A.

VOCABULARY
1. Elated
2. Patchwork quilt
3. Empathy and kindness
4. Bajillion
5. Catchy hook
6. Cathartic
7. Glamorous
8. Freshmen dorm
9. Wholeheartedly
10. Unsolicited
11. Impart st to
12. Grudge
13. Enviable
14. Cringe
15. Retrospectively
16. Hilarious
17. Stigma
18. Squirm
19. Perpetuate
20. Thrill
21. Ensnare

B. USEFUL PHRASES
1. Express my gratitude
2. Be my thing
3. Let me say to you now
4. But on top of that
5. You get what you get
6. And so will I
7. So as a a rule
8. In no way
9. What I mean by that is
10. No matter how hard you try to
11. Look back on my life
12. Be a big advocate for

I learned the definition of cancer at the age of fourteen. I was taking my chapter
7 biology test when I came upon the last question, “What is cancer?”, to which I
answered: “The abnormal, unrestricted growth of cells.” After handing in the
test, I moved on to chapter 8, oblivious then to how earth-shattering such a
disease could be.
I learned the meaning of cancer two years later. A girl named Kiersten came
into my family by way of my oldest brother who had fallen in love with her. I
distinctly recall her hair catching the sea breeze as she walked with us along the
Jersey shore, a blonde wave in my surrounding family's sea of brunette.
Physically, she may have been different, but she redefined what family meant to
me. She attended my concerts, went to my award ceremonies, and helped me
study for tests. Whenever I needed support, she was there. Little did I know that
our roles would be reversed, forever changing my outlook on life.
Kiersten was diagnosed with Stage II Hodgkin's lymphoma at the age of 22.
Tears and hair fell alike after each of her 20 rounds of chemotherapy as we
feared the worst. It was an unbearable tragedy watching someone so vivacious
skirt the line between life and death. Her cancer was later classified as
refractory, or resistant to treatment. Frustration and despair flooded my mind
as I heard this news. And so I prayed. In what universe did this dynamic make
any sense? I prayed to God and to even her cancer itself to just leave her alone.
Eventually, Kiersten was able to leave the hospital to stay for six weeks at my
home.
My family and I transformed the house into an antimicrobial sanctuary,
protecting Kiersten from any outside illness. I watched TV with her, baked
cookies for her, and observed her persistence as she regained strength and
achieved remission. We beat biology, time, and death, all at the same time, with
cookies, TV, and friendship. Yet I was so concerned with helping Kiersten that I
had not realized how she helped me during her battle with cancer.
I had been so used to solving my problems intellectually that when it came time
to emotionally support someone, I was afraid. I could define cancer, but what do
I say to someone with it? There were days where I did not think I could be
optimistic in the face of such adversity. But the beauty that resulted from
sympathizing as opposed to analyzing and putting aside my own worries and
troubles for someone else was an enormous epiphany for me. My problems
dissipated into thin air the moment I came home and dropped my books and
bags to talk with Kiersten. The more I talked, laughed, smiled, and shared
memories with her, the more I began to realize all that she taught me. She
influenced me in the fact that she demonstrated the power of loyalty,
companionship, and optimism in the face of desperate, life-threatening
situations. She showed me the importance of loving to live and living to love.
Most of all, she gave me the insight necessary to fully help others not just with
intellect and preparation, but with solidarity and compassion. In this way, I
became able to help myself and others with not only my brain, but with my
heart. And that, in the words of Robert Frost, “has made all the difference.”

