Undergraduate / 'children's stories' - Describe an experience that you've had or a concept you ... [6]

"Describe an experience that you have had or a concept you have learned about that intellectually excites you. When answering this question, you may want to consider some of the following questions: Why does this topic excite you? How does it impact the way you or others experience the world? What questions do you continue to ponder about it?"

I have never understood children's stories.

During the summer, while Hurricane Irene was fooling people into panic, I was reading a children's book filled with many inspiring short stories, one of which includes "The Sunrise," written by W. E. Fishbaugh. The story portrays a very young boy, Paul, who witnesses his first sunrise, and his inability to convey his awestruck reaction to his newest encounter.

I wasn't surprised at why Paul is not able to explain his feelings, perhaps it's because his vocabulary bank does not yet possess all the adjectives and nouns essential to capture the subtle beauty of a sunrise.

I was surprised at how I cannot recall any instance that I was as stunned as this boy.

I believe I was young once. I am sure I have had many first-times in the past seventeen years of my life. But when was the last time I experienced such amazement that my tongue suddenly curled upon itself and refused to be of use?

The question has been gnawing at my mind ever since. My first guess is that perhaps I am an apathetic individual, but I remember how personally it hurt when a fictional character loses her dad in his battle with lung cancer. Then I drift off to the second conjecture that it is because I don't read enough, but my mother's constant reminder for me to "do something with my [beloved] library" falsifies this speculation also. I have a few theories after these two, but all ultimately prove themselves to be contradictions. The most likely hypothesis is that I am past my primetime to experience such blissful astonishment and awe.

That's no biggie, though.

If my hypothesis was true ― if I was indeed past my primetime ― there are still many opportunities in the future. I have the long-awaited college life; I have the life after college, perhaps graduate school, in order to experience at least one Paul's sunrise. I still have a long way ahead. It doesn't matter whether or not the journey is going to be rough or smooth, turbulent or tranquil ― the mere presence and possibility of it present to me much unimaginable potential and hopefulness.

I once dreamed of being a grown-up, yet now I cannot help but wonder: Why is that? Why are we in such a hurry to grow up? We know it's one of Life's inevitability, so why are we rushing for it? Instead, we should stop whatever we are doing for a moment, think of everything and everyone we have right now, appreciate them, and most importantly, treasure them.

So let us take a breather. Slowly and deeply. And try to remember our first sunrise.

Undergraduate / 'how to be alone without feeling lonely' - Evaluate a significant achievement, risk [2]

Prompt: Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you.

It was a very inconvenient night to be thirsty, since my trachea was occupied by a tube, I couldn't exactly drink. The best I could do was pressing a button to notify the nice-and-pretty nurse to let her know that I needed water. But she didn't come that night. My thirst became so unrelenting that I almost destroyed the protective bed railings by shaking them in a very wild fashion. Finally, another nice-and-pretty nurse came and tapped my lips with a Q-tip, soaked in the most delicious water I had ever tasted.

I was in a children's ICU. I don't remember much of the events that brought me there Everything I "know" is extrapolated from a classic story called "About That Time Irene Contracted Dengue Fever."

I don't remember much of the trip we took to Yangon, Myanmar, my parents' birth country.
I don't remember being stung by a deadly mosquito.
I don't remember much of my ride in the ambulance, rushing to Taipei Veteran's General Hospital.
I don't remember the needles and IV's in my arms and chest, either.

Despite all these details I can no longer recall ― reasonable since I was merely seven ― I can safely suppose that my disease and subsequent hospitalized days (and nights) taught me something vital to survival.

When I was younger, it seemed like almost everyone in the world was around me. There were my nanny, whom I spent the first five years of my life with, my kindergarten and elementary teachers, and my playmates. I was never left to my own devices.

This changed when I became hospitalized. My parents, in the few hours they could actually tear themselves away from work, brought me my favorite books and Disney movies, which certainly didn't fail to offer me entertainment during my bedridden days. After exhausting all the amusement that these movies could offer, I decided I was free to roam around the hospital. Well, now I don't think I was, for the nice-and-pretty nurse became quite livid when I attempted to play hide-and-seek with her.

I could've sought other children's company, but they were either sleeping or their parents were talking to them while they were sleeping, so I didn't dare to interrupt. Instead I chose to amuse myself, by looking at some chubby and smiling babies, or going to the cafeteria where I chatted with some exceedingly delightful lunch ladies, whom I believe offered me a lot of chocolate chip cookies.

I was quite a happy hospital-camper.

By the end of my hospitalized days, I learned how to be alone without feeling lonely, in other words, the value of solitude. Solitude served as a teacher and a masseuse for me ― it has not only taught me how to trust and think for myself, but also served as a mechanism for relaxation and rejuvenation. Now, ten years later, no longer incapacitated by a tracheal tube or being agonizingly thirsty, it is still a most treasured company and friend.

Undergraduate / The Wanting Child - character in fiction, historical figure - Common App Essay [2]

Prompt: Describe a character in fiction, a historical figure, or a creative work (as in art, music, science, etc.) that has had an influence on you, and explain that influence.

The Wanting Child by Irene Jo-Hsuan Sue

There is a particular hedgehog-shaped soap that I will never use in my life. Once in a while I would take it out, hold it to my nose, and remind myself of its scent, wondering what it would have meant if He hadn't gone away so early in my life. I wouldn't call the feeling I have about this subject remorse or regret, but honestly speaking, if He was still here, perhaps I would be able to understand these children's stories a lot better.

Among the many sections I like to visit every time I step into a bookstore, the area that contained the most picture books has never been rid of my curiosity. I often step into that haven, especially furnished to make it as cozy and safe as possible, filled with books after books that contained talking-whales and ladybugs. Several days ago I came across a short story, "The Sunrise," written by W.E. Fishbaugh. The author tells a story about a boy, Paul, who witnesses the sunrise for the first time, and his awestruck and inexplicable reaction to this new experience.

I don't quite understand why Paul is amazed by sunrise. It's understood that Paul is young ― young enough to have known and seen the sunset but not the opposite ―, that it was his first time seeing sunrise. It's also understood that sunrises are very pretty ― mesmerizing, even, as the narrator observes:

The sunrise had [Paul]. Something about it had him. While he looked he didn't matter anymore. He was gone from himself. And he looked at it for such a long time without speaking that his father began to get tired.

Paul seems entranced. That morning Paul's mother asks her little one to explain what he thinks about what he has just seen. He cannot; he only knows that it was a sunrise, and it has suddenly gained him a "new understanding."

I can genuinely say that I have never experienced this kind of reaction ― a reaction so strong, yet so peculiar and indescribable. Now I want to be as amazed as this boy, yet I wonder if I will be able to. Paul is young, perhaps just a preschooler; I am a high school student, eagerly awaiting the long-anticipated college life. Paul has a blessed gift: his innocence; mine is long gone. Paul has his Dad to share all these "first-times"; lung cancer took mine away five years ago. Paul seems to be fully equipped for this fascinating quest for new "first-times." But am I?

I don't know. But at least I know what I want.

I want something so enigmatic, electrifying, and irrevocably beautiful to happen. I want that implausible, overwhelming, and wonderfully bizarre "first time." I want the irrational, the unimaginable, and the intangible. I want Paul's sunrise. And perhaps one day, when I look at the hedgehog-shaped soap my Father had given me, I will look around my dream library, filled with every book I have ever loved, along with the children's books I have collected for my children, knowing that I have finally come round to comprehend and appreciate the simple felicity that each talking animals and insects, once so secretively, has.