How They Got to the Ivy League (25 Sample Essays) (2023)

introduction

If you're thinking of applying to an American university, you know that the process is quite tedious. From researching schools to preparing for and taking tests, it's easy to feel overwhelmed. Writing a personal statement is perhaps the most daunting aspect of the entire college application process. Your test scores may be perfect, your report card impeccable, your job sheet full of awards and accomplishments, and your letters of recommendation may extol your intelligence and virtues, but without impressive essays all that is for naught.

No worries! This eBook contains sample essays with personal statements that have led Ivy & Quill clients to Ivy League universities. As you read these essays, you will understand how to present yourself as the kind of student an admissions officer is looking for. You'll learn what to expect from your college admissions essays and how to use your strengths and weaknesses to transform yourself into the ideal admissions candidate: a confident, introspective young man with the ability to thrive in life's vicissitudes. .

Personal statement 1

Akzeptiert in: Yale, Dartmouth, Cornell, Columbia, Brown

When I first saw a water ballet performance, I experienced a kind of synesthesia as I watched the swan-like movements of the swimmers unfold with the rhythm and magic of the lyric, the precisely executed sequences with the musical accompaniment to an ethereal beauty merged . that I never thought possible. "You belong out there to create that elegance with them," I heard the quiet but powerful voice of my intuition tell me. For the next six years, I followed his advice and rigorously trained to master the athletic and artistic fundamentals of synchronized swimming.

During my first few weeks of training, I punched and jumped with all the grace of an elephant seal. I quickly became completely disillusioned with the idea that the balance and control I so craved could be easily achieved. During the first phase of my training I spent a lot of time in and out of the water, doing Pilates, strength training and gymnastics to build my strength and flexibility. I've learned things about the sport that outsiders rarely realize: that athletes can't touch the bottom of the pool and rely on an "egg beater" technique that water polo players use to stay afloat; that bumps and shocks are very common; that routine sometimes requires being under water for so long that it burns your lungs and blurs your vision. My first few dives into the water were filled with a sense of discouragement that seemed diametrically opposed to the grace I was seeking. I began to wonder if I was really cut out for the sport.

I persevered and slowly but surely made progress. My back became firm and fluid, my oyster maneuvers controlled and rhythmic, my waterwheel sensations so natural I could do them in my sleep. Additionally, I became so comfortable with my own role in the water that I was able to extend my awareness to the other members of my team, moving not just synchronously but synergistically. In one of my first major performances, our routine culminated when I threw myself out of the water with a mighty thrust, rising from the updrafts of the symphonic accompaniment. It had the graceful prow that cut through the air and water, my companions and I performed the leap with the majestic ease of a pod of dolphins playing in the sea. I reveled in the thunderous applause at the end of our routine as it signified that I had helped create the kind of luscious beauty I had so admired years before.

Although I could never have imagined it when I started my training, synchronized swimming has become one of the central metaphors of my life. The first and most fundamental lesson I learned was perseverance, which I humbly and inwardly absorbed through sore muscles and chlorine stained eyes. In a more subtle and powerful way, the sport also gave me an instinctive appreciation of how many parts work together to form an emerging whole, an understanding that I have applied to all areas of my studies, from mechanical systems to biological networks to the artistic Design. I became aware that just like in the water, my own perception of myself is narrow and incomplete, that to truly understand my role in life I need to see myself in relation to my interactions with the people around me. . . Six years into my training, I'm still searching for the sense of harmony and unity that synchronized swimming gave me and riding the gentle waves of destiny as I move into the next phase of my life.

personal statement 2

Accepted at: Columbia, UPenn, Dartmouth, Brown

Every evening when the clock struck seven, I was struck by the "entertainment" that Mary was providing. She wore baggy pants and a flashy T-shirt, and sang and danced awkwardly to Latin music. Mary was my host mom during an international exchange program at La Porte High School last year, and apparently she's also a salsa fan. When he found out I had been taking piano lessons for over ten years, he encouraged me to take part in the school's annual musical.

"It's the biggest party of the year! Cathy, you're good at it. Just get started and enjoy! Unable to say no to such an enthusiastic face, I shook my head, auditioned for a part in the choir and finally got one. It was a behind-the-scenes role, which is perhaps the only reason I was so quick to agree to Mary's request.

Rehearsals went well: I made a lot of new friends and laughed with the other performers. But just a day before the performance, the conductor announced an unexpected change: the choir members would perform in the middle of the audience instead of standing behind the orchestra. While most others enjoyed the opportunity to show themselves in public, I was uncontrollably anxious. The memory of my last stage performance haunted me.

You see, my first (and only) piano recital was a disaster. At first, the notes flowed smoothly from my fingertips, dancing effortlessly across the ivory keys. I recklessly raised my head from time to time to spy on my parents and teachers in the audience. As I tried to discern their emotions through their facial expressions, I found my attention gradually drifting away. After a short time I completely missed the melody! Empty-headed and petrified with embarrassment, I froze on the bench for the longest two minutes of my life before running off the stage. All I could see, when I finally worked up the courage to look behind the curtain, was the disappointment in my parents' eyes and the stifling darkness of the stage.

Since then I have avoided such public spectacles in order not to experience such humiliation again and not to live up to the expectations of others. But this time it was too late to give up. I had already made a commitment not just to Mary and I, but to the entire cast of the musical. Although I was only a member of the choir, all votes counted and my duty could not go unfulfilled. So I rehearsed several times that evening. Unfortunately, the more he practiced, the more nervous he became and the more mistakes he made. My nerves were at the end.

The dreaded moment has not yet come. I remained in the dark as before, waiting for the guillotine. My eyes accidentally found Mary's face in the audience and it was a sight to behold: she beamed with appreciation, joy and grace as her body swayed to the music. The timing wasn't perfect, but it reminded me of my first impulse to make music. Something inside me shifted at that moment as I watched Maria give herself freely.

Of course I sang enthusiastically and danced harmoniously. For the first time, I didn't feel like I was playing for anyone else, not my parents or my teachers, but for myself. Even after the music stopped and the applause grew louder, I was still singing. It wasn't until the other chorus girls came to hug me and roar with excitement that I realized I had successfully completed the show.

For years I was a shy girl, always content to hide behind others, attributing my distrust and cowardice to my ignorance of the circumstances I faced. I now realized that it was never my parents' expectations or the public that intimidated me, but my inner insecurities. With the new understanding of music as a means of creative self-expression, I finally accepted my newfound strength and maturity.

personal statement 3

Accepted in: Yale, UPenn, Dartmouth, Columbia, Brown

Spencer looked straight at me for the first time and not at the camera, her pale blue eyes still and brooding.

"For my parents, it's like losing myself," she explained, "like the kid they raised died and a stranger came into their family."

I was looking back at the questionnaire I had developed to guide interviews I was conducting for a documentary I was making about transgender issues, a hot topic at the time. I was fascinated on a personal level, my fascination prompted me to do extensive research on the subject, with a particular focus on criminal justice and anti-discrimination law. I hoped to become an expert who could compassionately educate viewers about the struggles and rights of transgender people. Based on my research, I have put together a questionnaire that I believe would provide important information about the status of the transgender person.

My first scheduled interview was with Spencer, who sat in front of the green screen and politely deflected my attempts at small talk, no doubt keen to come out with her transgender identity, which few people outside of her family knew about. I obediently narrowed my list of questions, and Spencer obediently presented the same facts and figures she found in the academic papers she'd reviewed while preparing the documentary. Realizing I needed to break with the cold objectivity and impersonality that permeated our conversation, I dropped the next point of my questionnaire in favor of a simple question about how Spencer's family reacted when she came out as transgender. . At that moment, Spencer looked me in the eye and compared her decision to change her gender to a kind of living death in the eyes of her family. Spencer's candid confession, in turn, prompted more personal, interesting, and original questions. I was struck by the harsh truth of Spencer's story, which involved the therapy her parents forced her into; her mother's continued rejection of Spencer's decision to take puberty-delaying drugs that would facilitate her eventual sex reassignment surgery; for the precious refuge she found in a gender-neutral bathroom near her home, to which she fled as the only local who fully accepted her true identity and protected her from the scorn and criticism of the outside world. Faced with a virtue so sad and brilliant, a human connection so intimate and powerful, I quickly abandoned my role as a wannabe expert and embraced my true identity, that of a faithful and humble listener.

The golden rule of my film training was that stories should always be told honestly, and the documentary I made about transgender people was the first time I fully lived this fundamental imperative. In this and other projects, I love feeling part of a story, connecting with the people who live in it and exploring their passions and fears. I convey these elements to my viewers through light and sound, blessed with the vision and technology necessary to bring these intimate revelations to my audience. The film has allowed me to share my own passion and perspective on a wide range of issues, from scientific advances to social justice. The result of this particular search for truth was that Spencer was able to "come out" to the entire school and that the school itself decided to revamp its sex education curriculum to include transgender people.

