster performance: “I didn’t hydrate enough, I’m sleep deprived, my lunch was bad…” I grew bitter watching girls who I never dreamed would beat me coast by in races, and transformed into a grumbling pessimist as I recounted with nostalgia my exceptional performance as a freshman. The races grew longer and harder as my running continued to deteriorate; the humiliation of finishing among the last runners even made me consider quitting the team.
Seeing no improvement the following year, I completely gave up. I was running only to stay in shape and to put “cross country” on my college application. But as I declined as a runner, I began to know my team on a more personal level, no longer confined to train with the “top seven.” I cheered for the teammates I could no longer compete with, and I could genuinely assure my teammates that they had run well, since almost any time was better than mine. I had been freed from the bonds of competitiveness that are present in all varsity sports, and this freedom opened my eyes to the most important part of a sport: my team. I realized that being a good team member was just as important as being a good runner. My job had shifted from scoring points for the team to pacing younger girls and leading warm ups and cool downs.
And as I became a slower runner, the races became more difficult. While I used to see 20 minutes on my watch and think, The race is almost over, I now thought to myself, Over seven minutes to go! Races passed by in slow motion, one excruciating minute after another, as I slogged over never-ending hills all alone, no longer pushed by my beloved teammates who had long since surged ahead of me.
Over the course of my high school running career, I added five minutes to my 5k time. But in doing so, I learned a few things. Becoming a worse runner humbled me to the extreme: I could forget about swallowing my pride…I had watched it be trodden on by every single girl that ran past me. Losing my ability to run fast made me appreciate the things I was good at, like math, computer coding, and playing the violin. It also gave me some perspective; when I had been a fast runner, I saw the slow girls as lazy and unathletic, simply people who wanted to do a sport and picked cross country from their list of options. Now I know that the very last girl to finish a cross country race put just as much effort into the race as the first.
It took me a long time, perhaps too long, to appreciate that my deteriorated performance as a runner was in fact a blessing, a sort of slap in the face from God saying, “You’re not that special, so stop acting like you are.” Because though I may be an excellent student and a hard worker, I will never be a fast runner.
Student Graduated from UVA Engineering
Lasagna
When someone in your family is dying, people like to bring you lasagna. Your family’s struggling? Here, have a cheesy, meat filled, noodle disaster. It truly came from the bottom of my heart. The intentions may be good but when someone you love is dying, you’re not really in the mood for eating lasagna, or anything for that matter.
When my mom had breast cancer and I found out, my first question was “when are you going to lose all of your hair?” My 8 year-old brain was too naive and confused to understand the consequences of cancer. During the years that followed, our family went through a cycle. Doctors visits, chemotherapy and radiation for my mom. Therapy for my brother and me. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. After she passed away in 2008, we were sent a deluge of sympathy cards, baked goods, and of course, lasagna.
During this time, it felt like I was being forced into the adult world. While my peers were finger painting in art class, I was inside a hospital. When everyone else was learning about the water cycle, I was learning about chemotherapy. My mom’s cancer was reaching its fingers into my own life and slowly suffocating me. Despite this, I still tried to be a child. I didn’t talk about cancer at therapy. I went on walks with my mom and just talked about my day. And I ignored sympathetic looks from my teachers. The adult world was full of hospital bills, doctor’s visits, and stress and I didn’t want to have any part of it.
I didn’t realize it then, but after she died, I created a new normal for myself in order to figure out what to do now that an extremely important person had left my life. Suddenly, there was one less person coming to see me perform. There wasn’t anyone I trusted that I could talk to about personal issues. I only had to set three places at the dinner table and there wasn’t anyone waiting at the bus stop when I got home.
This new normal was when I first saw the reality of adulthood. It was when I realized that you can’t go back to the past and you have to look at the past with happiness not regret. It was when I realized that even though things were different, I could still live a happy life. Most importantly, It was when I realized that it’s ok to be different and maybe adulthood isn’t that scary after all.
I didn’t automatically become an adult after she died. Adulthood is a process that I’m still going through and that I’ll be in for a very long time. I don’t feel like an adult now and I certainly didn’t when I was nine. Despite this, her life and death made me take that first step into adulthood. She was an inspiration to me, and even though I may not have been ready at the time, she is the reason that I jumped into the bizarre and wonderful process that is adulthood.
Student Graduated from George Mason University
When my mom had breast cancer and I found out, my first question was “when are you going to lose all of your hair?” My 8 year-old brain was too naive and confused to understand the consequences of cancer. During the years that followed, our family went through a cycle. Doctors visits, chemotherapy and radiation for my mom. Therapy for my brother and me. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. After she passed away in 2008, we were sent a deluge of sympathy cards, baked goods, and of course, lasagna.
During this time, it felt like I was being forced into the adult world. While my peers were finger painting in art class, I was inside a hospital. When everyone else was learning about the water cycle, I was learning about chemotherapy. My mom’s cancer was reaching its fingers into my own life and slowly suffocating me. Despite this, I still tried to be a child. I didn’t talk about cancer at therapy. I went on walks with my mom and just talked about my day. And I ignored sympathetic looks from my teachers. The adult world was full of hospital bills, doctor’s visits, and stress and I didn’t want to have any part of it.
I didn’t realize it then, but after she died, I created a new normal for myself in order to figure out what to do now that an extremely important person had left my life. Suddenly, there was one less person coming to see me perform. There wasn’t anyone I trusted that I could talk to about personal issues. I only had to set three places at the dinner table and there wasn’t anyone waiting at the bus stop when I got home.
This new normal was when I first saw the reality of adulthood. It was when I realized that you can’t go back to the past and you have to look at the past with happiness not regret. It was when I realized that even though things were different, I could still live a happy life. Most importantly, It was when I realized that it’s ok to be different and maybe adulthood isn’t that scary after all.
I didn’t automatically become an adult after she died. Adulthood is a process that I’m still going through and that I’ll be in for a very long time. I don’t feel like an adult now and I certainly didn’t when I was nine. Despite this, her life and death made me take that first step into adulthood. She was an inspiration to me, and even though I may not have been ready at the time, she is the reason that I jumped into the bizarre and wonderful process that is adulthood.
Student Graduated from George Mason University