Undergraduate / An artist's hands - UC Essay [17]

This is my first draft to the UC prompt:

Tell us about a personal quality, talent, accomplishment, contribution or experience that is important to you. What about this quality or accomplishment makes you proud and how does it relate to the person you are?

It's a little bit too long, and some parts aren't as clear as I want it. Edit please :DDD

My harp teacher always said that my hands don't look like a musician's hands. They are callused, decorated with cuts and bruises that never seem to fade, and sporting a pinky that has been swollen since 2007. During weekly lessons, she would always cluck disapprovingly and shake her head

"These aren't an artist's fingers, it doesn't look like music should flow from them"
I didn't tell her until after I quit that I've agreed with her all these years.

I'm no masochist, but I am proud my misshapen pinky and cuts that mark who I am - a Color Guard member. Since Sophomore year, I have spent every free minute spinning singles on my flags, triples on my rifle, and quads on my sabre. It's amusing to see people's expression when they see my equipment, run their fingers along the smooth silk and gasp at the weight of the weapons. You actually toss these things?

But between weekly 17 hour Guard practices, harp lessons, as well as other extracurricular activities, I became physically and mentally exhausted. The busier I got, the more my teacher and parents began pushing me to quit Guard, that it was just a hobby while harp could become a career, and my peers didn't help either. Each week, I and would hear a colorful range of insults from the passing cars that throw Slurpees and coke bottles at my team. At practice, I would jam my fingers with my rifle or nearly faint from a metal pole ramming into my head, but the thing that frustrated me most was that all this pain seemed for nothing. I worked and bled week after week, and for what? Another soda can lodged into my hair? And let's face it, no one's ever even heard of Guard.

At least with harp, there was some respect. When I play, my neighbors literally stop what they're doing and listen to the notes floating out my kitchen window. I've heard complete strangers outside my house clap when I finish the last note, commenting on the painted golden leaves and velvet covered pedals through the window.

It seemed as if the world had already made and confirmed my decision for me, but the more I truly thought about it by myself, the more I disagreed with everyone. I realized how out of place and lonely I felt whenever I played the music that never seemed to reach past my ears, rough fingers plucking the strings - the way for five years I've hated my teacher's sharp voice and the recital audiences that demanded perfection. I love the way, after eight hours of Guard on Saturdays, my entire body would feel sore but I felt strong and accomplished, breathless in a good way. On the harp, I was always playing for others, but Guard was something that I did for myself, that didn't require other's compliments or approval to make me feel beautiful. During competitions, I would repeat my routines in my head - chase, leap, shunei turn. Set the rifle, toss it up, watch it turn four times, then catch firmly. But not once did I have to remind myself to smile, that I felt right in my own skin

For five years, I've been letting others tell me what is best and good for me, and the day I finally began to think for myself was the day that I quit harp. I told my teacher that I agreed, music wasn't meant for my fingers. On the field, with a flag or rifle rising or falling in my hands, I wanted to tell her that I do have an artist's hands. They were just meant for a different type of art.

Undergraduate / Thanksgiving night; UC Prompt #1 - Traditions [7]

Describe the world you come from ï for example, your family, community or school ï and tell us how your world has shaped your dreams and aspirations.

I would really try to cut it shorter. Also, I'm not sure if I talk too much in the beginning and not enough about my actual dreams and aspirations. All criticism and edits are welcomed :D thank you!!

I was at a friend's house one thanksgiving when she introduced me to the turkey. And not much later, I was introduced to the wishbone. I had eaten turkey before, but usually in thin strips of circles, and was baffled by this monstrous sight before me, as my own family never celebrated Thanksgiving. The traditions of her family fascinated me, the meal was delicious, and afterwards, she handed me a thin piece of bone in the shape of a V, explaining that whoever got the longer end when we pulled would get a wish granted. I laughed at her words, and told her that I longed for traditions of turkeys and cranberry sauce, of family songs and traditions. She smiled and handed me an end of the bone. We pulled.

It's been seven years since that Thanksgiving night, yet it still shines vividly in my mind because it was one of the few times I took part in a tradition. Growing up as the child of immigrants, I've always felt that the customs my parents grew up with as children were left behind with my family in Taiwan. Here, in America, it was too hard to find excitement in passing out red envelopes when the rest of the community was distributing Easter eggs. And though my face and my skin color define me as Taiwanese, nothing in the style of my life or the traditions that my family and I uphold reinforce that. I am Chinese, but I don't celebrate my country's new year. I have never placed a glowing candle inside a paper lantern, and I have never lit firecrackers. The closest thing I have to my culture is the yearly visits to Chinatown where I gaze at those cloth dragons and red symbols, wondering what it has to do with me.