When the lights go out and the screen comes on, I hope to give my audience a glimpse into the complexities of the human mind and celebrate with them the beautiful, difficult, and defining diversity of the world, as I did when Spencer on looked at me for the first time on that day that now seems so far away.

personal statement 4

Accepted at: UPenn, Dartmouth, Cornell, Brown

Can a beauty become a beast? In my third year of high school, my classmates praised my porcelain skin and beautiful face. My smile was like a candy that distributed dopamine to others. During breaks, the girls would ask me to join them for snacks, and the boys would surround me and ask for academic help. After school we played badminton and I even joined the cheerleading team. I felt like the center of my group and enjoyed school life.

Regrettably! Maybe Maleficent envied my beauty and cursed me. When I woke up one fateful day in tenth grade, the areas around my eyes and jaw were covered with a painful rash. I didn't want to go to class because I was afraid of spoiling the impression my friends had of me. I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror: I didn't recognize the hideous reflection. The sorceress's power was so strong that the medication prescribed for my diagnosed atopic dermatitis was useless. The rashes covered my whole body in a few months. The itching prevented him from sleeping; I was living in a zombie state. My skin felt like the bark of an ancient tree, and as I moved my arms, the bark fell off like snowflakes. I felt helpless and disappointed, not only because of my physical condition but also because of my friends' attitudes. They quickly ignored me, save for dismissive winks. He was alone, walking down the dark corridor and listening to the laughter of the girls in their rooms. The popular girl has turned into a monster.

After that semester, my condition became so serious that I had to be hospitalized. The AD had turned into erythroderma and the doctors wanted to inject me with lifelong drugs that would damage my kidneys and liver. I declined, not wanting to compromise my long-term health for short-term symptom relief. Instead, I chose to only take the anti-inflammatory treatment while exercising, as my background in alternative medicine led me to believe that allergies are often due to a weak immune system.

At first, he could only do light exercise, such as walking. Every time I sweat, the itch felt like millions of ants were crawling all over my body. I had to clench my teeth and divert my attention to resist the urge to scratch. The biggest motivator that established my faith in persistence is Shelley's last line.Ode to the West Wind:When winter comes, could it be that spring is long overdue?When I came across this line on a normal afternoon, my heart burned. I repeated the line like a mantra when hope seemed faint. Determined to get well, I continued to exercise and eventually witnessed miracles. The itching gradually subsided and I was sweating more which meant the toxins were being flushed out. So I worked on my badminton and tennis practice. I am now fully recovered with no relapses.

However, when I went to the hospital for a routine check-up, I noticed numerous patients with allergies, which prompted me to help. At the weekend I went to hospitals and sent them manuals and skin care creams. Most importantly, I shared my recovery story to assure you that nothing is insurmountable. I also created a social media platform to reach more people. In the forums, patients' parents can share their pain, solutions, favorite creams and medical advice. When I saw their thank you notes and the happy faces of the patients, I realized the value of my experience.

This experience taught me that no matter how difficult adversity may seem, trust, perseverance, courage and hope can lead me to the light. No matter how powerful Maleficent is, the good always outweighs the bad. This experience also helped me to see the importance of making a social contribution and I hope to start my own charity to help AD sufferers in the future. When I look in the mirror now, not only do I see a beautiful reflection, but I also see a selfless, fierce, and modern princess smiling at me.

Personal statement 5

Recorded in: UPenn, Columbia, Brown

I couldn't hold back the flood of tears that flowed like water through a leaky dam. Our new music teacher, Mrs. L., did not show up for the orchestra rehearsal and we were harassed with broken microphones and hassled by security who insisted on closing early. He had focused on perfecting the plays and had given little attention to the tedious administrative affairs. Consequently, we were confronted with a dark and chaotic reality like the big night of our annual concert.

When I vented to a close friend, he told me that my frustrations fell under the umbrella of "little things," which he believed needed to be separated for the sake of emotional survival. I remembered the recurring beeps from the microphones, the new teacher's confusing demands, and the host's last-minute editing of the scripts, and I knew that taking care of the little things was a must in this case.

The rest of the preparations for the show were sweaty for everyone involved, and it wasn't just due to Singapore's hot weather. Ms. L.'s approach to things was radically different from what I'm used to, and we bickered over trivial things like banner color schemes and potential presenter candidates. Many orchestra members reluctantly accepted Ms. L., but I maintained my stubbornness. I found it difficult to accept that “this is the way things have to be,” a phrase I thought was often used to relieve us of personal and corporate responsibility.

Walking home in the mild Singaporean weather, I tuned in to Janáček, whose tunes never failed to comfort me. I began to think about the orchestra's problems in a logical and almost nonchalant way, while the relaxing music flooded me like a mild painkiller, banishing any associated negative emotions. I realized that the problem with refusing to deal with the little things that come up is that it becomes the accepted norm. In the shadow of this norm, we often confuse weakness with resilience, continue to compromise and are unable to step back from the Faustian trades we make for short-term comfort.

My playlist reached the Sinfonietta as I finally fell into bed. The piece begins and ends with a phalanx of fanfares, not the usual bombastic kind heard at festivals, but weaving a subtle web of melodic relationships that branch out into many variations on the original theme, so that by the end of the work it is not only a glorious and turbulent coda seems to return, but also the logical conclusion of a convincing symphonic process. It begins subtly, even quietly, weaving shifting musical ideas for cinematic effect, veering slightly against conventional symphonic principles and giving way in the finale to the raw, fiery emotion of the gleaming brass salute.

The Sinfonietta created an epiphany for me: the feeling that I had to find a way to create order out of chaos, beauty and meaning out of shards. I realized that the solution wasn't to lose focus on the small things or ignore the reality of the situation, but to find a middle ground by skillfully maneuvering through it. By understanding the needs of the various parties involved, I was able to navigate to a Nash solution that, while not ideal, was the best the situation allowed. Later that evening, I picked up my cello and played part of the Sinfonietta in silence, feeling the ebb and flow of the music, the ebb and flow like water moving over rocks whose sharp edges have been smoothed by grace and time.

Personal statement 6

Recorded in: Yale, UPenn, Columbia, Brown

After 21 hours of plane and bus rides, I was finally in the middle of downtown Concord, at a record store called Pitchfork. It was a cozy little place that smelled faintly of McDonald's and played hard rock, with a cashier whose stomach was so big his suspenders ripped audibly.

I perused the shelves expecting to see some well-known names from American pop icons like Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber. But as I flipped through thousands of records, only simple but extremely American-sounding names like Bob Dylan, Billy Joel and Paul Simon greeted me. There were also some eerily familiar graphics that were almost too abstract to be true: a prism with flare; a crotch wearing skinny jeans and unnecessarily exposed zippers.This must be true American pop culture.

The mix of smell, sound and sight gave me a heavy dose of America. I could feel my feet moving and my head bobbing to the rhythm of the guitar, the pounding of the drums, and the sobbing voice of the singer. addictive american music. I wanted to be a part of this culture!

It took me a few school dances to realize that my perception of America was thirty years behind. As one of my colleagues said, I had an old man's taste in music. Instead of living in modern America, I lived in the age of afros, bell bottoms and roller rinks.

Ever since then, I've walked past Pitchfork with an anachronistic heart-ache, always with an anachronistic failure, until one day I saw my engineering professor, Mr. Wardrop, come out of the store. We talked about my situation and he invited me to a session in his lab where a group of old, young and old met for lunch with good music.

Surprisingly, these people didn't listen to music as quietly as I did. They talked about their family fishing trips, their Cold War experiences and their Christmas traditions. Although half a century apart, the people in this group are united by the memories these songs carry.

I soon realized that the American side of these songs, composed largely by British artists, were the American memories they created. What my classmates and I have aren't memories of a grandfather gossiping about 'Nam and parents who grew up wanting to be rock stars. What I didn't get was the obnoxiously long car rides and tense Thanksgiving dinners with drunk uncles with snotty lips, the moments when the music flows and carries on as tradition.

This group encouraged me to really experience this country, drive I-93, learn how to pronounce the obscure names of Massachusetts towns, go door to door, and get to know my community. This group, which is now the Music Appreciation Society, created my American memory, which often takes decades and generations to cultivate. As we all share a shudder at Dylan's desperate cry for peace and Fleetwood Mac's gentle whispers about the bittersweet nature of love, we all remember the memories that make us who we are in this land.

I think I managed it after all.

Personal statement 7

Recorded in: Dartmouth, Brown

Growing up, she wasn't interested in Barbie dolls. Instead, I strutted around with my beloved RC cars and transformational toys, hopped onto the couch with other kids, and roared like Mufasa on all fours in the kindergarten playground until worried adults scolded me, "How can a girl be so naughty as boys? However, growing up has witnessed my unshakeable rebellion against these societal advantages and disadvantages.Why can't a girl be like a boy?

Football was my first step in fighting these stereotypes. It was almost a ritual for me during the European Club Cup to get up at three in the morning and watch the game in the freezing winter of February. However, when I started an excited discussion about the game with the kids in my class the next day, I received nothing but ridicule from them. “The girls have no idea about football. You can't even play soccer!" To prove them wrong, I started attending my dad's weekly fan club games, juggling, shooting a spinning goal, mastering every new trick, and enduring the subtropical humidity. When I I had finally earned my spot on the high school soccer field, I was the only girl warming up before a game in a group of boys, and no one could help but look at the only flowing ponytail on the field!

