Writing Feedback / "Flowers for a 90-year-old Ophelia" --Princeton U prompt [4]

Hello! This is my first post in this site, and I'm so glad that EssayForum exists. I've been having so many problems with my essays, and I realized that feedback may be the solution.

This is an essay meant to address Princeton University's essay question: "Tell us about a person who has influenced you in a significant way." It can be about 500 words. Any suggestion would be greatly appreciated, and thank you wholeheartedly!

My Ophelia lives off eight medications and has fake dentures. Under a cloud of ash-gray hair, her eyes shine on a canvas of wrinkles and liver spots. Her back is bent, shoulders weighed down by ghosts of her past. She was a wife at age fifteen, a mother of seven, and now, a brooding widow. When she is alone, she mutters soliloquys, weeping for her Hamlet, Death. In each bizarre question she asks, she curses herself for still existing. Though I tired of her incessant mourning, I feared for her safety. I feared that she was sinking in dark waters and ready to take her own life.

Grandma's haven is the tiny vegetable garden of lettuce, peppers, cucumbers, and shrubs. Point to any stalk, and she can tell you its history, although she can't recall the events of yesterday. In each vine and leaf was a drop of her sweat and blood.

From the local shop, I bought Grandma vivid roses, carnations, and tulips of all colors. In these moments, her wizened face became youthfully brilliant, and she would wrap her thin arms around me in an embrace. The flower would be immediately planted amongst the vegetables. Week after week, I bought flower after flower, craving that smile on her face. That smile was the symbol of her sanity, the sign that indicated she could still feel happiness. Buying flowers became a mission, a desperate undertaking to appease the unstable Ophelia. I feared that if I didn't, she would turn towards the dark waters once more.

But I reached a horrible epiphany: flowers died, just like humans.
I once saw Grandma standing over the drooping heads of roses in the trashcan. Her face was haggard, older. "They died," she said simply, before hobbling away silently.

Such material things could never make her happy. In my fervent quest to secure the maiden's happiness, I had shamefully replaced human contact with objects.

Instead of spending time buying flowers, I spent time with Grandma. With the little Korean I knew, I told her stories of my school days. She told me her tragedies, wishes and secrets she had cradled in her tortured mind. With each word, I learned who Grandma really was. Under her aged exterior and mask of sorrow was a young, brave woman, a resilient rose among ivy. For the first time, we truly opened up to each other, and I've never seen her smile so genuinely. At the end of each conversation, I would sit beside her and plant, not flowers, but kisses on her cheek. She would respond with a smile with a brightness that trumped the sun's.

Grandma taught me that the best flowers are not ones you can buy. They are empathy, love, and understanding. Once sown, they can brave the worst of storms. With words and presence, I protected Ophelia from the river's waters, and created a garden of the blossoms of our little, cherished moments together.

Undergraduate / 'Hip-hop' - Common App: Topic of your Choice [3]

Hi! So I'm writing an essay for the general Common App, but because it has so much liberty in essay topics, I simply don't know what to write about!

I wrote this one recently, and I haven't heavily edited it yet. Please tell me what you think! Critique is greatly welcomed!

It's happening: my body was transforming. It was shifting, moving on its own, twisting and swaying. The earphones were plugged in, kissing my ear drums. The beat was sick; it traveled like a delicious virus in my body, making my heart accelerate. My veins become channels of rhythm, chords and notes traveling with the blood cells. I was becoming a 5'1, organic instrument.

My fingers dance in the air; my head springs loose, bobbing freely in time to the tempo. My shoulders jut back, forward, like the time I was sparring in Taekwondo and constantly switching arms to defend myself. My brain swells like a balloon; it must burst, to release the torrent of words inside.

And I pop that sucker.

My lips crack open, and a flood of words spill out. I spoke in a language only I knew: the language of Aromie. I spoke calmly, urgently, standing before an imaginary crowd that consisted only of me. I was a crowd, I was an individual. I was an instrument: my vocal chords my strings, my words my notes. I spoke, not answers to AP Biology questions, not Calculus formulas, not about the rigors of college applications, but about secrets and perceptions.

