01亞裔? Bobby

ESSAY正文

Bol white rafters ran overhea,bearing upon their great iron shoulers the weight of the skylight above. Late evening rays streame through these sprawling glass panes,casting a gentle glow upon all that they grace—paper an canvases an paintbrushes alike. As ay became night,the soft luminescence of the art stuio gave way to a fluorescent glare,efining the clean rectilinear lines of Dillon Art Center against the encroaching arkness. It was a stuio like no other. Moern. Sophisticate. Professional.

An it was clean an white an nice.

But it just wasn’t it.

Because to me,there was only one &lquo;it,&rquo; an &lquo;it&rquo; was a little less than two thousan miles west,an unassuming little office builing locate amist a cluster of similarly unassuming little office builings,istinguishable from one another on the outsie only by the ruste numbers naile to each oor. Insie,crue photocopies of stuents’ artwork plastere the once white walls. Those few openings in between the tapestry of art were otte with grubby little hanprints,repurpose by some overzealous young artist as another surface for creative expression. In the mile of the room lay two long tables,each covere with newspaper,upon which were scattere rie-up markers an lost erasers an bins of unwante colore pencils. These were for the younger chilren. The oler artists—myself inclue—sat aroun these tables with easels,in whatever space the limite confines of the stuio allowe. The instructor sometimes talke,an we sometimes listene. Most of the time,though,it was just us—chilren,rawing an talking an laughing an sweating in the cluttere an overheate mess of an art stuio.

No,it was not so clean an not so white an not so nice. But I have rawn—rather,live—in this stuio for most of my past ten years. I suppose this is strange,as the rest of my life can best be characterize by everything the stuio is not: cleanliness an orer an structure. But then again,the stuio was like nothing else in my life,beyon anything in which I’ve ever felt comfortable or at ease.

Sure,I was frustrate at first. My carefully compose sketchbooks—the proportions just right,the contrast perfecte,the whiteness of the backgroun meticulously preserve—were often marre by the frenzie strokes of my instructor’s charcoal as he trie to teach me not to raw accurately,but passionately. I hate it. But thus was the funamental gap in my artistic unerstaning—the ifference between the surface realities that I wante to epict,an the profoun though elusive truths of the human conition that art coul explore. It was the ifference between rawing a man’s face an using abstraction to explore his soul.

An I can’t tell you exactly when or why my attitue change,but eventually my own lines began to unabashely isregar the rules of epth or tonality to which I ha once utifully ahere,my fervor leaving in its wake black fingerprints an smuges where once ha existe unsoile whiteness. It was in this stuio that I eventually mae the leap into a new realm of art—a realm in which I was neither experience nor comfortable. Apart from surface manifestations altogether,this realm was simultaneously one of austere simplicity an aesthetic intricacy,of eparture from realism an immersion in reality,of intense emotion an uninhibite expression. It was the realm of lines that coul tell stories,of colors an figures that meant nothing an everything.

Inee,it was the realm of isorer an messy stuios an true art—a place where I coul express the worl like I saw it,in colors an strokes unrestraine by expectations or rules; a place where I coul fin refuge in the contours of my own chaotic lines; a place that was neither beautiful nor ieal,but real.

No,it was not so clean an not so white an not so nice.

But then again,neither is art.

點評：文章最突出的是意象組合，運用“Late evening rays …casting a gentle glow”，“the soft luminescence of the art stuio…a fluorescent glare”將讀者迅速帶入作品，立馬領會文章主題：藝術。這篇文章最吸引人的地方在于它是一個成長的故事，記錄了Bobby從孩童到青少年的成長，藝術創(chuàng)作也從有序、淺顯走向抽象、深刻。

02保加利亞的? ?Jessica

ESSAY正文

As a chil raise on two continents,my life has been efine by the “What if…?” question. What if I ha actually been born in the Unite States? What if my parents ha not won that Green car? What if we ha staye in the USA an ha not come back to Bulgaria? These are the questions whose answers I will never know (unless,of course,they invent a time machine by 2050).

“Born in Bulgaria,live in California,currently lives in Bulgaria” is what I always write in the about Me section of an Internet profile. Hien behin that short statement is my journey of iscovering where I belong.