After conquering more physical arenas, I began expanding my exploration into another male-dominated field: competitive gaming. However, prejudices surfaced almost immediately: if they saw my female avatar, other male players would, in the worst case, leave the game before it even started; When they joined me, they patronized me or blamed me for any loss. Angered by his unfair stereotyping, I changed my username to gender neutral. And as I tactically triumphed over my enemies, racking up aces and penta kills and ultimately leading my team to victory, I revealed my identity as a girl. Seeing his astonishment gave me an unprecedented sense of accomplishment.

However, my supposed invincibility in physical and mental terms soon encountered an insurmountable challenge: cooking. As someone who has despised all feminine traits for years, my hands were tied in the kitchen. The chiffon cake, which was supposed to be large and fluffy, turned out to be thin and firm, like a pancake; the sugar on the sweet and sour ribs was charred instead of caramelized. When my friends heard about my problems, they advised me to give up. "Arwen, just accept the fact that femininity isn't your thing."

Ironically, after struggling with gender stereotypes for years, I became another stereotype in people's eyes. Is femininity something I should detach from? Is embodiment of masculinity the only way to prove myself? I longed for an answer, and mastery of the kitchen seemed to be my first step. I ate dozens of charred chiffon cakes and scraped dozens of burnt woks, striving to develop my culinary talents. When I finally brought my friends the sponge cake, I got the expected surprised look again, but this time I didn't want to prove them wrong, I wanted to show that I'm capable of assuming any identity I want.

A person's character goes far beyond the limited factors defined inMachomifeminine.Every Saturday began with a wet but rewarding soccer practice session; in the afternoon I dedicated myself to playing DotA with my friends; In the evenings he pulled the marinated meat out of the fridge to prepare a big dinner for the family. Now I've found an answer to my rebellion: to go beyond the tiresome two-dimensional definition of an individual and embrace the undeniable fluidity of identity.

Personal statement 8

Akzeptiert in: Harvard, Princeton, Yale, Columbia, UPenn, Cornell, Brown

"Not so angry now!" I thought contentedly as a pleasant organic smell rose from my experimental apparatus, in which reddish pupae squirmed with the characteristic uneasiness of all newborn creatures.

Two years earlier, he had accepted the popular notion that flies were evil, noxious pests. After all, they're just hanging out in the trash, dirty and smelly, and spreading dangerous bacteria. One day my father brought home a hundred flies in a glass container. Although I wanted nothing to do with them at the time, this event marked the beginning of my strange passion for insects.

I learned from my father that fly larvae, called maggots, feed on decaying organic matter, which they convert into organic fertilizer and animal protein. Intrigued by this concept, I decided to conduct an experiment to validate the environmental impact of unsightly creatures. With my father's careful guidance, I placed a soaked sponge in a small container and made sure the sponge took up most of its volume. That way, he knew, the flies could land on the sponge to drink without drowning. I created a cube-shaped metal structure using thin wires and shaped it to optimize visibility without allowing flies to escape. Meanwhile, my father built a container for collecting eggs that contained wheat crusts and ammonia. With our experimental setup complete, we added the flies, half male and half female, and set about tracking the outcome.

For two weeks I patiently watched the events unfold. For the first three days, the flies buzzed about their enclosure seemingly aimlessly, and nothing big seemed to happen. However, on the fourth and fifth day, many eggs appeared in the egg collection tray. These were tiny, white, and spherical, their clusters forming probabilities and sigils. Three days later, the eggs hatched into squirming larvae with a strong stench. Struggling to control my nausea, I picked up the worms and spread them over the leftover food, covering them with a clear container to keep them from escaping. Imperceptibly, but unstoppably, something changed. When I removed the containers two days later, some of the larvae had developed into reddish ellipsoidal pupae. Most surprisingly, the stench was gone from the container, suggesting the worms had turned the decaying organic matter into tastier items.

After experiencing my first major entomological thrill, I was inspired to sort of share the bug I'd caught. I shared my experiences at school and was encouraged to find that my classmates showed more interest than I expected. Out of continued curiosity, I founded the Biodegradable Environmental Science Club, during which I repeated my initial experiment several times, both to train new members and to collect data on various variables. When I look at the newborn worms now, I don't feel disgust, but interest and admiration. What is most gratifying is that I have seen other club members experience the same change in attitude as we put science into action together. Over time, our club has become so popular that we have decided to organize a “Pest Camp” for next summer, where we will teach the youngest students how to turn what has always bothered people into a of nature 's best gifts .

To my surprise, I've gone from a kid who yells at every kind of beetle to an aspiring entomologist who finds beetles alluring and beautiful. Though they may seem like the world's most humble creatures at first glance, flies and larvae have much to teach us about life: that the value of commodities can seldom be judged by sight (or smell!), that nature transforms coal can in diamond, and that science can weave cobwebs in steel.

Personal statement 9

Accepted at: Cornell, Columbia, UPenn

History has always been my greatest interest, but through my years of studying I have come to understand that teaching history is no easy task. My long-standing suspicion was confirmed in the first class of my history tutoring. As the students rested their chins on one hand like a half-drunk phone and stared at me with blank, unfocused eyes, I knew I had to find a way to get their attention. I went home that evening with the best of intentions, but after opening my fifth blank Microsoft file in a state of sheer frustration, my focus and confidence evaporated. It seemed odd that although I was surrounded by various historical artifacts in my father's library, I couldn't draw inspiration from those surroundings. I was like an orphan lost in the crowd until I noticed a thick, familiar scrapbook that evoked memories of the days when my father and I flipped through its crisp pages.

As a child, my father told me stories about old porcelain from the album instead of fairy tales. I felt an inexplicable pleasure as I sat on her knees, revealing the intricate veils of these beautiful porcelains, whose intense aroma betrayed their historical character. But it wasn't until I climbed onto the seven-foot-tall shelf and saw the china pots on it that I began to discover the true source of my father's joy. With a glass and a dictionary of sigils, I sat at the table for hours trying to understand what was written on the bottles until I was convinced it was impossible. Frustrated, I gave in and asked my father, who patiently unraveled any mysteries he encountered. Inspired by its brilliance, I began my journey of learning Chinese calligraphy with the hope that one day I would appreciate porcelain as much as my father did.

Stimulated by these sweet memories, I got up and walked to the bookshelf. My eyes wandered to a section I liked best as a child, containing shards of a porcelain vase I accidentally broke a long time ago. Although broken, each piece represents a moment in the history of the stone with its vivid painting. Throughout my childhood I have tried many times but could not put these pieces together but always found it exciting and exciting to rearrange the torn threads and build my own stone story in different ways.

That was it! I ran back to my computer and without hesitation exited the cliched presentation format that only showed my personal interpretation of historical events. I started writing my plan to focus the class on storytelling. This way everyone could present their opinions and ideas by telling stories, just as I did myself with the debris in the vase.

My new plan for the tutoring class worked almost immediately. The students passionately presented their own understanding of history. As we delved into African American history, different perspectives were introduced: the 'musician' in our class focused on the connection between the music of indigenous peoples in Africa and modern genres like jazz and blues; Feminists have been active in examining the plight of African American women and emphasizing their importance in combating racial discrimination; Our "poet" explored Walt Whitman's attitude towards slavery with an in-depth reading of his poetry. Each has found its own niche, and together we have woven a complex and fascinating picture of African American history through our diverse imaginations.

History is like a broken vase. Their ultimate "truth" is always irretrievable, and thus any dimensional interpretation of the story is bound to be problematic. True historians approach this "truth" by viewing events piecemeal through different lenses, forming different perspectives, and seeing more clearly what history means for our contemporary interpretations of the world.

Personal statement 10

Accepted in: Yale, Cornell, Columbia, UPenn, Dartmouth, Brown

What I remember most about arriving in California is the ubiquity of the color yellow. It was mid-autumn and golden leaves were piled up by the roadside, rustling when I jumped on them. I soon became friends with a blonde German girl named Pauline in my high school class, who invited me to pick ripe lemons from her family's lemon tree. I remember holding a plump fruit up to the sun and admiring how it shimmered in the yellow light. The first English song I fully understood was Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree. The song told the story of a man coming home from prison hoping with all his heart that his wife still loved him; the yellow ribbon symbolized his positive reaction. Yellow was the color of hope, expectation and joy.

Two years later I returned to China and my world was red. Every day I wore a red scarf, the garment that all my classmates used to symbolize the country; The outer shell of the scholarship medals was bright red with a blurred texture. At Chinese celebrations, crimson lanterns hung from doorknobs, each with a lit candle inside, illuminating the streets with warm rays. During the Chinese New Year, I received red envelopes with lucky money from my parents and elderly relatives who wished me well. Red was the color of prosperity, luck and tradition.

Each color had its own quality and emotion related in some way to my memory. I started thinking more about colors and the emotions they convey in my work. When I'm in a good mood, my painting is full of orange, red and yellow; However, when I'm sad, my pictures have a greyish tint. At this point in my life, I was content to use different shades of the same color in my paintings.