"Paint this vase before you leave today," my teacher directed as she placed
foreign brushes and paints in my hands. I looked at her blankly. Where were the
charts of colors and books of techniques? Why was her smile so decidedly
encouraging? The sudden expectations made no sense.
She smiled. "Don't worry, just paint."
In a daze, I assembled my supplies the way the older students did. I was scared.
I knew everything but nothing. And even in those first blissful moments of
experimentation, it hurt to realize that my painting was all wrong. The gleam of
light. The distorted reflection. A thousand details taunted me with their refusal
to melt into the glass. The vase was lifeless at best.
As the draining hours of work wore on, I began wearing reckless holes in my
mixing plate. It was my fourth hour here. Why had I not received even a single
piece of guidance?
At the peak of my frustration, she finally reentered the studio, yawning with
excruciating casualness. I felt myself snap.
"I barely know how to hold a brush," I muttered almost aggressively, "how
could I possibly have the technique to paint this?"
She looked at me with a shocked innocence that only heightened the feeling of
abandonment. "What do you mean you don't have the technique?"
It was as though she failed to realize I was a complete beginner.
And then suddenly she broke into a pitch of urgent obviousness: "What are you
doing! Don't you see those details?? There's orange from the wall and light
brown from the floor. There's even dark green from that paint box over there.
You have to look at the whole picture," she stole a glance at my face of
bewilderment, and, sighing, grabbed my paint,stained hand. "Listen, it's not in
here," she implored, shaking my captive limb. "It's here." The intensity with
which she looked into my eyes was overwhelming.
I returned the gaze emptily. Never had I been so confused…
But over the years I did begin to see. The shades of red and blue in gray
concrete, the tints of Phthalo in summer skies, and winter’s Currelean. It was
beautiful and illogical. Black was darker with green and red, and white was
never white.
I began to study animals. The proportions and fan brush techniques were
certainly difficult, but they were the simple part. It was the strategic tints of
light and bold color that created life. I would spend hours discovering the exact
blue that would make a fish seem on the verge of tears and hours more shaping
a deer’s ears to speak of serenity instead of danger.
As I run faster into the heart of art and my love for politics and law, I will learn
to see the faces behind each page of cold policy text, the amazing innovation
sketched in the tattered Constitution, and the progressiveness living in oak-
paneled courts.In return for probing into previously ignored details, my canvas
and paints opened the world. I began to appreciate the pink kiss of ever-
evolving sunsets and the even suppression of melancholy. When my father
came home from a business trip, it was no longer a matter of simple happiness,
but of fatigue and gladness' underlying shades. The personalities who had once
seemed so annoyingly arrogant now turned soft with their complexities of doubt
and inspiration. Each mundane scene is as deep and varied as the paint needed
to capture it.
One day, I will learn to paint people. As I run faster into the heart of art and my
love for politics and law, I will learn to see the faces behind each page of cold
policy text, the amazing innovation sketched in the tattered Constitution, and
the progressiveness living in oak-paneled courts.
It won’t be too far. I know that in a few years I will see a thousand more colors
than I do today. Yet the most beautiful part about art is that there is no end. No
matter how deep I penetrate its shimmering realms, the enigmatic caverns of
wonder will stay.

I had never seen houses floating down a river. Minutes before there had not
even been a river. An immense wall of water was destroying everything in its
wake, picking up fishing boats to smash them against buildings. It was the
morning of March 11, 2011. Seeing the images of destruction wrought by the
earthquake and tsunami in Japan, I felt as if something within myself was also
being shaken, for I had just spent two of the happiest summers of my life there.
In the summer of my freshman year, I received the Kikkoman National
Scholarship, which allowed me to travel to Japan to stay with a host family in
Tokyo for ten weeks. I arrived just as the swine flu panic gripped the world, so I
was not allowed to attend high school with my host brother, Yamato. Instead, I
took Japanese language, judo, and karate classes and explored the confusing
sprawl of the largest city in the world. I spent time with the old men of my
neighborhood in the onsen, or hot spring, questioning them about the Japan of
their youth. They laughed and told me that if I wanted to see for myself, I
should work on a farm.
The next summer I returned to Japan, deciding to heed the old men’s advice and
volunteer on a farm in Japan’s northernmost island, Hokkaido. I spent two
weeks working more than fourteen hours a day. I held thirty-pound bags of
garlic with one hand while trying to tie them to a rope hanging from the ceiling
with the other, but couldn’t hold the bags in the air long enough. Other days
were spent pulling up endless rows of daikon, or Japanese radish, which left
rashes on my arms that itched for weeks. Completely exhausted, I stumbled
back to the farmhouse, only to be greeted by the family’s young children who
were eager to play. I passed out every night in a room too small for me to
straighten my legs. One day, I overslept a lunch break by two hours. I awoke
mortified, and hurried to the father. After I apologized in the most polite form of
Japanese, his face broke into a broad grin. He patted me on the back and said,
“You are a good worker, Anthony. There is no need to apologize.” This single
exchange revealed the true spirit of the Japanese farmer. The family had lived
for years in conditions that thoroughly wore me out in only a few days. I had
missed two hours of work, yet they were still perpetually thankful to me. In
their life of unbelievable hardship, they still found room for compassion.
In their life of unbelievable hardship, they still found room for compassion.
When I had first gone to Tokyo, I had sought the soul of the nation among its
skyscrapers and urban hot springs. The next summer I spurned the beaten track
in an attempt to discover the true spirit of Japan. While lugging enormously
heavy bags of garlic and picking daikon, I found that spirit. The farmers worked
harder than anyone I have ever met, but they still made room in their hearts for
me. So when the tsunami threatened the people to whom I owed so much, I had
to act. Remembering the lesson of compassion I learned from the farm family, I
started a fund-raiser in my community called “One Thousand Cranes for Japan.”
Little more than two weeks later, we had raised over $8,000 and a flock of one
thousand cranes was on its way to Japan.