The percussion accentuates, and the beat falls mellow. My brain frantically sends thoughts to my throat, and I automatically translate them into words. I murmur the secrets of government corruption. I whisper why that African man in the bus kept sneaking uneasy glances at the cop beside him. I talk about the recent shooting near my school in Jamaica. I explain why the skies aren't as blue as they were when I stood on Daddy's shoulders years ago. I describe the snowless-ness of today's winters, yet growing frigidity of people's hearts. I sigh about my school's trembling financial position and the foolishness of my friends. I mourn about the pale faces of my parents after they return home from work in another state.

But I too sing joy and hope. I laugh about how beautiful the sun was that day. I praise the exquisite nature of art and story-telling that leads me away from reality. I giggle that there were still good people in the world and that I was trying my best to be one of them. I shout my joy at the fact that I had the privilege to be on this planet, small and still a fetus in the eyes of many but a fetus capable of song and love.

People misinterpret rap and hip-hop music as products of rebellion, a symbol of youthful mischief that can lead to felonies. But they fail to see the art and intelligence under the words. Hip-hop is an unconventional type of music, a genre that requires critical thinkers and passion. It may not consist of a simple serenade or lovely ballad, but it is one of the most human expressions of art because of its rawness and powerful belief.

In society's fog of truths, I speak my truth. I speak life, the way I see it.

Word Count: 516

Undergraduate / 'they depended solely on God and prayed to Him daily' - Topic of Choice [2]

Hi! I'm writing a lot of essays and I really need help. Please tell me if this essay is alright! Critique greatly welcomed!

The tiny, white room reeked of potpourri and crumpled pages. I stood at the entrance of the praying room, the smallest orifice in the house, yet the best-kept. It consisted of only a small knee table with a giant Bible on top, a cushion, and wooden cross on the wall.

With a rag in my hand, I slowly got down on my knees, not to pray, but to clean the marble floor. Normally, my mother would do it, but she wasn't here.

The room was cold. I hadn't touched this room for years. It was still intimidating to even enter. I remembered back when I was a meek girl devoted to God spending every Saturday in this room, desperately praying for whatever came to mind. "Please protect my family!" I would conclude passionately. Now the only visitor was my mother. She prayed every day, and from the ventilator, her moans and sobs echoed eerily in the upstairs bathroom heater.

I stopped going to church because I was sick of the hypocrisy. We had been church migrants for years. We met money-grubbing priests, corrupt clergies, and gossipy Korean elders. Eventually, I simply gave up the idea of an "ideal" church. The church-goers were human, and therefore, imperfect.

Now my parents believe that they're in hell. In these hard times, they depended solely on God and prayed to Him daily, begging for salvation. They even went out on Saturdays to clean the church toilets.

I dragged the rag over the floor. How many tears have dried on the seemingly spotless surface? I cleaned my mother's raw emotions that shattered on the cold ground. I stopped praying to God because I thought He wasn't listening. I stopped depending on him when I saw that no matter how hard I or my parents pleaded, He didn't respond. Was I holding a grudge? No. I still believed in Him. But I'm not devoted. I saw the cruelties of reality. When He offered no assistance, I simply accepted his answer and went alone.

Before I can depend on others, I must depend on myself. The time I spent pleading and crying could be spent on actual actions. Instead of kneeling and begging for help, I stood on my own two feet and used whatever I had to deal with life. I stopped praying and spent my words encouraging myself and others. I no longer prayed for good grades and happiness: I studied by myself and performed charity acts to make my prayers come true. By leaving Father's side, I learned how to walk by myself. I gained independence, and though my faith in Him may have weakened, my faith in myself has grown.

Imperfect they are, humans are capable of miracles.

