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1
A faint twinge of excitement floated through my body that night. A hint of
anticipation of the coming day could not be suppressed; yet to be overcome
with anxiety would not do at all. I arduously forced those pernicious thoughts
from seeping in and overcoming my body and mind. I still wonder that I slept
at all that night.
But I did. I slept soundly and comfortably as those nervous deliberations crept
into my defenseless, unsuspecting mind, pilfering my calm composure. When
I awoke refreshed, I found my mind swarming with jumbled exhilaration. The
adrenaline was flowing already.
After a quick breakfast, I pulled some of my gear together and headed out.
The car ride of two hours seemed only a few moments as I struggled to
reinstate order in my chaotic consciousness and focus my mind on the day
before me. My thoughts drifted to the indistinct shadows of my memory.
My opponent’s name was John Doe. There were other competitors at the
tournament, but they had never posed any threat to my title. For as long as I
had competed in this tournament, I had easily taken the black belt
championship in my division. John, however, was the most phenomenal
martial artist I had ever had the honor of witnessing at my young age of
thirteen. And he was in my division. Although he was the same rank, age,
size, and weight as I, he surpassed me in almost every aspect of our training.
His feet were lightning, and his hands were virtually invisible in their agile
swiftness. He wielded the power of a bear while appearing no larger than I.
His form and techniques were executed with near perfection. Although I had
never defeated his flawlessness before, victory did not seem unattainable. For
even though he was extraordinary, he was not much more talented than I. I
am not saying that he was not skilled or even that he was not more skilled
than I, for he most certainly was, but just not much more than I. I still had one
hope, however little, of vanquishing this incredible adversary, for John had
one weakness: he was lazy. He didn’t enjoy practicing long hours or working
hard. He didn’t have to. Nevertheless, I had found my passage to triumph.
My mind raced even farther back to all my other failures. I must admit that my
record was not very impressive. Never before had I completed anything. I
played soccer. I quit. I was a Cub Scout. I quit. I played trumpet. I quit. Karate
was all I had left. The championship meant so much because I had never
persevered with anything else.
2
In the last months, I had trained with unearthly stamina and determination. I
had focused all my energies into practicing for this sole aspiration. Every day
of the week I trained. Every evening, I could be found kicking, blocking, and
punching at an imaginary opponent in my room. Hours of constant drilling had
improved my techniques and speed. All my techniques were ingrained to the
point where they were instinctive. Days and weeks passed too swiftly. . .
I was abruptly jolted back into the present. The car was pulling into the
parking lot. The tournament had too quickly arrived, and I still did not feel
prepared for the trial which I was to confront. I stepped out of the car into the
bright morning sun, and with my equipment bag in hand, walked into the
towering building.
The day was a blur. After warming up and stretching, I sat down on the cold
wooden floor, closed my eyes, and focused. I cleared my mind of every
thought, every worry, and every insecurity. When I opened my eyes, every
sense and nerve had become sharp and attentive, every motion finely tuned
and deliberate.
The preliminary rounds were quiet and painless, and the championship fight
was suddenly before me. I could see that John looked as calm and as
confident as ever. Adrenaline raced through my body as I stepped into the
ring. We bowed to each other and to the instructor, and the match began.
I apologize, but I do not recall most of the fight. I do faintly remember that
when time ran out the score was tied, and we were forced to go into Sudden
Death: whoever scored the next point would win. That, however, I do recall.
I was tired. The grueling two points that I had won already had not been
enough. I needed one more before I could taste triumph. I was determined to
win, though I had little energy remaining. John appeared unfazed, but I
couldn’t allow him to discourage me. I focused my entire being, my entire
consciousness, on overcoming this invincible nemesis. I charged. All my
strenuous training, every molecule in my body, every last drop of desire was
directed, concentrated on that single purpose as I exploded through his
defenses and drove a solitary fist to its mark.
I was not aware that I would never fight John again, but I would not have
cared. Never before had I held this prize in my hands, but through pure, salty
sweat and vicious determination, the achievement that I had desired so dearly
and which meant so much to me was mine at last. This was the first time that I
had ever really made a notable accomplishment in anything. This one
experience, this one instant, changed me forever. That day I found self-
confidence and discovered that perseverance yields its own sweet fruit. That
day a sense of invincibility permeated the air. Mountains were nothing. The
sun wasn’t so bright and brilliant anymore. For a moment, I was the best.