I entered the surprisingly cool car. Since when is Beijing Line 13 air-
conditioned? I’ll take it. At four o’clock in the afternoon only about twenty
people were in the subway car. “At least it’s not crowded,” one might have
thought. Wrong. The pressure of their eyes on me filled the car and smothered
me. “看看！她是外国人！”(Look, look! She’s a foreigner!) An old man very
loudly whispered to a child curled up in his lap. “Foreigner,” he called me. I
hate that word, “foreigner.” It only explains my exterior. If only they could look
inside.…

I want to keep reading because there is something she is saying about her
identity--be it performative or actual--that I am curious about.
They would know that I actually speak Chinese—not just speak, but love. They
would know that this love was born from my first love of Latin—the language
that fostered my admiration of all languages. Latin lives in the words we speak
around the world today. And translating this ancient language is like watching a
play and performing in it at the same time. Each word is an adventure, and on
the journey through Virgil’s Aeneid I found that I am more like Aeneas than
any living, dead, or fictional hero I know. We share the intrinsic value of loyalty
to friends, family, and society. We stand true to our own word, and we uphold
others to theirs. Like Aeneas’s trek to find a new settlement for his collapsed
Troy, with similar perseverance I, too, wander the seas for my own place in the
world. Language has helped me do that.
If these subway passengers understood me, they would know that the very
reason I sat beside them was because of Latin. Even before Aeneas and his tale,
I met Caecilius and Grumio, characters in my first Latin textbook. In
translations I learned grammar alongside Rome’s rich history. I realized how
learning another language could expose me to other worlds and other people—
something that has always excited me. I also realized that if I wanted to know
more about the world and the people in it, I would have to learn a spoken
language. Spanish, despite the seven years of study prior to Latin, did not stick
with me. And the throatiness of French was not appealing. But Chinese, more
than these other traditional languages, intrigued me. The doors to new worlds it
could open seemed endless. Thus I chose Chinese.
If these subway passengers looked inside me, they would find that my
knowledge of both Latin and Chinese makes me feel whole. It feels like the
world of the past is flowing through me alongside the world of the future.
Thanks to Latin, Chinese sticks in my mind like the Velcro on the little boy’s
shoes in front of me. If this little boy and his family and friends could look
inside, they would understand that Latin laid the foundation for my lifelong
commitment to languages. Without words, thoughts and actions would be lost in
the space between our ears. To them, I am a foreigner, “外国人” literally
translated as “out-of-country person.” I feel, however, more like an advena, the
Latin word for “foreigner,” translated as “(one who) comes to (this place).” I
came to this place, and I came to this country to stay. Unfortunately, they will
not know this until I speak. Then once I speak, the doors will open.

