Your essay should be unmistakably yours! No one should read your essay and think that any other high school senior across the country could have written this. You are you, and no one else! Write an essay that you, and only you, could have written.
2. The lessons we take from obstacles we encounter can be fundamental to later success. Recount a time when you faced a challenge, setback, or failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?
3. Reflect on a time when you questioned or challenged a belief or idea. What prompted your thinking? What was the outcome?
4. Describe a problem you've solved or a problem you'd like to solve. It can be an intellectual challenge, a research query, an ethical dilemma - anything that is of personal importance, no matter the scale. Explain its significance to you and what steps you took or could be taken to identify a solution.
5. Discuss an accomplishment, event, or realization that sparked a period of personal growth and a new understanding of yourself or others.
6. Describe a topic, idea, or concept you find so engaging that it makes you lose all track of time. Why does it captivate you? What or who do you turn to when you want to learn more?
7. Share an essay on any topic of your choice. It can be one you've already written, one that responds to a different prompt, or one of your own design.
My father has been in and out of prison since April 29th, 2011. He gave me an understanding of adult life at far too young an age, and he left me with trust issues. He gave me the only prominent memory from my elementary school years: waking up at 2:00 AM to go find him when he went missing. He gave me loneliness during the two years of elementary school my parents were separated. He gave me a love for tossing the Frisbee around in the backyard during the years he was here. He gave me a longing nostalgia for it once he got arrested.
______________________
As you work on your college/scholarship application essays, you will come up against length requirements that test your writing skills in challenging but healthy ways. What do you do when your essay is 773 words but you're only allowed 650 words? Well, you don't come to me and ask me to cut 73 words from your essay! You grab a pencil, you sit down with your essay, and you go over that sucker word by word, phrase by phrase, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, cutting ruthlessly.
The English language is fabulous! It offers you countless ways of saying what you need to say. Consider your multitudinous options and rewrite as much of the essay as necessary to meet the guidelines. Think of this task as a game or puzzle in which you are charged $1.00 per word. You don't want to spend more than $650 on this essay!
To get some idea of how to do this, read the following passage from Strunk and White’s classic guide for writers, The Elements of Style:
Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell (William Strunk, Jr, 63 words).
Now, read my revision:
Vigorous writing is concise. Good sentences and paragraphs include only necessary words and sentences; likewise, good drawings and machines incorporate only necessary lines and parts. Sentences needn’t be short or abstract, but every word must tell (Dr N’s revision, 36 words).
Now, take your college essay draft and revise it to fit the length requirement.
It was late winter when Veronica, the director of the spring play, asked me what I knew about lights. Maybe she heard I was good with computers, but I knew nothing about auditorium lighting. “I know a little bit,” I remember lying. I’ve been running lights for my school's theater ever since. A few months ago, I was sitting in a study hall when the Choir Director asked if he could borrow me for a moment. There was an assembly that afternoon, and the pit lights weren’t working: I was now the go-to guy. In the time between Veronica’s original proposition and then, I had learned some of the most important lessons of my teenage life -- all through theater lights.
It was starting to get dark outside. It was the last day of my first week as a camp counselor. My cabin was busy changing out of swimsuits to go to the closing campfire. One of the campers, Mark, was lying on his bed. I knelt down next to him and asked what was up. He had a migraine. “Take everyone else to the campfire,” I told Jack, my co-counselor, over the bustle. I called the camp nurse. She insisted I get Mark to her office as soon as possible. “Hey, buddy, we’re gonna get you to the nurse, aight? You think you can walk?” As the words left my mouth, thunder shook the cabin. The rain started. I provided my shoulder for support as Mark shakily stood up. I held my rain jacket over Mark’s head as we made the half-mile trudge to the nurse’s cabin. An eternity later, we stepped into the warmly lit, dry, little building. The nurse handled things from there. Being a camp counselor means being fun but responsible. Fun is easy; responsibility isn’t. Responsibility takes practice. When I was thrown into the deep end of theater, I got that practice. I remember my first school play. I remember the pressure -- the responsibility. I remember learning to take the initiative on issues. That first play was formative. I could solve problems. I could solve problems.