My parents move to the Unite States when I was two years ol. For the next four years it was my home country. I was an American. I fell in love with Dr. Seuss books an the PBS Kis TV channel,Twizzlers an pepperoni,Halloweens an Thanksgivings the yellow school bus an the “Goo job!” stickers.

It took just one ay for all of that to isappear. When my mother sai “We are moving back to Bulgaria,” I naively aske,“Is that a town or a state?”

Twenty hours later I was staning in the mile of an empty room,which itself was in the mile of an unknown country.

It was then that the “what if” — my newly imagine aversary—mae its first appearance. It began to follow me on my way to school. It sat right behin me in class. No matter what I was oing,I coul sense its ubiquitous presence.

The “what if” slowly took its time over the years. Just when it seeme to have fae away,it reappeare resuming its tormenting influence on me—a constant reminer of all that coul have been. What if I ha won that national competition in the Unite States? What if I joine a Floria tennis club? What if I became a part of an American non-governmental organization? Woul I value my achievements more if I ha continue riing that yellow school bus every morning?

But something—at first unforeseen an vastly unappreciate—graually worke its way into my heart an min loosening the tight grip of the “what if”—Bulgaria. I reiscovere my home country—hours spent in the library reaing about Bulgaria’s history spreaing over fourteen centuries,ays reaing books an comparing the Glagolitic an Cyrillic scripts,years traveling to some of the most remote corners of my country. It was a cathartic experience an with it finally came the iscovery an acceptance of who I am.

I no longer feel the nee to ecie where I belong. I am like a football fan that roots for both teams uring the game. (If John Isner ever plays a tennis match against Grigor Dimitrov,I will efinitely be like that fan.) Bulgaria an the USA are not mutually exclusive. Instea,they complement each other in me,whether it be through incorporating English wors in my aily speech,eating my American pancakes with Bulgarian white brine cheese,or still having ifficulty communicating through gestures (we Bulgarians are notoriously famous for shaking our heas sie to sie when we mean “yes” an noing to mean “no).

As a chil raise on two continents,my life will be efine by the “What…?” question. What have Bulgaria an the USA given me? What can I give them back? What oes the future hol for me? This time,I will not nee a time machine to fin the answers I am seeking.

點評：美國 VS 保加利亞，學者 VS 網球運動員……Jessica闡述了自己關于“身份認同”的心理變化，這是一篇“將潛在困難轉變?yōu)榉e極因素”的典型大學Essay，面對生活中的“what if假設”，從起初的懊惱，到后面的轉變心態(tài)，用“重新發(fā)現”來積極應對。

03亞裔? ?Phillip

ESSAY正文

The summer after my freshman year,I foun myself in an ol classroom holing a blue ry erase-marker,realizing what shoul have been obvious: I ha no iea how to be a teacher. As an active speech an ebate competitor,I was chosen as a volunteer instructor for an elementary public speaking camp hoste by my high school. For the first time,I woul have the opportunity to experience the classroom from the other sie of the teacher’s esk. My responsibility was simple: in two weeks,take sixteen fifth graers an turn them into confient,persuasive speakers.

I walke into class the first morning,enthusiastically looking forwar to the opportunity to share my knowlege,experiences,an stories. I was hoping for motivate kis,eager to learn,attentive to my every wor.

I was on the other sie of the teacher’s esk,but I han’t stoppe learning. Each ay,I was learning how to communicate more effectively,how to eal with new challenges an circumstances,an how to be a better teacher. I once thought that being an ault meant knowing all the answers. But in reality,aults,even teachers,constantly have more to learn. I mae the transition away from being a chil uring those weeks,but I i not an woul not transition away from being a learner.

When class ene each afternoon,I woul cap my blue ry-erase marker,give high-fives to the stuents as they walke out the oor,an watch as their parents picke them up. I was confient that when my stuents were aske the inevitable questions of “Di you learn something toay?” an “Di you have fun?” their answers woul be a resouning yes. An even as their teacher,I learne an ha fun too.

Instea,I got Spencer,who thought class was a goo time to train his basketball skills by tossing crumple speeches into the trash can from afar. I got Monica,who refuse to speak,an I got James,who in’t unerstan the ifference between “voice projection” an “screaming.” I got Lonon,who enjoye ooling on her esk with permanent marker,an I got Arnav,who thought I wouln’t notice him playing Angry Birs all ay. The only questions I got were “When’s lunch break?” an “Why are you giving us homework?” an the only time I got my stuents to raise their hans was when I aske “How many of you are only here because your parents force you to?”