My Ye-Ye always wears a red baseball cap. I think he likes the vivid color—
bright and sanguine, like himself. When Ye-Ye came from China to visit us
seven years ago, he brought his red cap with him and every night for six
months, it sat on the stairway railing post of my house, waiting to be loyally
placed back on Ye-Ye’s head the next morning. He wore the cap everywhere:
around the house, where he performed magic tricks with it to make my little
brother laugh; to the corner store, where he bought me popsicles before using
his hat to wipe the beads of summer sweat off my neck. Today whenever I see a
red hat, I think of my Ye-Ye and his baseball cap, and I smile.
Ye-Ye is the Mandarin word for “grandfather.” My Ye-Ye is a simple, ordinary
person—not rich, not “successful”—but he is my greatest source of inspiration
and I idolize him. Of all the people I know, Ye-Ye has encountered the most
hardship and of all the people I know, Ye-Ye is the most joyful. That these two
aspects can coexist in one individual is, in my mind, truly remarkable.
Ye-Ye was an orphan. Both his parents died before he was six years old, leaving
him and his older brother with no home and no family. When other children
gathered to read around stoves at school, Ye-Ye and his brother walked in the
bitter cold along railroad tracks, looking for used coal to sell. When other
children ran home to loving parents, Ye-Ye and his brother walked along the
streets looking for somewhere to sleep. Eight years later, Ye-Ye walked alone—
his brother was dead.
Ye-Ye managed to survive, and in the meanwhile taught himself to read, write,
and do arithmetic. Life was a blessing, he told those around him with a smile.
Years later, Ye-Ye’s job sent him to the Gobi Desert, where he and his fellow
workers labored for twelve hours a day. The desert wind was merciless; it
would snatch their tent in the middle of the night and leave them without supply
the next morning. Every year, harsh weather took the lives of some fellow
workers.
After eight years, Ye-Ye was transferred back to the city where his wife lay sick
in bed. At the end of a twelve-hour workday, Ye-Ye took care of his sick wife
and three young children. He sat with the children and told them about the wide,
starry desert sky and mysterious desert lives. Life was a blessing, he told them
with a smile.
But life was not easy; there was barely enough money to keep the family from
starving. Yet, my dad and his sisters loved going with Ye-Ye to the market. He
would buy them little luxuries that their mother would never indulge them in: a
small bag of sunflower seeds for two cents, a candy each for three cents.
Luxuries as they were, Ye-Ye bought them without hesitation. Anything that
could put a smile on the children’s faces and a skip in their steps was priceless.
He would buy them little luxuries that their mother would never indulge them
in: a small bag of sunflower seeds for two cents, a candy each for three cents.
Ye-Ye still goes to the market today. At the age of seventy-eight, he bikes
several kilometers each week to buy bags of fresh fruits and vegetables, and
then bikes home to share them with his neighbors. He keeps a small patch of
strawberries and an apricot tree. When the fruit is ripe, he opens his gate and
invites all the children in to pick and eat. He is Ye-Ye to every child in the
neighborhood.
I had always thought that I was sensible and self-aware. But nothing has made
me stare as hard in the mirror as I did after learning about the cruel past that Ye-
Ye had suffered and the cheerful attitude he had kept throughout those years. I
thought back to all the times when I had gotten upset. My mom forgot to pick
me up from the bus station. My computer crashed the day before an assignment
was due. They seemed so trivial and childish, and I felt deeply ashamed of
myself.
Now, whenever I encounter an obstacle that seems overwhelming, I think of
Ye-Ye; I see him in his red baseball cap, smiling at me. Like a splash of cool
water, his smile rouses me from grief, and reminds me how trivial my worries
are and how generous life has been. Today I keep a red baseball cap at the
railing post at home where Ye-Ye used to put his every night. Whenever I see
the cap, I think of my Ye-Ye, smiling in his red baseball cap, and I smile. Yes,
Ye-Ye. Life is a blessing.