But if I am not truly Chinese, I cannot call myself American either. On Easter, I used to sit on the front lawn and messily decorate eggs with only the help of three dollar do-it-yourself kits. Every Halloween, my house remains as bare as the other 364 nights, and every Christmas my father clumsily throws yellow lights onto the roof while I decorate the same faded plastic tree we've had since I was eight. An individual is defined by their actions, personality, and individuality, but I feel that a family is supposed to be defined by the traditions that hold us all together, the customs that I'm supposed to pass down to my children. But my hands are empty.

Though this lack culture drove me crazy as a child, it has indirectly affected both my interests and dreams. I am undeniably attracted to the customs of all cultures, documenting them in the words of my writing and the pictures in my albums each time I visit a festival or tour a foreign country. My desire to write and record comes from the desire to hold onto whatever custom I am lucky enough to witness, in hopes that I'll no longer be the child without an identity, but rather an individual rich with the traditions of the world around me. There is so much culture in every society, and I long to discover more. Every dream that I have of the future involve traveling, whether it be for photojournalism, to create a documentary for National Geographics, or just to be able to go of my own accord. It would be too much of a pity to stay in just one place when there's the rest of the world to discover.

Though my future is uncertain, I am sure that one day my dreams will be achieved, because seven years ago, I pulled apart a wishbone with my friend. And I got the longer end

Undergraduate / Brown "advice" essay - Pickle Time [4]

Hey everyone

So this is my essay for Brown's prompt "What is the best piece of advice you've ever been given, and why?"

The second half is REALLY iffy and off-the-top-of-my-head because it's so late, but I really just wanted to get this essay onto essayforum before I went to bed :) so thanks so much!! Also it's a bit long

And some questions I have
-Is the first sentence a fragment? (I have poor grammar)
-Is it too casual? I know that colleges tell you to write in your style and don't write it the way you think colleges want to hear, but I'm not sure if I went over the top

-do I not convey the "advice" aspect enough?
-The bottom 2/3 will definitely change, but for now, is it too preachy? I'm having a hard time writing what I think

Edits and criticisms are greatly appreciated!

Every once in a while, I become the perfect pessimist. I turn into the stereotypical moody teenager, that creature lurking in dark corners, the hunchback retreating into the solidarity of his bell tower. My face, my very posture and the slumped way I walk says "don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry." And so when that time comes, when blue skies seem gray and the cup is not only half empty, it's leaking from a gosh darn crack - that's when it's pickle time.

I began my pickle tradition last year after reading my favorite novel, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. When Frances Nolan, a young child living in poverty, grows weary and tired of her plain diet, she buys a pickle to chew on. After a day of nibbling and gnawing on the sour thing, she finds that her simple meals of stale bread and potatoes taste delicious once again.

I laughed when I first read that scene, dismissing it as child's play, and quickly forgot it as I continued on through the novel.

However, not long after, I found myself caught in that period of restlessness that I'm sure no one is a stranger to - when the world seems suffocating and daily routines go from monotonous to torturous. When a parent sets too high of expectations, when one feels trapped in their own home and all I could do as a mere teenager was lie on my bed and fume. And after I was finished fuming, I contemplated. That's when I surprisingly found myself thinking, I'm having a pickle day.

Before I knew it, I was sitting at a local coffee shop near my house, and in front of me was half a slice of pickle. It came with the sandwich I ordered, though this time I didn't immediately throw it away - I stared. For sixteen years, I've winced at the sight of them - the murky green colors, the sour smell of brine that drips through your fingers. I felt silly, taking advice from a child in a book. Nevertheless, I picked it up and took a bite, and it tasted as horrid as I feared, but for some reason I'm not sure of, I stayed and chewed slowly.

Because of course, this essay is not just about eating pickles - it's about what the pickle symbolizes. Everyone has those moments when life seems unfair. There's always someone with more money, more luxuries, better grades, fairer parents, happier days. For me at that time, it helps to have a pickle, something sour and unappealing to make remind me of how I must approach the world.

Of course, the slow process of eating is important, forcing me to take the time to simply sit and think. And when I do stop to contemplate, to lay out all the complexities in my life neatly and stop focusing on the little things, I think of my family. They push me because they have that pure, unfathomable trust in me called love. And how can I complain when I've never been hungry a day in my life, when I don't have to work throughout high school. I feel ashamed that I've been so ungrateful to my parents when in only a few months, I'm leaving them. Sometimes, it's the simplest statements that are the clearest. The sweetness of admitting that I have a good life against the sourness of the pickle.

When my mood begins to darken again, I know it's time to take an hour off to go the café.
Pickle day is indeed something to look forward to.

Undergraduate / 'Writing that haiku' - Pomona Supplement - Fun activity [6]

2.Although it may appear to the contrary, we do know that people have a life beyond what they do to get into college. Tell us about an experience you have had outside of your formal classroom and extracurricular activities that was just plain fun and why.

Yes. I rambled. I'm honestly not sure of what Pomona wants to get from me from this prompt, do they want an essay describing what I learned from the activity?