3
SAMPLE ESSAY 2: Harvard, hobbies and interests: Violin
Struck with sudden panic, I hastily flipped through the many papers in my
travel folder until I spotted the ticket. I nervously thrust it toward the beaming
stewardess, but took the time to return her wide smile. Before stepping into
the caterpillar tunnel I looked back at my parents, seeking reassurance, but I
sensed from their plastered-on grins and overly enthus-iastic waves that they
were more terrified than I. I gave them a departing wave, grabbed my violin
case, and commenced my first solitary journey.
Seated in the plane I began to study the pieces I would soon be performing,
trying to dispel the flutterings in my stomach. I listened to some professional
recordings on my Walkman, mimicking the fingerings with my left hand while
watching the sheet music.
I felt giddy leaving the audition room. The immense anxiety over the audition
was relieved, yet the adrenaline still rushed through me. I wanted to yell and
laugh and jump around and be completely silly, for my long-awaited
evaluation was over. After dinner the seating list would be posted and I would
know just where I fit in with the other musicians, all of whom intimidated me by
their mere presence at the convention.
4
Solitary, having been unable to find [name] or any of my three roommates, I
entered the dining room. I glanced feverishly around the giant room which
swarmed with strangers.
I gathered up all of my courage and pride for the first time ever, and
approached a group I had no preconceived notions about. I sat quietly at first,
gathering as much information as I could about the new people. Were they
friend material? After careful observation of their socialization, I hypothesized
that these complete strangers were very bright and easy to talk to, and shared
my buoyant (but sometimes timid), sense of humor. I began to feel at home as
we joked about S.A.T.’s, drivers’ licenses, and other teenage concerns. I
realized then how easy it is to get along with people I meet by coincidence. I
became eager to test my newfound revelation.
Every day at the convention seemed long, only because we did so many
wonderful things. We rehearsed for at least seven hours each day, made
numerous outings, and spent time meeting new friends.
On the second day, during a luncheon boat ride on the Ohio River, [name]
and I sat together, both dreaming of Japan. Looking over at her as we talked,
I remembered that in two days I would be torn from the young, promising
friendships I had been building. When some friends-including a few I had met
at the dinner table on the first night-approached us, bearing a deck of cards, I
became absorbed in a jovial game and quickly forgot my sorrow.
Rehearsals were magical right from the start, because everyone rapidly grew
accustomed to the strangely professional sound of the group and began to
play without reserve, with full dynamics. I continually gazed, wide-eyed,
around the large, bright room, watching others, admiring their skill. We were
surrounded by pure talent, and the sky was our limit. We blossomed under the
conductor’s suggestions, using our pre-developed technique to its fullest.
Each time the orchestra played, my emotion soared, wafted by the beauty and
artfulness of the music, bringing goose-bumps to my skin and a joyful feeling
to my soul. I felt the power of the group-the talent and strength of each
individual-meld into a chorus of heavenly sound. I was just where I wanted to
be. I had everything I’d ever need. I was no longer doubting myself among
strangers; I was making music with friends.
5
My Greatest Instrument
6
Alita, the tenth-grade writer of this model, presents a cluster of incidents that
work together to form a unified piece presenting one theme. Alita links the
incidents in an effective, creative manner.
Snapshots
7
two, where we would have to stop and wait for her. Shorter legs made the
telephone pole seem distant, growing slowly closer as the Queen Anne’s lace
flew past in the ditch. I can recall countless times that Katie and I woke up
late and found ourselves running down the road to catch the bus. Looking
back, this has to be one of the more ironic rolls of my “memory film,” because
I ended up running cross-country; Katie wound up in poms and football.
Of my six sisters, Katie is the closest to me in age, and she’s often
been my closest companion during family events. We are usually the only
teenage kids around at family gatherings and on shopping trips in the family
van. This explains why Katie and I are expert mimes. The shopping trips
provide hours of being stuffed in the van with our younger siblings, Scarlet
and Michael; the visits to Minnesota to see relatives yield seven hours of
driving each way. On one occasion, Katie and I boarded the van, choosing
the back seat. After 10 minutes of being annoyed by everyone else, we
formed an invisible wall between the two front seats and ourselves. We
mimed a smooth, perfectly flat, soundproof surface to perfection. The last
picture on that roll of memories was Mom telling us to stop it.
