CommonCollege Application Topic:
1. Consider a significant experience, achievement, or risk that you have taken and discuss its impact on you.
Sample Influential Experience Essay:
It was early May and the cherry blossoms were in full bloom as the sun shimmered between the passing clouds. Except for a mandatory essay assignment about one of the sights, it was a perfect day for a visit to the nation's capital. What I had not anticipated was a sleek, black memorial that angled out from the side of a hill. Gazing at the stark granite and the infinite list of names, I could not imagine choosing another sight to write about. So much emotion existed there. I simply had to transcribe those intangible feelings onto paper.
I wasn't very surprised to be included as one of the finalists in the "Best D.C. Essay Contest." I was, however, shocked to win first place in the eighth-grade division. The essay was then passed along to the President of the local VFW post, which was sponsoring a Memorial Day essay contest. Here, too, I won in the eighth-grade division. The awards were purely worldly items: a year's supply of Coca-Cola, a $25 check, and the chance to ride on a float in the City of Greensburg parade.
At the end of the parade, a ceremony followed. I stood up, walked over to the podium, and began:
"A young child rubs off the name of a grandfather seen only in photographs..."
I looked up and saw all the eyes on me. The nervous feelings that traveled with me from my seat to the podium were now long gone. The words I had written flowed easily from my mouth. I wanted everyone, even those who had never seen the Memorial, to feel the same sentiments that I had felt. I don't remember people clapping after I finished reading my essay. Maybe they were too moved to make a motion; maybe I was too moved to hear them.
As my family and I were walking back to our car, the VFW President stopped me. He told me that he had served in Vietnam and that some of his friends' names appeared on that wall. He was one of the contest judges, and he had found it difficult to complete reading my composition from behind his tears. He had to give it to his wife to finish. When he concluded his story I replied, "Thank you," but I was completely dumbfounded as to what to say. The idea that he was moved by my simplistic writing made me realize that I was a writer! I had reached into someone's internal self, touched it, and left a mark.
Reading my essay to everyone was one of the most memorable moments in my life. That day I realized something very valuable about the power of the written word-if you place the right words in the right order, you can change people's lives! Despite my many remarks to adults that I was going to be an engineer or scientist, I knew deep down that I really wanted to continue writing. To remain satisfied, I would have to publish my writings. What good is a powerful statement if it isn't heard or read? The answer was clear: I would become a journalist.
Sometimes I wonder where my road to the future would be leading me if that man had never approached me after my oration that day. I never would have known that someone had listened and cried because of my words. "Memories in Granite" would have been pushed into a manila folder and never have been thought of. The only time I would have even remembered the essay would have been while sipping my refreshing-and free-Coca-Cola.
Now, every time I imagine myself covering a plane crash or writing an article about some new political scandal, I think of that little essay and the lives it affected. I visualize the personal satisfaction of seeing my name in the by-line of the story thousands all over the region are reading. I can only imagine touching people's souls, the way I did that one day Memorial Day.
2. Consider a problem facing society today and reflect on its importance to you.
Sample Social/Political Issue Essay:
I close my eyes and can still hear her, the little girl with a voice so strong and powerful we could hear her halfway down the block. She was a Russian peasant who asked for money and in return gave the only thing she had--her voice. I paused outside a small shop and listened. She brought to my mind the image of Little Orphan Annie. I could not understand the words she sang, but her voice begged for attention. It stood out from the noises of Arbat Street, pure and impressive, like the chime of a bell. She sang from underneath an old-style lamppost in the shadow of a building, her arms extended and head thrown back. She was small and of unremarkable looks. Her brown hair escaped the bun it had been pulled into, and she occasionally reached up to remove a stray piece from her face. Her clothing I can't recall. Her voice, on the other hand, is permanently imprinted on my mind.
I asked one of the translators about the girl. Elaina told me that she and hundreds of others like her throughout the former Soviet Union add to their families' income by working on the streets. The children are unable to attend school, and their parents work fulltime. These children know that the consequence of an unsuccessful day is no food for the table. Similar situations occurred during the Depression in the United States, but those American children were faceless shoeshine boys of the twenties. This girl was real to me.
When we walked past her I gave her money. It was not out of pity but rather out of admiration. Her smile of thanks did not interrupt her singing. The girl watched us as we walked down the street. I know this because when I looked back she smiled again. We shared that smile, and I knew I would never forget her courage and inner strength. She was only a child, yet was able to pull her own weight during these uncertain times. On the streets of Moscow, she used her voice to help her family survive. For this "Annie," there is no Daddy Warbucks to come to the rescue. Her salvation will only come when Russia and its people find prosperity.