Over time, I began to feel that my painting lacked authenticity. There seemed to be no connection in my work: the colors stood out, with sharp, clear borders around the outlines. My emotions aren't all blue or all green with straight lines around them. No color dominates me; My emotions are the result of a mixture of colors that are all equally important, that are synthesized, connected and interacting with each other. Realizing this, I set out to find a new way of painting that would be similar to sculpting my emotions.

I found the answer in watercolor. When my brush touches the paper, the color spreads out on the page, another shade of a different color touches the first color and a bond is formed. The colors slowly trickle into each other and then stop, almost like water seeping through the ground. As the paints dry, an uneven fringe forms between them; This random and spontaneous natural blending makes the watercolor stunning. The colors develop a life of their own.

Watercolor is now more than a reflection of my emotions - it has inspired me to become a person who can interact effectively with the people around me. Ultimately, life is all about interacting with others, as humans are social beings by definition. Connections are critical to building relationships; In a society, different roles are equally important and we need different elements to form a community. Just as watercolors represent emotions, roles in our communities are not defined by straight, rigid lines. Instead, people can shift between roles and groups through interactions and communication, creating a fluid society. The way I interact with others allows me to live a more colorful life thanks to watercolor.

Personal statement 11

Recorded at: Yale, Cornell, UPenn, Dartmouth

My sixth birthday dinner was brightened up by a magical dish: Orange Speckled Grouper Stew. Beneath the smell of cooked garlic and cooling herbal sauce was an enticing sweetness. Crispy grated ginger and scallions contrast with the goldfish's slightly charred skin. I couldn't wait to get my first helping, even ignoring the Chinese tradition that I must serve my parents first. The dish soon disappeared before our eyes, but the taste stuck in my memory and became one of my fondest childhood memories.

The memory of that taste continued to haunt me as I got older. Every year for my birthday my father took me to the same fish restaurant. Every time I flipped through the menu I noticed that the price of the orange grouper went up while the prices of most other fish that were once as expensive as the grouper went down. I asked the owner why groupers are so expensive. He apologized and replied that groupers are much more difficult to farm than other fish species because they can only survive in a very specific environment.

This experience piqued my curiosity: why was it so difficult to raise grouper? I researched until I learned the concepts of DNA polymerase and gel electrophoresis, which relate to the dissection and analysis of DNA. I began to speculate that a virus might be to blame. If we could extract the DNA from the virus, we could solve the problem. In order to test my hypothesis and gain practical experience in DNA analysis so that I can take a concrete step towards solving this mystery, I applied for an internship at the South China Sea Institute of Oceanology, which conducts research on viruses that kill marine animals , Orange Speckled Grouper and where vaccines are made.

As a research assistant, under the guidance of my colleagues, I not only learned how to use equipment that I had previously only found in a textbook, but also to appreciate the importance of observation and fearlessness in a young scientist. Every day I repeated monotonous experimental procedures to find the unknown virus. Most of the time we end up with nothing. Every day, the acrid smell of tampons and agarose solution contrasted sharply with the beautiful image of the grouper shell in my mind, filling the lab with a pleasant imaginary scent. Like the road to revolution, the road to joy is difficult. Still, with the firm belief that I would find the key to increasing the farmed grouper population, I kept trying. In subsequent experiments, I photographed each result to record the brightness and length of the bands, identifiers of DNA features.

One day the results finally caught my attention. The tapes were oddly long and pitched slightly differently than he was used to. I immediately compared it to everyone else.Is this!Believing that this segment of DNA belonged to the virus, I immediately informed my colleagues. We redesigned the DNA primers, confirmed the difference and found the unknown SGIV virus. The lab is now developing a grouper vaccine based on the virus, and I'm honored to continue this research to help more people appreciate the delicacy of the orange-spotted grouper.

From this experience I understood that not all science is necessarily as metaphysical or as complicated as string theory. Science can also be as realistic as developing a laundry detergent or discovering a vaccine so more people can enjoy delicious food.

Our vaccine is now being used by some fish farms and we have already heard promising results. Some farmers even sent us groupers as a token of gratitude. The joy of literally savoring the fruits of someone's labor is simply incomparable!

Personal statement 12

Accepted in: Yale, Columbia, Cornell, UPenn, Dartmouth

Police officers are the first to enforce public justice; In the meantime, this shared vision commits them to higher standards and closer scrutiny by the justice system. The uniqueness of the job can easily create tension and often puts the officers in the spotlight. When I learned of the controversy surrounding the charges against former NYPD officer Peter Liang in early 2015, I was curious to learn more.

In addition to familiarizing myself with the details of the case, I also searched social media groups for different perspectives on social justice. As I agreed with some of the arguments on both sides, I wondered if such a case could be handled in a way that satisfied everyone's sense of justice. Because we all have our own values, it is impossible for people to agree on a single belief or ultimate justice. Rather, the justice system is based on compromise and the essence that people should be treated equally.

It didn't take me long to find out that Liang was the first NYPD officer to be charged with a death in more than a decade. Compared to other cases in which officers have been acquitted of charges in court for "lack of credible evidence of intent to shoot," this case appears to have reacted more harshly than usual. Unable to determine the reason for this disparity, he was confused and irritated.

Eager to research justice and raise awareness of the uniqueness of this case, I began sharing news articles and writing about my views on it on my school's community forum. At first, my opinion seemed to be on the opposite side of the campaign against police brutality. However, as I went to various lunch tables and debated with those who opposed my thoughts, I actually persuaded many of my colleagues to my point: Liang's indictment (and subsequent sentencing) due to its unusual delay compared to other cases, distorted justice, the cornerstone of a Common Law System. If we couldn't restore this relative justice, people would fear receiving different sentences for the same crime. If we could not respect precedent, the justice system would be more susceptible to manipulation through individual power. However, I realized that speaking in abstract terms was not enough. To make a real impact, he needed a bigger platform.

Luckily I didn't have to wait too long. A few days after Peter's conviction in February 2016, I found myself againsavepeterliang.org. A white background with only a few ungrammatical sentences, the page was sterile and boring. However, one sentence at the bottom of the page caught my attention: "In search of more minds and hearts". I immediately wrote an email to the contact address and attached my last written article. However, when I was about to click submit, I hesitated. How much impact can a website really have? How much time do I have to spend on this project? A series of questions flooded my mind and I took my finger off the mouse.

At the same time, I reflected on my initial reasons for wanting to get involved. While police violence that violates people's rights must end, it is also important that we work to ensure that political pressure does not overshadow the justice system. With a crisp click, my email was on its way. After joining, I edited the content of the site and addressed the uniqueness of the case. I also created an online petition and worked with other volunteers to collect signatures for the judge. Before the decision date, more than 20,000 people had signed our petition.

While it's impossible to say that my efforts influenced the judge's decision, this experience strengthened my understanding of justice and the judicial system: the best referee is not the one who is hard or soft on fouls, but one who is consistent is. Final justice is difficult to achieve, but fairness is always a resource. When equal justice is violated, I will always stand up.

Personal statement 13

Accepted in: Cornell, Columbia, Dartmouth, UPenn

Enter through Av. Tall, slim, dressed in black, eyes hardened by charcoal mascara. She struts nonchalantly in her combat boots and looks so out of place (and dangerous) at school. Appearances are deceptive. More than just a loner, Ava would prove to be the bravest and most independent girl I have ever met.

I met Ava at an art show in Oregon. I was surprised that such a punk rock girl would love still lifes. Since then we have become friends and she has shared her stories with me. She told me about her trips to Germany alone when she was just fifteen, her advocacy on gender inequality and LGBTQ issues, and her campaigning to stop the demolition of old houses in Kyoto. Ava also told me that growth is the process of constantly breaking down and rebuilding your current perspective and that the only way to do that is to get out of your comfort zone.

Ava's words surprised me. I realized that I was trapped in my comfort zone for a while and didn't want to get out. For example, on the morning of my first Thanksgiving in the United States, I was served a bowl of white rice with no garnish, not even a glass of water. Back then, I missed my mother's Japanese dishes, which were prepared with love and care. I missed my friends, not the people who treated me like a hardworking Asian girl. I questioned my decision to leave the country I knew and enter a nation where cultures clash.

Ava made me realize that I had wasted precious time guarding my sensitive inner world, not realizing that the people around me were trying to take care of me in their own way. Even the host family assumed that being Japanese, I would prefer rice to pizza. Gradually I began to empathize and see situations from different perspectives.

***

Due to my fascination with Spanish culture I attended a camp in Barcelona last summer which was the most unforgettable experience. I left Plaça de Catalunya at 8am and walked down Paseo de Gracia with my friend Sarah and I, who have also been admirers of Gaudí's work for a long time. We went to Casa Batillo, La Pedrera, La Sagrada Familia and finally arrived at Park Güell twelve hours later. Gaudí's architecture was simply mesmerizing; I was blown away by his magical use of curves, light and ingenious ideas from nature. However, Barcelona does not only shine because of Gaudí, but also because of the old buildings, the warm sunlight and the warm smiles on the people's faces.