The Niagara Falls/Canada/New York trip last year was the closest
Katie and I have been. The same week of our shared 16th and 13th birthday-
bonfire party, we spent days cramped in the back of my sister Sara’s car, next
to her one-year-old daughter, Hannah. Our quiet brother-in-law Brad was
driving, and Hannah cried the whole way. That trip provided enough scenes
to make a full-length movie, but I have only one shoebox picture of Katie and
me in front of Niagara Falls. We are both bundled up like we were in the
picture taken 13 years earlier. This time, though, we wear dark blue jeans and
gray sweatshirts, our matching brown hair pulled back, hers in a ponytail and
mine behind a pale pink bandana. The background doesn’t take us to a quiet
hospital room, but to the continuous rumble of beautiful Niagara Falls. On the
left, the American Falls turn over beneath a rainbow of October foliage.
Farther away, on the right, Horseshoe Falls bubbles under a mist that slowly
rises above the horizon. Katie and I lean against the heavy, black railing, and
against each other. Our smiles are sweet and happy, reminiscent of Katie’s
first birthday.
These two shoebox pictures of Katie and me are just two snapshots in
a shared photo album, filled with every cake, thought, joke, and sweater
we’ve shared. In the midst of looking through the collection, Katie yells at me,
“Hey, that’s my shirt!”
“You borrow my stuff,” I reply.
“Not without asking.”
“You had my black skirt for three months.”
“I asked for it.”
I let the fight peter out, not wishing to waste a memory on an argument
about clothes. There will be plenty of hair-pulling, name-calling, and angry
situations between Katie and me to come. I want to save my film for better
times.
8
A clever, attention-getting opener pulls the reader into this personal essay by
tenth grader Crystal. The organization, developed with examples, seems to
flow naturally to Crystal's conclusion about judging other people.
It’s a Boy!
9
Again, during our meal, my friends and I received strange looks from
the others in the restaurant. One couple kept walking by our table just to get a
look at my baby. I think they were trying to figure out if the doll was an actual
baby. As the couple walked by, my friends and I started discussing how
people so quickly judged me and assumed that I was the mother of the baby.
We decided that we would probably do the same if we saw a teenage girl
coming in with a child and a group of friends. Teenage pregnancy is not
accepted where I live and is definitely not the norm; many girls would hide
their pregnancies if they decided to keep their babies.
We went to the mall after we were finished eating, and I had to take
Tyler with me. My friends were looking at clothes, but I couldn’t because I was
carrying this “baby” (which was becoming quite heavy). So I just roamed
around wishing I could try on clothes, too. Then the baby started to cry this
horrible imitation baby’s cry. It was so loud and terrible. I quickly put the key
into the doll’s back so it would quit crying, and then I had to explain to the
salesclerk why I was carrying around a plastic doll. I was so glad to finally go
home.
I learned a lot through my experience with the “Think-It-Over” baby.
The doll definitely reinforced my thinking that I was not ready to be a parent,
but it also made me more aware of the larger picture. It opened my eyes to
the judgments people make about others. People do not realize that some
things are not the way they seem. The doll seemed like it was my baby, but
that was not the case. I was only carrying it around for a class project. The
people in the restaurant were so quick to judge me because they assumed I
was a teenage mom. They undoubtedly thought I was stupid for taking a baby
to a noisy, smoky place; they didn’t realize it was just a plastic doll underneath
that blanket.
I sometimes catch myself judging people I do not know, just because of
the first impression they give. In reality, I do not have a clue about their real
stories. I especially think people judge teenage girls with babies too quickly.
Sure, they may have made a mistake, but the girls usually know that, and they
are the ones who have to pay the price. I only experienced the glares and
rude comments for one night, but I thought of all the girls who have to deal
with these looks wherever they go. We should all be slower to judge these
girls, or anyone else, and realize that some things are not as they seem.
10