3. Identify a person, fictional character, or historical figure who has had a significant influence on you. Describe that influence.
Sample Influential Person Essay:
I felt like a cadet at West Point that first week of fifth grade. Mrs. Stith was our sergeant, commanding us to "stand at attention," "walk single file," "keep heads up" and "speak only when spoken to." We had only two rules to obey in her classroom: never talk while Mrs. Stith is talking, and do your homework! We did not dare break these rules, fearing an arduous obstacle course to climb as our consequence-or perhaps a firing squad awaiting Mrs. Stith's command to release an arsenal of bullets into our bodies.
My fifth-grade mind was not accustomed to such a demanding teacher. Coloring outside the lines, reading The Great Adventures of Encyclopedia Brown and building mobiles with construction paper had been the norm. My mouth gaped at the sight of endless reading packets and workbook pages. I was in boot camp now, and Mrs. Stith was going to toughen up the troops. Mrs. Stith could see our agony, our pleading eyes hoping she would blow her whistle and let us take a break from the work. But she yelled at the class at any sign of softness. Twenty pages of reading every night kept our stamina up. I cried at the thought of learning how to spell "dictionary," "miserable" and "criminal." I sweated over decimals. How could I learn all this and still have time to watch Cosby? This wasn't a youngster's usual anxiety. I honestly thought I hated Mrs. Stith, or "Mrs. Stiff," as we called her, snickering as we pictured our gray-haired tyrant being lowered into a tomb. Who did this old woman think she was anyway, always barking at the class? I had always been the teacher's pet. "Is my work not good enough?" I wondered. How could she destroy my confidence so easily?
"Carrie, how could you get this question wrong?"
"I . . . I . . . don't know," I managed, lowering my head in shame, unable to look at Mrs. Stith's disappointed face.
"Don't you know what a preposition is?"
"Yes, Mrs. Stith," I replied, knowing that this blunder meant K.P. duty. I would have to study my composition book a little extra tonight.
I can't pinpoint exactly why, but sometime during those first few weeks I decided to study hard and make Mrs. Stith proud of me. Maybe I dreamed of following in my older brother's prominent footsteps (sometimes I thought they were left by Bigfoot). I wanted to be as studious and intelligent as Christopher. I couldn't destroy the name that my brother and I had established. Mediocrity wasn't part of my vocabulary. I had always been the best in class, favored by my teachers and often chosen to read aloud or go to the chalkboard to do multiplication tables. The difference was that now it didn't come so easily. I would have to work.
Two-page reports turned into detailed posters explaining the formation of igneous, metamorphic, and sedimentary rocks. Mrs. Stith noticed her students' best efforts and rewarded us for hard work with smelly stickers. We loved those stickers and hung them on the wall. One could easily discern my long trail of grapes, strawberries and apples. Reading packets became enjoyable. I left the world of Ramona Quimby and discovered Miss Havisham's mansion, the plummeting guillotine and Jacob Marley's rattling chains. That year marked the beginning of my battle with the nerd syndrome.
Fifth grade helped establish my reputation as a brain. I would skip recess and stay after school just to talk with Mrs. Stith. I would spend hours every night studying beyond the assigned homework. I didn't mind if other kids laughed at me for being studious; they just hadn't met the real Mrs. Stith. I no longer saw her as a rigid drill sergeant; now she was a helpful platoon leader. For my part, I was no longer a raw recruit but well on my way to becoming a skilled soldier.
What once were tears of fright and frustration turned to tears of sorrow when I graduated from fifth grade. For graduation Mrs. Stith gave me a special gift-a copy of A Day No Pigs Would Die. She wrote on the back cover: "I loved this book. I hope you will too. You are an outstanding girl. Best of luck always. Love, Mrs. Stith." Mrs. Stith retired that year and I never saw my friend again.
4. Why do you want to spend the next four years at our school?
Sample Future Goals Essay:
Knock, knock.
The door opens a crack.
"Hi, can I speak to you for a minute?"
"Go away. Don't speak good English," the man says while he begins to shut the door.
"Please, I'll only take up a minute of your time."
"No want to buy. Go!"
"I don't want to sell you anything. I'd like you to register to-"
The door slams in my face.
Knock, knock.
The door opens all the way.
"Hi, can I speak to you for a minute?"
"Only speak a little English," the woman says pleasantly.
"That's OK. I'd like you to register to vote."
"Huh?"