We decided to survey the city with our feet. Using a map as a guide, we hiked five miles. Instead of speaking, we see and experience with our hearts. When this walking meditation ended I felt a strong connection to Barcelona as if I had known it for a long time. I discovered another me. I never imagined walking eight kilometers to get to know a city with just a map, or traveling around Spain alone. I forgot my unprofessional Spanish and the fact that I'm a complete stranger in town. I even forgot my resistance to approaching strangers. When he asked directions to an elegant old woman passing by as he danced to the music with the street performers in the square, he was inexplicably delighted.

Man's greatest fear is insecurity. Our comfort zones stand for safety and tranquillity. However, after constantly pushing my limits, I found Ava's words to be true: Getting out of your comfort zone really is the only way to grow. Pushing the limits of comfort, a much more glamorous and expansive world awaits. I hope to explore the art world of major international cities in the years to come and expand my mind and heart even more. As Ava and this trip to Barcelona have taught me, everyone is welcome, anywhere, and I'm no exception.

Personal statement 14

Accepted at: Dartmouth, Cornell, Brown

It was an overcast spring day with mosquitoes in the humid air, but I was excited. For the first time in my life I wanted to plant a tree.

Dad and grandpa dug a hole in the front yard. I carefully lifted the seedling into the ground and filled the hole. Mom supported the seedling with some sticks. granny watered. For years it has been growing in our backyard, nourished by sunlight and tropical rain, producing a type of tart, juicy fruit calledWampee. Twice a year when I harvest the Wampee I remember my family members who planted the tree with me.

My grandparents anchored the roots of my life. Grandpa was in the army for five years and then worked as an engineer in the shipping industry. However, he never lost his passion for literature and calligraphy. He taught me to recite classical poetry and put me to bed with stories and parables. In contrast, Grandma spent her teenage years moving across the country with her family. Away from his hometown, he became independent and persevered in the face of challenges: enduring heat and spicy cuisine, exercising physically, and adjusting to a new community. Like the roots of my family tree, grandpa and grandma collected difficult experiences, absorbed the marrow of life and finally passed it on to my parents and me.

My parents are the tribe that supports the family tree. They inherited the trait of perseverance from my grandparents and established an International Trade Corporation, which exports home appliances. Over the last ten years they have gained recognition in the local industry and generated millions of dollars in annual business. My parents were hands-on businessmen: they worked long hours, negotiating deals with factories, training new employees, and building relationships with customers. Although I didn't see the early days of their company, I saw the stack of contracts in their room and heard their voices on the phone as dinner grew cold on the table.

Growing up in sufficiently moist and fertile soil that my family offers, I am increasingly aware of my responsibility in the family business. With the statistical knowledge and information gathered from the database of my family's company, I carried out a market research on the electric fans that we produce and export to Latin America. I realized that the United States, which imports most Chinese-made ventilators, would be a potential expansion market.

Also, since electric fans are a seasonal product, I recommended to my parents that they also export heaters to countries like the United States so the company could operate more evenly and profitably throughout the fiscal year. This experience gave me a better understanding of how our company works, which is a micro-representation of the international trading system. I have learned to write applications, contribute ideas and help my parents.

This summer I revisited the Wampee tree. The rising sun lit up the sky and where we had planted the seedling there was a leafy tree full of fruit. Looking back, I recognize how my family shaped my identity from childhood to adulthood, just like the sapling that grew into a tree. The roots were deep, like my grandparents who fundamentally nurtured my spirit; the trunk was raised constantly, as if my parents were strewing food through all my veins. My grandparents taught me the importance of traditional values, both cultural and personal. My parents nurtured and protected me while giving me the opportunity to develop diverse interests and broaden my horizons. His support allows me to reach the leaves, the light and the air. I am now being relocated to the Pacific where I hope to be nurtured on the soil of my future university and become someone my family will be proud of.

Personal statement 15

Recorded at: Yale, Cornell, Dartmouth, UPenn

I used to think that my camera only captures scenes from life; In fact, it offers voices, voices ofPageimpotent children from Liangshan, one of the poorest regions in China. Every time I look throughViewfinder on my Canon 7D, I'm looking forward to not just shooting, but streaming and creating, sostrengthen the lives of others.

grasp.

A group of children play tug of war without a rope. Bad angle, awkward position, could have used alarger aperture with faster shutter speed. It's not a great photo, but it shows thatMe, fifteen years old, trying to immortalize a moment. Girls clasp hands, some wrap around each othertheir arms around those in front of them, some clinging to the shirts of others. My hands feel the frictionBbetween your hands and the nylon. My shoulder blade hurts when girls lean back. innocent laughterresonates around me Tug-of-war without ropes may seem boring to us, but their faces were beaming with joyHappiness.They didn't have much, but they lived in gratitude.

Every year since then, these kids who have never seen a camera have waited patiently for my envelope full of photos: photos chasing pigs, photos planting potatoes, photos scribbling on tattered walls, photos themselves say goodbye

Communicate.

A girl quickly clings to the window frame, the glass that separates two worlds. the texture ofPagethe stained glass windows, the placement of the horribly welded iron...these elements tremblethe heart of the viewer. Hope slips into those staring eyes, pierces the fogged glass and pushesTears. Their hope, enthusiasm and desire were never stifled by poverty, but kindledends of life. She expects to break this glass, drop this rusty iron frame,open the restrictions that misery imposes to finally emerge in our world.

In fact, we live in opposite worlds. We have high-tech and sports equipment forEntertainment; we traveled thousands of miles to the Caribbean, to the Alps. they have nothing more thana backpack, maybe some pencils; the neighboring town four hours away is as far as they walked.Ba; Eating three meals a day is a privilege. Everything we take for granted is pure fantasyShe.

His eyes planted seeds deep in my heart. These seeds make me want to sow your dreams in other hearts. These seeds drive me to fundraise, study architecture, and one day build better schools with transparent windows that don't separate our worlds, but unite them.

Create.

A monochrome background draws attention to the heartbreaking shoes. ripped clothes,dangling cables and cracked rubber document the children's hour-long walk to school. the dark andthe raw concrete illustrates his mediocre past: childhood. We all have to go up and downcountless muddy hills on our growth path. However, these children do not have oursTimberlands to smooth the ride; You don't have GPS to navigate the road. just havethe poorly paved dirt road that meanders into town. They have thorns and lurking serpents. Shedo you have loot (wood shavings, dirt, rocks, lichen) your shoes collected, a testament to your experienceand strength We pray that they will leave the dirt road, come out of the dark shadow and make waybroader, smoother and brighter future.

Looking back at these old photos I found myself on my own muddy trailGrowth. Longing, wonder and despair were conveyed through textures, lines and vividlyColors. My photos have become powerful and moving storytellers, telling my feelings and those of those who would otherwise be ignored.During those years I was proud to see children grow up, a number of my photos were reposted 600,000 times and more than 30,000 volunteers signed up for classesLiangshan.

The word "grow" has now become less abstract. The camera, the responsibility, grew heavier on my shoulders. I'm not sure if it's the camera itself or the processing it captures that weighs me down, but I accept that weight.

Personal statement 16

Accepted at: (Oxford), Columbia, Cornell, UPenn, Brown

"Where do you think you belong, Chongqing or Canton?" No matter what city I was in, this was the number one question I was asked at countless family gatherings every Chinese New Year. Stuffing bites was the best way to avoid the awkward silence that followed. I hastily wiped away the soup trickling down my chin and mumbled under the gaze of countless relatives, whose eyes were filled with anticipation. "I...I have no idea," was all I could manage.

I wasn't lying After living the first six years of my life in Chongqing and the next eleven years in Guangzhou, I learned both dialects and became accustomed to the flavors of both cities. My family is a peculiar mix with two different tastes: my mother from Chongqingnese, spirited and addicted to chili; my Cantonese stepfather, even-tempered, lover of all flavors except spicy. I savored the spiciness of Chongqing hot pot during mother-daughter dinners, while getting a delicious shiver of joy from tasting the cool, smooth broth of Cantonese hot pot in my stepdad's hometown. The two cities are so interwoven in my memories that I can hardly tell which one I belong to. However, this is not the case with my parents: yourshave deeply rooted cultural backgroundsHe gave them different accents, different flavors and unique temperaments.

The other day I saw a split glass at Wal-Mart that was split in half by a copper disc.similar to a "yin-yang" symbol. After bringing the pot home, I made a spicy Chongqing broth.on one half and a thin Cantonese broth on the other. The two lived peacefully in a pot, ahot and dense, the other soft and light. My family looks like this yin yang pot, like mineThe Chongqing mother and Cantonese stepfather live together in harmony but maintain a unique identityattitudes towards life.