I stood up, gazing at the wooden cross. Quietly, I bowed my head and shut my eyes. I haven't done this for years, but I can't ever forget this age-old position. "Thank you for letting me grow," I murmured, before departing the room, not as a weeping child, but as a mature, determined adult.

Undergraduate / "System Error" --Common App General Essay [9]

Please help and review! I'll also respond with my own critique of your essays!

System Error

The crimson lines sparkled like electricity over my skin. I gazed at the small screen expectantly, but the Macy's barcode scanner only blared: "ERROR. NO BARCODE FOUND." I laughed merrily before dancing off to follow my mother. This was a practice I always did whenever I went shopping, even though I knew the answer: humans didn't have any barcodes.

I was wrong.

It's not just apparel and gizmos that have those rectangles of toothpick-thin black and white lines. People have barcodes too. Once others see them and register the data, they automatically know what to say and think. When people started judging me to be someone I wasn't, I knew I had been too naďve to assume that I had avoided this system.

People everywhere, from my teachers to the random stranger in the street, assumed everything about everyone. Too often in school, someone inquired, "You're sitting over there, right?" before pointing to a table of people who had the same narrow eyes and yellow skin as me, huddled together in a corral separate from the other students. People have spoken slowly to me, believing that I was incapable of English speech. When I succeeded in academics, I've received eye-rolls and muttered "Typicals." I have been greeted in three different Asian languages from complete strangers, none of which are mine.

People would swipe me at the scanner, ignoring who I was, throwing me onto the conveyor belt without another glance. After years of living in this scan-read-interpret society, I realized that my physiognomy simply matched the data. Years of discrimination have engraved the public with fallacious material, and now the art of barcode-reading has been integrated into them. My government teacher summed it up aptly: "People think with their eyes."

Underneath this yellow skin is more than just a database of stereotypes. I'm no one's "Made in China" product. I hate math and I love humanities. I don't eat rice; I eat bean salads. I don't write calligraphy; I write essays analyzing America's greatest orators. I can draw more than just Japanese cartoons. I don't weave sweaters in a sweat-shop; I weave stories out of thin air. My age and height does not constitute inexperience; it's not the body that matters, but the travels it embodies. I speak to people of all ethnicities.

I've startled my peers at my nonconformity. I'm the system error of society's scanners, the one who is misread and contains the data that disrupts the programmed information in their minds. In the world of machinery, I represent untamable, adapting nature, self-reliant and unpredictable. In this black-and-white barcode society, I express my multitude of radiant colors. I'm both diversity's vessel and seeker.

During Christmas shopping, I returned to Macy's and put my palm under the barcode scanner. I waited as the machine tried to evaluate my complexities, my beliefs and perspectives. After a few seconds, it finally admitted defeat: "ERROR. NO BARCODE FOUND."

I grinned. This was one system that I enjoyed breaking.

Undergraduate / "Crumbs" -- Brown, Rice, Tufts [12]

Please tell me whether this seems to be an apt topic! This is still a rough draft! I know, it's the typical food vs. you comparison.

"You have a lack of talent, personality, and resourcefulness," my older sister declared. "You're just . . . a piece of toast."
I jerked my head up from the kitchen counter, gazing critically at her. "I'm sorry. Did you just call me toast?"

I'm not a prodigy and I haven't done anything incredibly exciting. My accomplishments aren't miraculous and my tastes are a little bland. Yet, to be called toast of all things? Now I seriously have to consider this.

I would have been a white toast years ago. Back then, I was faceless, a blank slate who would experience frequent shifts in personality. I'd let people smear me with jam and jelly I engaged in "I Spy" games every time I looked in the mirror. I was the shadow of the crowd, trying to find a place among the masses, struggling to make a big impression on those around me by expressing my "uniqueness." Was I enough for people? How much of an impact can I make when I led a mundane life?