But sometimes I need to ask for help. When I was in 5th grade, I joined the 6th-grade math class. I’ve never liked math and being a grade ahead placed huge expectations on me. As math got harder, I began to fall behind. In Honors Algebra 2, I fell so behind that I was given an ultimatum: get my grade up or retake the course. Under this new pressure, I began asking questions when I was confused. I asked for extra help. I passed the class. But that was only in math. I hadn’t really learned my lesson. Two years later, I met John, a professor at the local college who taught lighting design. While I was working on a production of The Little Mermaid, he came in to help set up cyc lights. He was impressed that a student was lighting the show, and we stayed in contact. I levied a barrage of questions against him. He knew everything. I learned more from him in a month than I had learned in years. Seeing this rapid growth in myself, I lost most of my question-asking embarrassment. In every class, I started asking questions and seeking help when needed. I passed AP Calculus and AP statistics junior year, completing my high school math requirement before senior year. In retrospect, learning to ask questions was one of the most significant changes for me in high school. It took maturity that I previously hadn’t had. Yet again, I am eternally grateful for one of theaters’ many lessons.
Theater has taught me more than I could have ever imagined. I could not be more grateful to have become a better problem solver -- a better person -- based on a lie. I also know a lot about lights now.
It all started in the posterior branch of my left middle cerebral artery. Twenty weeks before I was born, my life changed forever. I had a stroke. By five months of age, I was diagnosed with hemiplegic cerebral palsy affecting my right side. My parents listened intently as my doctor explained that I may never walk, talk, or think intelligently. Giggling in my infant car seat, I was not yet aware of the magnitude of the doctor’s words.
I started rehabilitation shortly after my diagnosis. At age two, I traveled across the country to complete the first of many month-long constraint therapy sessions. With my stronger arm immobilized in a cast, I completed six hours of rigorous physical therapy each day, working painstakingly to improve the function of my right hand. Mealtimes were especially frustrating as I used my weaker hand to scoop delicious desserts at a fraction of my usual speed. Though I gained strength each day, my challenges were far from over. At age ten, I started having seizures and was diagnosed with epilepsy. At this point, I began to realize how my medical conditions would forever impact my daily life. However, I now understand that they have made me much more persistent.
My disabilities have made me determined to live my life to the fullest. Oblivious to the doctor’s predictions, I learned to walk and talk. By age four, I was reading and joining in on my older sister’s homeschool kindergarten classes. Determined and stubborn, I was achieving what the doctor predicted I may not, and I continued to try new things. Though I will never be a varsity superstar, I have reached personal goals while confronting my physical challenges. For four summers, I attended Camp Manito-wish. Each summer, I took canoe trips that increased in length and difficulty. In 6th grade, I portaged a heavy, aluminum canoe. Taking just six steps, my shoulders shook uncontrollably. Four years later, I set the goal to carry a canoe for the entirety of the same portage. I succeeded.
Though always determined, I began to recognize my limits and adapt. When soccer became too aggressive, I hiked in the beautiful Northern Minnesota wilderness instead. When I was told I was hindering my dance team, I moved on to musicals, theater performances, and choir. After that 7-day canoe trip, I realized I may need extra support on future trips. Initially, I played piano with both hands, but when my disability began to hold me back, I learned more advanced music with one hand and excelled, achieving superior ratings at the National Federation of Music Clubs’ Junior Music Festival five times. Reaching limits and quitting are two very different things. While quitting is giving up, reaching a limit is recognizing no one can do it all.
Over time, I began to see the value of sharing my story. I told it to cabinmates, classmates, teammates, and my school community, creating a space for people in my life to share their experiences without fear of judgment. A cabinmate shared she was born with a hole in her heart, and a dance classmate shared she was going deaf in one ear. The first few times I opened up, I was supported by an adult, but outpourings of kindness and support slowly gave me the confidence to share my story independently. This past summer, I even told my story to the entire faculty and staff of my high school during their seizure response training as a volunteer for the Minnesota Epilepsy Foundation.
In the future, I see myself in a meeting with a family like mine. However, this time, I am the physician. “You should save for college,” I will say. The parents will listen hopefully. The baby will sit there, not yet aware of her bright future. She will be greatly challenged, but she will thrive. I am living proof.
____________