My mom and stepdad love this pan. As my parents choose their favorite soup, I choke down food from both halves and suddenly find the answer to where I belong. I experience the values ​​of both cities and am the copper disc in the hot pot. I don't belong to either half, but I have direct experience with both, enriched by thePagedeep system of two values. That ismy existence allowing the two broths to co-exist in peace. I've helped each broth retain its unique flavor while breaking down cultural barriers to be more tolerant of each other. Bombarded by a constant ebb and flow of flavors from both sides, my copper disk absorbs both flavors. As I half-dip my spoon, my taste buds explode, reminding me of my stepdad's creation. I dive into the other half and feel transported to my mother's childhood. As a copper disc in the middle, I'm free to immerse myself in whatever culture suits me at the time. I have a multiple entry visa between these two worlds and I intend to use it.

"I belong in the middle," I answered without hesitation the next time they asked me. My relatives shrugged, obviously not pleased with my odd and vague answer. But I like being the copper slice between Chongqing and Canton broth. Why couldn't she taste both worlds, experience life from two different cultural angles? In the same way, I hope to be the screenplay for Yale-NUS and experience East and West at the same time. With my experience of living in China and studying under an American system, I want to be able to increase understanding between different cultures, enable harmonious coexistence for everyone on the Yale-NUS campus, and advocate for a better use future.

Personal statement 17

Accepted in: Harvard, Princeton, Yale, Columbia, UPenn

Nortethe someone is really his “own” person. Rather, we are all products of a larger society.context and education. The world I come fromMetromy family, my community and mineSchool -Hhow she shaped me into the girl I am today through sharing experiences andOpportunities that allowed me to discover my passions.

My parents introduced me to animation when they took me to watch itFind Nemo. i loved thatSo much so that I begged my parents for the DVD, which I've watched at least thirty times.This enchanting film made a deep impression on me visually and emotionally. Youadvanced computer graphicspresented the sea in such a unique way that every painting shimmered with itBBeauty. The more animated films my parents brought me, the greater my love and fascination for them becameCGI animation has grown. movies likelike a pandamiOvertaught me invaluable life lessonslike the power of faith or the importance of family. Through animation, myFamily built a castle of love, imagination and admiration. These films constantly shape mineDream: to be an animator using advanced computer technology to create artWe hope to instill optimism and joy in viewers.

My school enabled me to share my passion for the violin with others. On the stage before standingchamber ensemble, I took a deep breath and slung the instrument over my shoulder. I met themBagainst the ropes and was immediately transported to Vivaldi's housePrimavera. the movement advancedfrom the merry song of the birds to the sluggish flow of a fountain to the climax - the stormy oneStorm. All eyes were on me, the orchestra's soloist; as lightning and thunder collided, my fingershe danced frantically over the ropes. The storm died down and the piece ended with a slow vibrato.Thunderous applause brought me back to the real world. I smile proudly, honored that myClassmates and teachers were amazed by my performance.

My community gave me a sense of belonging. I have been a volunteer at a primary school since 2014.School. In my last class, I decided to teach paper cutting because art doesn't usually have a main focus in smaller curricula. I watched patiently as an eight-year-old boy, Min, was clumsily cutthe pre-drawn lines on a folded triangular sheet of paper. After twenty minutes it unfoldedhis work, joy spread on his face. "A snowflake! Wow, how beautiful!" for mySurprised, she placed her masterpiece in my hand and covered it with hers; I could feel her heatFingertips expressing your appreciation. In this loving gesture, the word "community"transformed from a vague idea into a tangible idea. Through active volunteer work incommunity, I have developed a strong bond with the local school and its students.

Consciously and unconsciously, my world has offered me unforgettable moments and opportunities.Experiences that created my opportunities. I discovered what I love: animation and I learned the value of contributing to the academic and local community. I hope thatwhen i enter a new world, the university, i discover further areas of interest. be a programmeror an entertainer, an artist or a teacher, I know my world will support me in becoming who I amwant to be

Personal statement 18

Accepted in: Dartmouth, Cornell, Columbia, UPenn

A mother's love is something that is taken for granted most of the time. A mother's sacrifice (time, money, energy) for her child is a given in most parenting relationships. Growing up, however, my mother practiced a draconian parenting method that made me question her love for me. You know, my father left my family when I was only two years old. All my life I believed it was my mother's bitterness at not being able to support a family that made her speak so harshly to me and maintain an icy distance.

Since I could not find solace in my mother, I had no one to share my daily life with. If something went wrong at school, like getting a bad grade on a test, my mother would slap my ankles or tell me to stay in a corner. If I pressed and answered, he sent me to bed without supper. Rather than just finding an imaginary friend like most kids my age would, and without maternal comfort, I found solace in the only outlet I had: the arts.

When I was five years old, my mother signed me up for drawing classes. Sheets of drawing paper filled with elements of my overactive imagination: detailed, wordless stories. As I got older, the process of creation helped me develop the habit of taking things seriously and being persistent. After school I snuck into my room and drew for hours. When I get lost in the world of art, the images in my head materialize as sketches on a page. The sense of satisfaction when I find my pen or brush faithfully recording my inspirations is inexplicable and unparalleled. When I'm in the world of art, a world where creativity rules, anything is possible.

A few years later, my mother decided it would be wise to take music lessons, probably realizing that studying wasn't my forte. I chose the violin, which offers a very different aesthetic experience than drawing. With the organic dynamics of time and notes comes fervent movement or peaceful stillness. Whether picking up the rhythm of one of Bach's partitas, meditating almost religiously on Pachelbel's Canon in D, or expressing self-pity while playing a minor key, I've taught myself to interpret each piece. I've learned to weave all of my emotions into the familiar notes and bring my personality to each piece.

As an artist and violinist, creative aesthetics are as important as air. By expressing myself through art, I can share what I find visually or aesthetically pleasing with others in the hope that they too will enjoy my work. Having such a creative outlet for self-expression saved me from an emotionless existence. Regardless of my mood or my thoughts, there were different ways to convey them, whether it was through my drawing pens or through this hollow wooden instrument. Art became the medium through which I grew up in my adolescent self-discovery process.

When I decided to attend high school in the US, I was much more confident and mature than before. My artistic skills have given me the confidence to tackle daily tasks on my own and hope for the future. However, on the day of my escape, I received shocking news: my mother confessed to me that she had been suffering from cancer for XX years. she was calm. She admitted that her strict way of raising me was to make sure I could support myself and make a living in case she wasn't likely to survive much longer.

When I heard this news, tears began to flow uncontrollably from my eyes. I forgave my mother for being so strict and was grateful for the seemingly small ways she showed her love by spending precious money that could have gone towards her treatments to help me in art and music classes support, which actually made the difference. the world determines my destiny. Thanks to my mother's sacrifice, I not only discovered my passion for the arts, but also honed my artistic and musical skills through years of study and practice. Overall, I was becoming self-sufficient and mature for my age, which I realized living with other kids my age in the dorms at St. Paul's. While not the most affectionate of mothers, my mother, in her own way, helped me develop wings to fly into a better future that she may not share.

Personal statement 19

Accepted at: Cornell, Columbia, UPenn

The black water, filled with a mixture of industrial raw materials but with no sign of life, made me feel uneasy. The gray grass covered with colorful organic waste but no flowers made me uneasy. It wasn't until I finally returned to my hometown, a small town near Jiangsu, one weekend last spring that I had a fundamentally different impression of China's rural communities.

The landscape was not sharp and pretty like in my memories of times past. Instead, it had become a messy, dirty, total garbage dump. The river where I learned to swim, once clear and full of children playing and even fish, was now dark, green and still. It showed no signs of marine life or human activity, just flies and floating debris. Plastic bags floated on the surface of the water, soda bottles replaced reeds and the river literally resembled a liquid garbage can.

Equally amazing was the fact that the villagers, both adults and children, seemed to have adjusted to this new situation. To my dismay they threw out the trash indiscriminately as if the world was their personal trash can. I was appalled by the amount of unkempt rubbish I observed not only in the river but also along the streets. Roughly every hundred yards or so there would be a new "garbage heap" vying to see which one was tallest, even if there were actual garbage cans nearby. How can people pretend that man didn't invent trash cans? How can man so openly and shamelessly disregard nature? How can anyone care what their hometown is like? As I contemplated similar scenes I had witnessed in China my entire life, I realized that, unfortunately, pollution in my city was not a single, isolated, or random phenomenon. Rather, it was the norm, as was this disturbingly frivolous attitude toward one's physical surroundings.

As soon as I got back from my hometown, I decided to do something. I brought together seven like-minded friends from my school and we started working on the problem. We selected six typical villages around Jiangsu as our field research targets and carefully designed our research parameters. I divided our group into three teams, each responsible for two villages, and we spent three weeks visiting, observing, researching and recording. We received several gruesome photos of the pollution and interviewed local residents and government officials, focusing on finding information and documentation about plastic and other everyday pollution, deforestation and river pollution.

We spent two weeks integrating the information we gathered and writing a proposal detailing the city's current pollution problem using proxy data and photographic evidence. We also analyzed the likely causes and expressed our belief that the rapid economic development of rural areas, unaccompanied by increased public environmental awareness, was a major contributor to the problem. Therefore, the proposal we submitted to the Government Council email address focused on getting the local government authorities to publicize the issue. We made numerous additional recommendations for other actions that could be taken, including limiting the use of plastic, investing in more advanced waste delivery and disposal systems, increasing penalties for logging, and introducing a severe fines system to stop pollution to prevent rivers.