Just ten minutes into class,two things hit me: Spencer’s crumple paper ball,an the realization that teaching was har.

When I was younger,I thought that a goo teacher was one that gave high-fives after class. Later,of course,I knew it was far more complicate than that. I thought about teachers I amire an their memorable qualities. They were knowlegeable,enthusiastic,an inspiring. Their classes were always fun,an they always taught me something.

There was plenty I wante to teach,from metaphors to logical fallacies. But most importantly,I wante my stuents to enjoy public speaking,to love giving speeches as much as I i. An that’s when I realize the most important quality of my favorite teachers: passion. They love their subject an passe that love on to their stuents. While it wouln’t be easy,I wante to o the same.

Every ay for two weeks,I searche for creative ways to inspire an teach my stuents. I helpe Lonon speak on her love for art; I ha Arnav ebate about cell phone policies in schools. An by the en of the camp,I realize that my sixteen stuents all saw me not as a high school stuent,but as a teacher. I took their questions,share my enthusiasm,an by the time camp was over,they weren’t just learning,but enjoying learning.

點評：這篇essay主題是經過慎重考慮的：作者沒有用華麗的功績讓我們眼花繚亂，也沒想著炫耀取得成就的廣度和深度。相反，選擇了一個簡單的小故事，依靠在公共演講訓練營與孩子們一起工作的經歷，突顯個人成長。此外，Phillip的文章自信且清晰，他是在講故事，而不是炫耀吹牛。

04亞裔? ?Cha

ESSAY正文

The man was a proigy. He ha performe for American presients an even the Queen of Englan,every moment ocumente with autographe photos hanging in his guest bathroom. Even with a stature of 5 feet an change,his presence towere above me unforgivingly. His skeptical eye stare own at me as I struggle to balance my mom’s iPhone on its makeshift tripo. A month earlier,the Pasaena Symphony-Pops ha commissione me to create a vieo featuring its ebuting conuctor,Michael Feinstein.

Now,the five-time Grammy nominee hunkere own on his piano bench,impatiently waiting for my comman. With no professional equipment an little preparation beforehan,I ha thrown together whatever I coul fin. A ay before,I ha taken pliers to ben a coat-hanger into a holer for the purple-case iPhone 4. I even use a block of Post-Its to prop up a secon-han GoPro for another camera angle. Fumbling about,I felt like a chil looking esperately for irection,almost expecting an ault to han me a checklist—complete with the right questions to ask,irections to give,an instructions to complete. But I was on my own now. My “wing-it” approach to the shoot quickly became obvious,an Feinstein’s skeptical reception grew into conescension as I stumble painfully through the interview. The filming ene,an heavy oors swung shut behin the mansion as I was escorte out.

I ha blown it. Acaemic rubrics an guielines were straightforwar—but here,being a straight-A stuent in the classroom hel little value. For the first time,the Feinstein project ha given me the opportunity to conuct my own show—but I ha arrive without a baton. The MacGyver camera rigging wasn’t the flaw; in fact,I think I pulle off the creative contraption ecently well consiering my lack of better resources. The real failure was my complete lack of preparation an absence of confient leaership. Yes,it woul’ve been easy to write off Feinstein as arrogant—he certainly in’t serve me a generous helping of grace. He ha envisione a irector with a camera crew—I was a 16-year-ol amateur with my mom’s iPhone. But looking back,I realize that Feinstein ha given me a valuable gift: expecting more from me than what I expecte from myself. Di I want to just be the teenager with a camera phone? The interview with Feinstein was humiliating,but the experience force me to ecie if I wante to be that irector with his own camera crew.

I took action. As part of the commission,I ha alreay negotiate for the PSA to pay for professional eiting software,Final Cut Pro X an Motion 5. I ha a vision of what I wante,but I also ha no iea how to use these programs to get there—I was just an amateur with no film experience beyon the occasional school project with iMovie. I ove hea-first into eiting,etermine to not let my inexperience stop me. The process was brutal—I spent countless hours reaing online manuals to solve frequent problems. But every frustration fuele etermination. Over the course of 80 working hours,the vieo progresse from a barebones slieshow of images to a multi-facete film with customize titles an transition animations. The complete prouction,though far from a masterpiece,gave me a sense of accomplishment knowing that my initial failure propelle me to work beyon my expectations an fulfill my own vision.