Edits and harsh criticisms welcomed

At two am, I and four friends packed our bags and set out towards our school, (school name). Our breaths mingled visibly in the air with each others, our hands wrapped tightly around fleece blankets, and we were so, so tired. I could barely make out the silhouette of our school as I marched along with the beat of my friend's footsteps, but soon we heard the steady pulse of music. My pace quickened ï we were close to school. I smiled, excited

Despite how it may look, we were not insane students. Today was Running of the Bulls, a fancy term coined up by our school administration that was basically a day where students lined up to change schedules or teachers. However, because of the fierce academic competitiveness of our school, students are willing to spend more than 12 hours waiting just to get to the front of the line, to ensure that they have the best teachers for the following school year. But for us seniors, it has evolved to more than just another stressful day. Don't think school event - think clubs, concerts. Think tailgate party.

As my group and I reached the gym, even I was a little bit shocked that there were already one hundred people lined up outside, and it wasn't even 2:30 yet. All around me, I could see people dancing to beats of Lady Gaga, Jay-Z, Beyonce, and other artists, music playing from five different stereos. Since the event doesn't officially start until nine am, the school wouldn't turn on the lights for us, which was not a problem. Flashlights beamed all around, illuminating the dark school and the faces of my peers. The smell of food filled my nose, as people had brought Chipotle, Mcdonalds, Beard Papas, In-n-out, even cereal ï it was almost like a buffet line as I searched for friends to trade the Pringles I had brought. People that weren't dancing were napping in sleeping bags, playing on laptops, battling with cards, even playing truth or dare. I was surprised and pleased with myself when I comfortably socialized with students I had never spoken before, for in the midst of the excitement I felt closer to my class. The future graduates of 2010, starting off the new school year with a bang.

Understand, (school name) is the exact opposite of a party school. We students pride ourselves in academics and education, so the event itself seemed unreal. It was one of the few events were our entire senior class was together, hanging out and just having a good time. Not a word of school was spoken, we all just wanted to relax before summer ended.

It felt like days had gone by. I had danced, eaten, slept for two hours while surrounded by the rest of my friends, yet when I woke up it was still only six am. Tired of the replaying music people yelling, an idea hit. I woke up my four friends around me, and said "let's go see the sunrise."

We asked somebody to hold our spots (we were not going to lose our 100th place in line after already waiting for over four hours), and made our way up the stairs of the gym building. We found a place that looked out above forests that lined around a never-ending stretch of mountain and stuck our feet through the fence to sit down. At that moment, when the light of the rising sun had begin to shone in the brightening sky, I had the chance to look at the face of my four peers, my teammates, my closest friends. Our love and trust in each other shown in our never-ending laughter, the memories that we've shared and the one we were making right now. It was lovelier than the party downstairs. One particularly silly friend started making up haikus, and with a simple pen, wrote it on a single brick on the wall

The sun is rising
we are freezing in our pants
running of the bulls

We roared with laughter. Writing that haiku, silly as it is and knowing that it would probably wash off with the next rain, it felt like for that moment, we belonged to (school name) and (school name)belonged to us. I held the hands of my friends as the sun rose over the mountains and spilled light onto the mountains. We had to go back down, but we vowed that on the last day of school, before graduation, we would come back to this exact same spot, write another haiku, and watch the sun set. A final goodbye to each other. A final goodbye to our school after four years.

Undergraduate / Reverie - NYU supplement - 2050 movie on your life [9]

I'm assuming that NYU doesn't neccasarily want a "factual" response

Reverie

2020: scientist Chun Ju Yao discovers Reverie - a drug that induced lucid dreams. People were told to close their eyes and sleep. Fall deeply and into whichever world they wished, for the drug allows complete control of the dream. Picture a memory. Think of a lover, a lost loved one, and your mind will create it. At first, people around the world roared with delight- then, the roaring stopped. No one was waking up anymore. Yao can create a drug to combat Reverie, but can she convince humans to choose reality over paradise?

Darn you character count! It's over by 35 characters. All suggestions, comments, and harsh criticisms are welcomed

Undergraduate / Common App - elaborate on one activity. Color Guard [5]

Is this ok ?

Color Guard is the sport that combines dance with the utilization of three different equipments - flags, rifles, and sabres. Don't think of a wimpy flag on a stick or a plastic sword - think six-foot metal pole attached to a large rectangle of silk. Imagine a dense piece of wood painted white that bruises and cuts more often that it is caught, think of a heavy, metal sword spinning six times above a dancer's head.

But guard is just as much about the performers and competitions as it is about the equipment. To understand Guard, you have to see it with your own eyes, see that rifle rising and falling with a dancer's breath and energy, see the group of flags whipping and carving through the air with such masked effort, see that sabre cut through the air as the audience holds their breaths. Beautiful.

In the extracirricular portion of commonapp, I already talked about things such as how many hours I spend on Guard and how long I've been a part of the team