We were unsure if the government would immediately see the value of our proposal or if all of their proposals would be viable at this point. Most importantly, we became aware of this issue, brought it to your attention, and did what we could to help. We will not give up our efforts until the Chinese villages are on the way to becoming again the pure pastoral communities of my childhood.

Personal statement 20

Accepted at: UPenn, Dartmouth, Columbia, Cornell, Brown

Metallic sound!

The dumbbells hit the floor. When I turned around, I saw Moka lying on the bench with her arms hanging down.

"How was that? Good, huh?"

Moka looked at me panting.

"It's good if you feel the pain," I tell him. It's proof that you're alive.

"Then I've never been so 'alive'," Moka replied.

It's been a few weeks since I first dragged Moka to workout with me. Everyone at school is surprised when Moka, the stereotypical computer genius and anti-social librarian, joins the academy.

It all started with a random discussion about a math problem. Moka explained the solution that nobody else had thought of.

“If the thought process can be likened to a tree, each branch will grow when a certain assumption is made. You may think you've listed all possible situations and if you don't find a viable solution, give up. But you don't care." You realize your initial assumptions were wrong, then you've landed on a limb with no solution."

"Interesting perspective," I told him.

"When you're dealing with things like that all day, you have to try to make sense of it."

"Do you ever get tired of solving theoretical puzzles?"

"Sometimes. But it's not like I have anything better to do."

“Like you just said, if you stick to what you are comfortable with, your life will never change. You may think you've tried everything, but you're wondering why things are going normally. Maybe you can try things from outside the industry. previous".

Something about it must have resonated with her, because the next day, after class, Moka found me in the gym. Watching her sweat it out on the elliptical trainer, I realized she was an exception and her willingness to do so was a welcome surprise. The only others in the gym were athletes; I've noticed that those who benefit most from exercise are those who resist it the most. They think the gym is just a niche for athletes, a place where they don't belong. Inspired by Moka, I decided that more students should use the gym.

So I signed up to be a gym leader and had the opportunity to talk about my personal fitness journey throughout the series. I have organized weekly workouts for girls where I teach Pilates or Spinning classes for 40 minutes at lunchtime; Even if there is a newcomer to the gym, I make sure they know how to use all the equipment properly. My efforts have resulted in the gym being less intimidating for my colleagues, and I'm proud to say that the number of people who come to the gym during my shifts as a gym manager has increased significantly.

In particular, I've focused on encouraging more girls to join the gym, as gym girls are a rare breed, typically only found in the aerobics field, and avoid heavy lifting like weights are the plague. They believe that they are inherently weak, and this self-fulfilling prophecy is difficult to correct. Having been there, I know that the best way to overcome fear couldn't be simpler: (sorry for the cliché) just take one step at a time. Another problem with girls is that many try to 'shorten' their weight loss with eating disorders, which are prevalent in Asia, especially among adolescent girls. To convince girls to exercise in a healthy way, I devoured psychology and exercise science books, reminding them that there is no substitute for time and effort if you want to have a better body.

My personal impact may be small, with a limited number of people to speak to and limited gym capacity, but the changes have left me feeling warm and fuzzy. My mission is not only to develop gym rats, but above all to build muscle and character and to help the other mochas in the world "feel alive".

Personal statement 21

Recorded in: UPenn, Cornell, Brown

the introduction

The first time I sat in an Indian restaurant, I straightened my imaginary mustache and tapped the cream-colored paper with the tip of my fountain pen. I mentally prepared myself to document the first thing that came to mind.

"May I take your order, ma'am?" The cool restaurateur with a royal mustache kindly took me back to my food review dreamland.

"Uh... yes... I'll take the..."

I scrolled through the menu before I found a letter combination that made sense. "... fish head with curry," I finally said to myself.

Little did I know at the time that this dish was simply a Singaporean adaptation of an Indian dish, but who cares? It sounded exotic and exciting to this scruffy foodie.

However, when the food arrived, the smell of spices and "Pantone" overwhelmed the myofactorial senses. Cauliflower, cabbage, aubergines, beans and fish were mixed together in a monochrome soup.

Coldplay, "they are allllll yellowooow" came to mind and I laughed.

My initial fears were quickly dispelled. After all, nothing could be worse than that meaty aloe vera soup I ate when I was ten. With renewed courage I took a porridge from the soup.

I opened my mouth and closed my eyes, preparing for the worst. I finally understood what "spicy" means. After a brief dizzy spell that made me want to pass out and cry at the same time, I began to notice the base notes of various spices. And then a slight euphoria began to spread through my body. “The endorphin effect of chili in soup,” meticulous neuroscientists would say. I don't need explanations. At that fateful meal, I fell head over heels in love with Indian food and spices.

As I pushed the empty plate away, I realized this was the love I had been searching for my entire life.

School

Despite this newfound love for spices, he was aware that life doesn't turn 180 degrees with just one decision. If I wanted more spiciness, I would have to start ordering spicier dishes alongside changing restaurants.

Joining the Mathematics Interest Group (MIG) was definitely that decision, which I found almost too risky. I was plagued by an inferiority complex among the Olympians in the club and almost wanted to give up, get back into my comfort zone, reduce the heat to moderate.

Then one day I noticed that the rickety MIG bulletin board was placed in the most awkward place in the school. The papers on the board waved like handkerchiefs in farewell and the letters disappeared, becoming Mth Interest Group. I suddenly understood why everyone had it.It's a kind of secret society.? Look at their faces every time I mentioned MIG.

To prepare for a new round of recruitment, the club advisor supported my defense of a "less modest" assignment, which was soon implemented. Beginning with a bulletin board I designed, more students began contributing work, ideas, and resources. Members like me who used to feel insignificant began to get more involved. I was happy to see the transformation from a "handkerchief collection" to a well organized and informative bulletin board.

During this process, I have come close to many MIG members, some of whom have remarkably different talents. It was during our "regular bulletin board meetings" that I finally learned

to double the Kawasaki Rose fill 35*35 Magic Square and play Dragons & Dungeons. That was a whole new heat for me: exhilarating and funny at the same time.

days from today

Now, sitting at the computer with the mouse on the "send" button, I'm gripped by a similar fear. I'm that hesitant girl at the Indian restaurant again, intimidated and fascinated by the uncertainty that "hot" carries within it. Well, this girl hasn't changed. I bite into any spice that life throws my way, confident that with a playful attitude and an open mind I can handle it.

Personal statement 22

Accepted at: (Cambridge, Oxford), Yale, Cornell, Columbia, UPenn, Brown

I was obsessed for weeks after hearing the song "Memory" in the Japanese film for the first time.to both(2008). The cello melody was so painful but powerful that I couldn't put it down. I already had many years of gaming experienceGuzheng, or Chinese sitar, but I asked my parents to let me take cello lessons. In the years since I've learned enough to play the song perfectly and it's one of my favorites. Every time I play it I can't help but think of the film that follows the life of a failed Japanese cellist who becomes anokanshi, a Japanese ritual undertaker. His struggles as someone working in this highly taboo field revealed to me the deep unease people face about death.

I recently had to face this discomfort myself. Last summer I attended Georgetown University for a summer medical degree. I vividly remember the day we did a human dissection.

The strong smell of formaldehyde filled the room and reminded me of the taste of salted fish. The other students went white with silence. I could hear my heartbeat and the clock ticking on the wall. A female corpse lay cold and rigid in an open bag on the table. Whirling feelings of respect and detachment mingled as my gloved hand touched the corpse. The skin was unexpectedly hard, the arms and thighs covered with brown spots. The right knee was injured with a deep wound. Her pink painted nails contrasted with a burn on her left hand.

I found myself shaking as I approached the table. I took a deep breath to calm myself and, following Teacher's instructions, began to explore the internal organs. I carefully opened the skin on the corpse's chest and removed the ribs. Its lungs were black in color and unusually small. I reached into her abdominal cavity and pulled out a long strand of firm fat to look at her dislocated abdomen. The organs didn't bother me, but I still felt uncomfortable. I took a break and went into meditation. The film taboo suddenly made sense; there was something too intimate about this experience. Somehow I invaded her privacy and revealed information that was never intended for me. His lungs and fat, his burn and leg wounds testified to his private life. I could see that he was on an unhealthy diet due to accumulated fat; I knew he smoked because his hand was burned; and he knew he was having trouble breathing because of his small chest cavity. However, as I continued with the dissection, I realized that his life must have more meaning than these health issues.

What do we know about a person after death? We can see from her body whether she was healthy or sick, injured or not. But the important things in a person's life are rarely visible. As I played with his organs, my mind meditated on the melody of "Memory" like a mantra. Every time I play this piece I discover something new in the music. After his death, the music ends. But that doesn't bother me because it obviously stops before that: I take my bow off the strings and the room goes quiet.

However, what I do in my life can never be taken away from me, no matter what happens to my body posthumously. The meaning I give to my life is mine, as the existentialists claimed. I cultivate the meaning of my life today and every day. I can make it beautiful or ugly depending on what I'm doing and the choices I'm making at different stages of my life. Silence is inevitable, but I don't feel powerless to play. The important thing is that the music has already been made.