Slower, "I'd like you to register to vote."
"No." The woman's tone changes from openness to hostility.
"The congressional election is next month. I think Marty Meehan's policy on tax credits and his belief in raising the minimum wage would benefit you."
"My vote not count."
"Please, the reason I'm here is that-"
The door slams in my face.
These are two of the dozens of conversations I had while I registered voters in the Lawrence, Massachusetts, projects. Many of the people I spoke to do not speak English well, and even fewer have any interest in voting. They think it is a waste of their time and believe that their vote has no impact. Even though I tried to explain Mr. Meehan's position on tax credits, the minimum wage, and subsidies for the poor, their view of government as a large, foreign entity over which they have no control is so strong that many would not listen to me and my arguments to the contrary.
The people I spoke to fear and are suspicious of the government, probably because it is human nature to fear authority. This fear upsets me because it is one of the reasons the poor do not participate in the system. If they voted as a group, the government would be forced to listen to them and implement policies that benefited them. Politicians are afraid to cut social security because senior citizens vote and have a very powerful lobby. If the underprivileged classes organized, they could have that kind of political clout.
Yet I realize the people I spoke to do not see themselves as part of the system and have no belief in it. Thus, the system has to reach out to them. That is why I registered voters and why I plan to participate in Clinton 's reelection campaign. I would like to have a career in government because I want to have a positive impact on people's lives. I realize I sound cheesy and idealistic, but I'm only 17, and one of the benefits of being this age (possibly the only benefit) is that I have not been tainted by cynicism. However, I do not know what role in government I would like to play. I would like to have the power that elected officials have; their decisions affect everyone in this country. Yet too often, in order to get into and stay in office, politicians compromise principles. I do not want to compromise my liberal beliefs, for if I did, I would not be helping those I want to help. An alternative to running for office, working for a grassroots organization, would enable me to maintain my beliefs. Also, I like the direct interaction with people that this line of work affords. However, most organizations focus on one cause, and I am interested in a number of issues.
How I'll be involved in government is a question for the future. Right now I'm excited about turning 18 in a presidential election year. Obviously the people in the Lawrence projects do not feel as I do. I hope that I'll be able to influence people like them to change their minds.
Sample Essay- Accepted by Harvard
"Mike"
Influence? Why is it that the people who influence us most influence us in ways that are not easily quantified? Through her work with abused children, my mother has shown me the heroism of selfless dedication to a worthy cause. By being an upstanding individual, my playwriting teacher in middle school acted as an inspiring male role model at a time when I needed one most. By being approachable and interesting, my World History teacher in my freshman year of high school opened my eyes to the connections between a society's culture and its history and broadened my view of cultures and the world. While these influences mean much to me and have contributed greatly to my development, they came too easily to mind.
The fact that I could sit down and write a list of how these people influenced me suggests that the influence did not alter me in any profound way. These people are all my elders, and perhaps I feel distanced from them. The person whose influence shook me to the deepest level is a person whose influence is nearly impossible to describe. Mike, the best friend I’ve ever had, changed me, and I changed him at one of the most crucial times in our lives: the seventh grade. We developed our personalities, our senses of humor, and our love for girls at the same time and in the same manner. It would cheapen his influence to quantify it; I am what I am because of him; I cannot say that about anybody else.
Mike came to my school in the seventh grade, and we immediately clicked. Before he came, I didn’t feel like an outcast by any means, as I had my friends that I had known since first grade. However, until Mike, I never had anyone my age to identify with completely. Mike made me feel confident in who I was; he reaffirmed my drives and my thoughts and my inspirations. At this awkward stage in our lives, we found uncritical appreciation in each other. We both were obsessed by movies and had a similar sense of humor. We had the same problems and the same thoughts. That was all it took.
Halfway through that same year, Mike and I became inseparable. In fact, our yearbook had a section that lists the names of students and what they were never seen without. Under Mike, it read: “Ted, ” and under Ted: “Mike.” I became a staple at his house and he at mine. We no longer had to ask our parents if it was ok to have a sleepover on weekends, they assumed we would. On weekdays, we usually walked over to his house, which was near school, and hung out there till I had to go home. Our favorite past time on those long afternoons after school was to walk to the nearby food mart and get a bag of chips and two 24 oz. Coca-Colas. Watching a movie, we would sit on his couch with our chips and Coke and talk about our dreams of working together in the movies. Mike wanted to be a director and actor, and I wanted to be an actor and a playwright/screenwriter. It was the perfect combination. We even tried writing a few scripts together.