I was reay. Stepping back one last time to watch the finishe vieo with my Pasaena Symphony-Pops clients,I no longer felt like the lost boy in the Feinstein mansion. An amist the excitement an congratulations aroun me,I wishe Michael woul have been there too—to thank him for helping me set asie the iPhone an coat hanger,take the baton,an conuct my own show.

05亞裔? ?Emily

ESSAY正文

Clear,hopeful meloies break the silence of the night.

Playing a cruely fashione bamboo pipe,in the mist of sullen inmates—this is how I envision my granfather. Never giving up hope,he playe every evening to replace images of blooshe with memories of love ones at home. While my granfather escribes the horrors of his experience in a force labor camp uring the Cultural Revolution,I coul only grasp at fragments to comprehen the story of his struggle.

I flounere in this gulf of cultural isparity.

As a chil,visiting China each summer was a time of happiness,but it was also a time of frustration an alienation. Running up to my granpa,I racke my brain to recall phrases supposely ingraine from Saturay morning Chinese classes. Other than my initial greeting of “Ni hao,ye ye!” (“Hello,granpa”),however,I struggle to form coherent sentences. Unsatisfie,I woul scamper away to fin his battere bamboo flute,an this time,with my eyes,silently beg him to play.

Although I struggle to communicate clearly through Chinese,in these moments,no wors were necessary. I cherishe this connection—a relationship built upon flowing meloies rather than broken phrases. After each impromptu concert,he carefully guie my fingers along the smooth,worn boy of the flute,clapping after I successfully playe my first tentative note. At the time,however,I was unaware of that through sharing music,we create language of emotion,a language that spanne the gulf of cultural ifferences. Through these lessons,I iscovere an inherent inclination towar music an a rive to unerstan this universal language of expression.

Years later,staring at sheets of music in front of me at the en of a long rehearsal,I saw a jumble mess of black ots. After playing through “An American Elegy” several times,unable to infuse emotion into its reverent meloies that celebrate the lives lost at Columbine,we—the All-State Ban—were stoppe yet again by our conuctor Dr. Nicholson. He irecte us to focus solely on the climax of the piece,the Columbine Alma Mater. He urge us to think of home,to think of hope,to think of what it meant to be American,an to fill the measures with these memories. When we playe the song again,this time imbue with recollections of times when hope was necessary,“An American Elegy” became more than notes on a page; it evolve into a tapestry woven from the threa of our life stories.

The night of the concert,in the lyrical harmonies of the climax,I envisione my granfather,exhauste after a long ay of labor,instilling hope in the hearts of others through his bamboo flute. He playe his own “elegy” to celebrate the lives of those who ha passe. At home that night,no wors were necessary when I playe the alma mater for my granfather through the vieo call. As I saw him wiping tears,I smile in relief as I realize through music I coul finally express the previously inexpressible. Remine of warm summer nights,the roles now reverse,I unerstoo the lingual barrier as a blessing in isguise,allowing us to iscover our own language.

Music became a brige,spanning the gulf between my granfather an me,an it taught me that communication coul exten beyon spoken language. Through our relationship,I learne that to unerstan someone is not only to hear the wors that they say,but also to empathize an feel as they o. With this realization,I search for methos of communication not only through spoken interaction,but also through share experiences,whether they might involve the creation of music,the heat of competition,or simply laughter an joy,to cultivate stronger,more fulfilling relationships. Through this approach,I strive to become a more empathetic frien,stuent,an granaughter as fining a common language has become,for me,a challenge—an invitation—to iscover eeper connections.

被公布的Powerful essay，沒有華麗辭藻，但每篇都做到了一點：“show who you are beyon your resume”——具體來說就是“你的重點是什么，生活中你想要做什么，什么事成就了現在的你，現在你為什么想做這件事“。

因為，招生官知道你上的什么學校，參加過什么俱樂部，經歷過什么職業(yè)，但是他們不知道這些經歷如何影響和造就了你，所以你就是要告訴他們這些，這就是essay的意義。

【微語】愿你的留學之旅充實而愉快，每一刻都充滿收獲和成長。