Personal statement 23

Accepted in: (Cambridge), Princeton, Yale, Columbia, UPenn

A long, high-pitched whistle wakes me up. As the other shrill tones, the harsh screams of stern officers, and the loud thud of boots in unison precede my alarm clock, I jump up and begin mechanically making my bed. After compulsively folding the sheets and smoothing out the comforter, I sit on the windowsill and survey the scene below.

Hundreds of uniformed soldiers stand in perfect ranks. Back straight, eyes forward, expression stoic, legs bobbing up and down like severed limbs. After morning processions, these soldiers walk eight miles, honing combat skills and weapons, and performing a variety of menial tasks like scrubbing the barracks before being served a monochromatic lunch of rice and noodles.

Observing these soldiers on a daily basis has instilled in me a disdain for rules and routine. I felt sorry for them because they had to eat the same tasteless meals. Perhaps they were lucky they only had four minutes to eat: their brains wouldn't have time to process the cruelty of their reality. He didn't understand why these men had to live in such poor conditions. What would happen if they never came home after a hypothetical war? Didn't they deserve at least some luxury now? The commanders' rules seemed arbitrary and inhuman.

Living in such an environment was suffocating but inevitable as my father is an army officer. Ever since I was little, he's disciplined me like a soldier. I called him "Sir" instead of "Dad," and the only three acceptable responses to a slip were, "Yes, sir; no sir; There is no excuse, sir. I was severely scolded for carelessly making the bed or bending over. I vowed to myself that when I was old enough, I would break free from the shackles of boring rules and write my own in their place.***

As soon as I got to the Dallas airport, I swallowed my first bite of freedom. I immediately felt lighter, like a floating balloon. Intoxicated by this new freedom, I began my journey in America.

I kept my word: as soon as I was seventeen, I went abroad to study. My history teacher, Mr. Lorenzo, was passionate about teaching us through stories. This new teaching method fascinated me, but I wasn't ready for it yet. The gentleman. Lorenzo did not provide students with study material packages like Chinese teachers do; Instead, he just made a few dots on each slide and said it was our responsibility to do the readings assigned. Since he never "ordered" us to take notes, I didn't feel triumphant as I sat back while my classmates doodled.

Unexpectedly, I failed my first exam. I lay in bed that night and thought:Do I just have to do what my teacher says, or do I need self-discipline?I remembered the soldiers marching under the scorching sun. They needed discipline to be willing to fight for their country. Blessed with a newfound freedom, I had to impose my own limitations to fight for future opportunity.

I then adjusted my settings. I rejected the idea that "rules are made to be broken" and realized that maybe they exist for legitimate reasons. In class I became my strictest officer. I started recording each class, which I later transcribed. I did all the assigned reading, even if there was no homework. I angrily made notes, no longer indifferent. As expected, my grades skyrocketed.

This experience taught me that my recent understandings of rules were naïve. Even if I haven't come to terms with all of society's rules, I still respect them. I have also created my own codes of conduct and ethics that I live by. By following my own rules and those of society, I can become the young woman I want to be.

Personal statement 24

Accepted in: Yale, Dartmouth, Cornell, UPenn, Brown

The sacred ceremony continued. Our choir director put the tuning fork, an acoustic resonator used to determine intonation, in her bow. The fork was the crown of impeccable technique and skill that only the most experienced artist could have. Consumed by the desire to hold that fork, I meticulously practiced my scales and melodies. Under the guidance of our teacher, after carefully researching the lyrics and historical background, I colored my songs with the imagination of sensual details. My hard work has paid off. While I'm singing a yi balladthe spring comes, I could understand how a young woman dressed in lime green had to approach and dance in front of me. I never had the honor of holding the tuning fork during our performance at the Cincinnati Competition, despite my satisfaction with the music I created with impeccable technique and artificial imagery.

After the competition we started our American tour with spectatorsThe Phantom of the Opera. Sitting in the back row with no glasses and limited understanding of the dialogue and content, I lost myself as the plot unfolded. However, I magically understood what they were singing: I knew what their mood was and what they were trying to express. There is a sudden silence in the show-within-the-show scene where Christine suddenly removes Phantom's robes and reveals the silver mask on his face. This deafening silence was the prelude to a storm of emotional outbursts. A second later, Phantom slowly, wistfully, but beautifully began to sing in such an emotional and sad voice. Something rumbled inside me as my heart ached and my eyes involuntarily watered. When I left the theater I couldn't make up my mind. Out of the confusion arose a question:Why was she on the verge of crying when she couldn't follow Phantom's words?

Two years later I found my answer when our choir traveled to Latvia for the 8th World ChoirGame. By becoming my deputy minister, I was finally able to put the tuning fork in my hair. When they sang again, the mood changed significantly. In competition we singthe whooping crane, the text of which is derived from a classical Chinese poem. Feeling the responsibility that the tuning fork entailed, I carefully collected all the images and historical background in my repertoire and memorized the most "emotional" version. But perhaps due to over-preparation or the weight of the fretboard, my head went blank and my finely projected images disappeared as I played.

My confusion lasted until the high-pitched sound and clear voice floated slightly from the ground into the stadium, and as it neared its climax, four departments clearly praised, "The whooping crane, please lend me your wings, it would not go to remote places travel but it would stay in Litang for a while and would go back. At that moment, a scene spontaneously arose. I felt like I was under a cloudy and foggy sky, riding the huge sacred bird and flying toward the blinding light. The heron constantly flapped its huge wings, as if each vibration created a strong wind. My eyes watered and I was shocked again by this unprecedented experience.Why did I move?

In thinking, I found the answer to this question and to the one posed through observationThe Phantom of the Opera. Emotion, the source of music, is not created; instead it creates itself. The music spontaneously overflows. It transcends the limits of language, reason, logic and intended human effort. All I have to do is give it wide scope and that will take me to the heart of every audience and connect humanity through a spiritual community. This musical journey also reminded me that despite our increasing emphasis on numbers and rationality, it is emotions that allow us to better understand ourselves and this world.

Personal statement 25

Accepted in: Dartmouth, UPenn, Columbia, Brown

“Join the school choir – it strengthens your team spirit;

Learn to dance folklore: cultivate your femininity;

Study Abroad: You're More Likely to Find a Lucrative Job..."

Growing up, I was bombarded with incessant lectures about what I should become and forced onto paths by my parents' expectations. I often felt frustrated and disoriented; I felt my fate was predetermined and I was determined to escape it. The two-dimensional animated world has long been my safe haven: Miku Hatsune sings and dances perfectly for her millions of fans with entrancing emotions; Homura Akime uses her magical powers to fight crime to save the world she loves; Victorica buries her head in books by day and moonlight as a crime-fighting assistant. Impressed by their clothing, skills and adventures, I fell in love with cosplay, the act of forging exciting new identities for myself.

As I searched online for beautiful costumes, designing accessories and wearing colorful wigs, I started to let my wildest imagination run wild: Miku always wears short skirts and elegant tops; Homura wields a sharp sword and a magic diamond in battle; Victoria dresses like an old-fashioned doll in costumes and hats and always carries heavy books. I soon found these cute and happy teenage characters to be hugely popular as every post of my cosplay photos received tons of likes on social media. Drunk with praise, I clung to the belief that cosplay had become my new identity.

However, my self-esteem in cosplay was soon questioned when an experienced cosplayer asked me a simple question. "What's your favorite character that you've dressed up in?"

Despite being a self-proclaimed cosplay fan, I was surprised when my head went blank. I had cosplayed most of the characters just because they were cool and popular and because so many likes appeared on my personal page. Even in my safe haven, all I did was in 3D reality: fulfilling other people's expectations and becoming what they wanted me to be.

This time, however, I decided not to run away. I started looking for a character I loved and finally found Reborn. Playing this character was an unprecedented challenge: Reborn was a male character to begin with, which meant I had to disguise myself; And like his favorite chameleon, he constantly shifted his image: one moment a cold mob leader, the next reduced to a cute, innocent, high-pitched boy. Strutting around in a man's suit, sporting the cruellest smile one moment and the cutest laugh the next, I didn't feel at all uncomfortable, more like empowered. The magic of cosplay lies not in pleasing people's eyes, but in the ceaseless exploration of identities that sometimes cannot be precisely defined. And perhaps indefinability is the best definition of an identity that gives you unlimited possibilities to explore, imagine and transform. And now even all those teenage characters from my earlier adventure made sense: they were part of my journey to discovering a true self.

In retrospect, I view any effort to find one's identity, whether in real life or in the animated world, as an act of cosplay. Sometimes we wear clothes of our own choice and sometimes because of the expectation of others. But in both situations we are on the path of self-exploration: I surrender to the resonances I create with my group members when I sing in a choir; I marvel at the artistic expression through body language while dancing folklore. By fulfilling the expectations of others, I also create limitless possibilities for my own identity. And looking further afield, I aspire to see what other characters I will cosplay when I first set foot in the United States.

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