It took me a while before I realized that I didn't have to be "big" to be substantial. I'm created by thousands of little crumbs that by themselves are insignificant. I find that I'm defined by what most would call trivialities. I have turned a Polly Pocket house into an exotic zoo of animal figurines where both domestic dogs and elephants could exist. Simple walks along the shore-side with my parents are more enjoyable to me than water-skiing. Finishing my poems and completing books over five hundred pages long are my Olympic feats. Little events, from wasabi-eating contests to waking up for the sunrise, are the things I most look forward to. Somehow, I've made the forgettable events into treasures.

With these crumbs, I've led Hansels and Gretels back home. Using my mundane experiences and the simple beliefs I derived from them, I have somehow led my self-abusive sister back to sanity and urged my friends to confront their problems instead of running away. I wasn't the best guide, but I did try my best. I suppose the fact that my sister is still talking with me and my friends are still laughing is a good indicator of success.

If I'm toast, I'm a multi-grain one, flecked and speckled with all kinds of perspectives and accomplishments that many can't see. I don't need jam or jelly, luxuries and awards, to be more appealing; I'm fine the way I am, even if I do appear boring. All the crumbs that make up my entire being, the little quirks and beliefs I have, are invaluable. I retain every fragment of my identity .

"You know, maybe I am toast," I finally responded to my sister.
"So you finally admit you're boring?" she snorted.
I grinned. "I wouldn't say that."

Undergraduate / "The Wanderer' -- Common App Essay [3]

I'm struggling over which Common App essay to pick. This is one of two. The other one is called "Crumbs."

Please tell me how you think of this essay!

"Dad, can you tell me a story?"

Our eyes met, a clash of matching chocolate-brown pupils. I knew at that instant, he had accepted my request to journey with him. Slowly, I slipped into his aged shoes as he spoke the words that paved a long road into his memories.

Years ago, when I saw that my right shoe always fell off as a result of crooked walking, I knew my traveling days were over. It was hard to accept that I, a natural wanderer, couldn't travel with the same vigor as I had in the past, that I couldn't experience life and its adventures to the fullest without feeling pain. Despite the fact that my trips to distant locations became localized to a nearby park or beach, I'd still struggle walking and, when I felt my shoe slip off my throbbing foot, I'd quietly succumb to a bench or log to rest and triple-knot my shoelaces.

Stories were what let me continue my journeys. Hungry for some kind of adventure, I'd ask my father to tell me tales of his younger years. With each syllable he spoke, I traveled back into the past. I ran beside a dusty-eyed, white-toothed boy with a stolen watermelon. I traveled to the chaotic streets of 1970s Korea, watching my father throw a Molotov cocktail at a police car amidst a screaming riot of anti-government citizens. His stories, an ensemble of words and emotions, let me travel in a way that compensated for my loose right shoe: by stepping into the shoes of people and walking in their memories.

I frequently engaged in story-telling sessions with people around me, using their words to envision unexplored territories. I wandered onto rocky paths and crossroads of memories. I drifted into halcyon days and tragedies. When my best friend told me her romance troubles, I walked through her mind's fogs of uncertainty and excitement. I wandered into my mother's memories and saw the ramshackle country house where she had nearly died of gas inhalation. I stepped into a dark forest in a distant country as an old man described his childhood home near the woods. My experiences in relating to the people around me have shown me that there was more than just one world to discover.

The souvenirs I received were not little "I Love ____" keychains but fragments of life, understanding, and empathy. Understanding people is greater than climbing the tallest mountain or swimming in the deepest sea. Though I can't describe how the Pyramid of Giza looked like or what it was like to stand on the Great Wall, I can describe the thorny path of a grandmother's mind as she reminisces about her family, the shadowed roads of doubt of a child fearful of the future, the hidden caverns of dreams of your asocial nerd.

I'm honored to have walked with my fellow travelers as we helped each other down life's roads. My appreciation for life originates in my love of people. I may have lost one right shoe, but I have gained dozens of new pairs.

Undergraduate / What do you hope to learn from and contribute to UPenn [4]

This is the mandatory supplement for UPenn! Harsh criticism preferred and I will return the favor!