“A nine?” I shockingly shouted. That was my grade to get into the top English
class in my secondary school. To my astonishment, this was nothing but an
impressive feat I had ever got in my childish life. But hardly did it go through
my mind at the time about an outrageous fact – I gradually stepped into an
endless battle with the classmates. And, well, another girl appeared
unexpectedly – lower than mine 0,25 points, still, really remarkable. Our
relationship was somehow, just rather assemblanced Holmes with Morrison,
fierce and harsh simultaneously. Every single “ten score” is a shine sparkle
diamond to put on our own crown – the crown of glamory and non-stop
compliment.
Never in my life had I ever exposed to such a forgettable school life. No
happiness or any relaxation had room in my insanely hectic schedule. An
extremely positive day came smoothly, except for only thing – I would know
my test score. “Vy!” – the teacher raised her voice out of the blue. Just believed
in a bright future when the grade was definitely ten and I would have a bunch of
prizes from parents afterwards, I lift my feet with a highly assurance towards.
“Of course not!”- it suddenly went through my thought like a deep cut into the
skin making myself cry out terribly. I speechlessly staring at the most horrid
thing for ever – a “9,75”. Quite weird of me, somebody may think – however,
that was not until another threat emerged from my impeccable mate. She got a
flawless “10”, taking me to just a fixed feeling – deeply ashamed. Not only was
I heavily compared to her from that time, but it pulled me to shed tears day in
and day out. “ I hate school! ” – I spontaneously roared. No more wish could be
further desirable and far-fetched at that moment than a dream to turn into a
second Bill Gates – drop out of school and be catapulted into a billionaire. May
well, that could have been relatively feasible, in fact…. if I had been a prodigy
of computer science. However miserable my emotional having been, going to
the tediously competitive school was sustainably set in stone.
“Vietnam is in no short supply of beautiful, unique-looking trees and what I’m going to tell
you about today is the cherry blossom tree.
So as you can see Tet is around the corner and preparation is in full swings, which means the
cherry blossom is ubiquitous. When it comes to the ultimate plant, it’s the cherry blossom,
the undisputed king is the cherry blossom. It reigns supreme.
The popular English translation for ‘Cay Dao’ is obviously cherry blossom, but the variety
commonly found in Vietnam. I think, is actually more akin to peach blossom. Cherry
blossoms, on the other hand, are more common in Japan. The biggest difference between
cherry blossom and peach blossom is that, our peach blossom in Vietnam, the blossom’s size
is usually smaller. And another thing is that the shade range of peach blossom Vietnam is
much more diverse compared to Sakura in Japan.
I mean in Vietnam, we have peach blossoms that are light in pink and then there are those
that are blushier. However, Japan Sakura blossoms are usually very pale in color, and some
of them are even straight-up white. So you know, regardless of biologic or should I say
botanical correctness, one thing’s for sure. All cherry blossom trees are undeniably
beautiful.
Besides the flowers, another key component that is fastidiously inspected by seasoned buyers
of cherry blossom is the buds.The ones with lots of buds go for a pretty penny, especially
given how hot the weather has become and that has caused cherry blossom to blossom
prematurely. The abundance of buds ensures that the owner gets to enjoy his purchase.
Well into the holiday., the blossoming of the cherry blossom tree, or more precisely the peach
blossom tree, coincides with the first days of spring. So in that sense, the tree kind of
represents the start of something new, something exciting. So if you want to liven up your
living room or your house this coming holiday season, getting a cherry blossom tree is the
way to go.“
“When thinking about a place full of colours, I can’t help but visualize the vivid painting of
of the Phung Hung Mural Lane which, as much as I know, is a joint project by the Hoan
Kiem District People’s Committee, the KOREA Foundation and The United Nations in
Vietnam. The project aims to recreate photos of Hanoi people living in the past time, in the
post-colonial era.
I think the murals have lived up to people’s expectations. I mean, when you look at these
nostalgic paintings of the bygone era by these archwalls, against a modern setting, creating
such a wonderful juxtaposition. I think this corner isn’t just perfect for the youth to take a
photo or selfie, but It’s also a wonderful place for people of our father and grandfather
generations, people who actually lived in this era. It’s a great moment for them to relive their
youth at the time living in these old houses and travelling in these trams. I think it’s a
wonderful place for people from all age groups.
And you know what, I think the vividness of this place isn’t just reflected by the mural
paintings but also by the hanging lanterns and the botanical plants alongside the street. And
when I think of the Tet holiday spirit, I immediately think of flowers, they just add an
incredible boost of vibrancy to the atmosphere. And the lanterns, they might look a bit pale
but trust me, they do come to life by the night time. It’s really wonderful for photos.
It’s a really children-friendly place, for sure. It will be a great childhood memory for them in
the way that they think back 10 or 20 years. It will be a great memory.”