The moment I picked up the red and blue handbook in the mail, I couldn't stop reading it.

I've heard that college years are "the best time of your life." I didn't believe it until I researched the University of Pennsylvania, known as the "Social Ivy," and found myself slack-jawed at my discoveries. From the Quakers sports team to the a-capella group "Off the Beat", from exquisite research programs to the array of classes, I immediately agreed that yes, my college years will most likely be the best time of my life if they're spent at UPenn.

The College of Arts and Sciences is the final place where I can expand my studies of humanities and science. With the Core Curriculum and research programs, the university provides a chance for all students to inherit a sundry, educational perspective. This is true intellectual maturity, and I'm delighted that I don't have to abandon my love of Literature, History, and Music while I pursue a Psychology major. I know that under this curriculum, I can freely encourage intellectual activity in discussions and studies. This is true academic diversity. As a student, I hope to contribute to this pool of well-rounded scholars with academic achievement. By participating in research and applying my knowledge of both arts and science, I can help teams make influential discoveries to add to the university's history of findings.

The student body at UPenn is the epitome of a cultural mosaic, a global microcosm. Each individual carries a unique fragment, making the entire population a conglomerate of talents. I can meet anyone, from your average New Yorker to an African princess! There's no doubt that I can experience a diffusion of ideas and cultures. Not only do I step into new educational territories, but I also see new horizons. Among the myriads of clubs and organizations, I can learn from and provide opportunities for my peers. By participating in the student-run activities, I can not only pursue my passions outside of the classroom, but also offer beneficial changes to the student community with my skills and ideas. As a member of a Do Something club, I wish to learn from UPenn's existing clubs and promote innovative charity projects with my fellow students. I can continue my mission to help my community and home, which would then be Pennsylvania. With this wonderful student body, I can do more than I ever could alone and have the pride and support of students to bring honor to this school.

UPenn embodies all that I'm looking for in a college. As I flip through my UPenn handbook each day, I aspire to be one of those grinning students walking on Locust Walk in the pages, one who can both indulge in the university's wondrous opportunities and provide new ones for those around me. I aim to be the educated and educator, the consumer and provider of knowledge.

Undergraduate / Brown Describe a moment when your perspective changed -- Fast feedback [2]

Please critique! I'll return the favor as well!

"And that's the Summer Triangle!"
I scuffed the ground as the kids oohed, following the astronomer's index finger. My father had quietly taken me out here, at the Alley Pond Environmental Center's astronomy session, surrounded by kids, after my sister and mom fell into one of their usual, heated arguments over nothing. Frustration gnawed at my mind as I thought of the querulous duo. I felt even angrier standing beside my father, who had recently taken up drinking and smoking again. All I could think of was how stupid they were, how stupid people could be. Why did they insist on fighting and hurting themselves? It didn't matter what their motives were; the way they were outwardly acting was foolish.

It was my turn to look through the astronomer's monstrous telescope. I didn't expect anything special; the skies around here were heavily polluted. I saw a cluster of plain white dots, one being especially bright. Before I could grunt unappreciatively, I choked when the astronomer chuckled, "Say hi to Jupiter!"

Bewildered, I scrambled back to the telescope, nearly knocking aside the next kid. This time, I focused my sight and really tried to see, my vision piercing through the polluted skies. I gawped; the brightest star had a beautiful, fire-red hue. That "plain" star was a huge planet?! This was the first time I ever saw a planet, and I hadn't even realized.

"Amazing, right?" I glanced to see my father's smile, and I couldn't help smiling back.
Seeing Jupiter taught me how blind I was. I should never dismiss something because of initial appearances. Thinking of my mom, dad, and sister, I felt guilty that I had judged them so rashly, like I had with Jupiter. If I took the time to focus and understand, I may see the truth under the surface. I stopped judging based on what something appears to be, because with a little effort, I might find the gorgeous planet underneath that star.