Undergraduate / "Heroin; to study psychology" - Stanford intellectually engaging activity [3]

The prompt was to write abount an experience that was intellectually engaging.

Heroin. Before meeting Mrs. Kulkarni, I couldn't tell you anything about it other than that heroin is the highly addictive drug of choice for Hollywood rock stars, as movies had taught me. But beyond that, I was clueless. Now I can draw its chemical structure and detail how it interacts with the brain. In class, Mrs. Kulkarni mostly discussed organic compounds and chemical reactions with us, but afterward she would talk with anyone who wanted to stay about the real life applications of chemistry. We talked about everything from inorganic nomenclature to global warming to the development of drugs. I was fascinated to discover the methods by which medicines are developed and exactly how chemical substances interact with the body. I was so intrigued that I began researching drugs such as Thalidomide and antibiotics, realizing that my former philosophy of "a little medicine every once in a while won't kill you" was entirely erroneous. I now question everything from the allergy pills I take twice a day to my doctor's decision to treat my minor ear infection with a round of antibiotics. I recognize that while I may not choose to be a nuclear chemist, it is paramount to have a fundamental understanding of all the sciences in order to make educated decisions that could affect not only myself, but the world. Although I am eager to study psychology and literature, my experience with chemistry has provoked me to learn everything I can from all areas of study.

Is this awful?

Any thoughts would be appreciated.

Undergraduate / "I am an oddball." - Stanford to Future Roommate [6]

Dear Future Roomie,

There is one thing I should warn you about right off the bat: I am an oddball. Despite being born and raised in Texas, home to many a conservative Republican, barbeque-loving football fan, I am a liberal, vegetarian ballet dancer. Although I belong in the "nerd" category at my high school, I devour the Greek classics and the Latin Grammys with equal gusto. While the majority of my classmates identify themselves by their singular intellectual interests (There's Lucas the Math Whiz, Sarah the Art Girl, and Joe the Musician), my passions span from politics and human rights to salsa dance and photography. Most of my friends and family accuse me of being a staunch optimist, which, I must admit, is an accurate description. I vow to keep our dorm pristine (or at least disaster-zone free), to always be considerate of you, and to never eat the last of the mint chocolate chip ice cream without replacing the carton. However, I also confess that I will also drag you to art exhibitions, bake you cookies that will inevitably turn out to be lopsided, and pick the quirky foreign film on movie nights. I can't wait to get to know you and to start our lives at Stanford! To be completely honest, I have never felt like I fit in where I am from and it is wonderful to be in this environment of diversity, open-mindedness, and acceptance.

Any comments would be appreciated.

Undergraduate / Curriculum + political and social activism + inspirational professors- Why Columbia [3]

Is this confusing?

Prompt was just why do you want to attend Columbia U.

I picture myself sitting in Butler Library after class reading an article in The Blue and White and then delving right into my psychology research paper over cognitive behavioral therapy. In my vision, I begin to think about how much I've learned and grown during my first year at Columbia. Discussing politics after Contemporary Civilization with my peers over New York pizza and analyzing Spanish literature in the language itself with classmates from all across the world are only some of the extraordinary experiences I have had while at Columbia.

As I recall my motivation for applying to my absolute dream school, I see that my reasons are similar to why I chose the International Baccalaureate program at my high school. I want to challenge myself and to be immersed in a learning environment in which I could explore my passions fully but also develop new intellectual interests. While I am very attracted to Columbia's rich history, illustrious reputation, and beautiful campus, the primary reason that I would like to attend Columbia is it offers the best education possible. I love the Core Curriculum, history of political and social activism, and incredibly inspirational professors. All of this means the opportunity to have the most meaningful learning experience to me.

Is it missing anything/does it make sense?

Thanks!

Undergraduate / "I love to read." - Harvard/Yale Supplement [4]

The prompt was basically just "tell us more about yourself."

I need to cut off 11 words to fit in in the word limit.
Any comments would be appreciated!
Also, I wonder if it is too "woe is me"?
Thank you.

I love to read.
I will be the first to admit that this seems rather mundane, especially when compared with such adventurous hobbies such as rock climbing and sky diving. But ever since I picked up The Cat in the Hat, I have been hooked. Just as I'm sure a music lover's heart keeps time like a metronome, mine beats to the turning of pages. If you cut me, I would bleed ink. It is not entirely a genetically inherited trait, but grew from the twisted roots of my childhood. My parents went through what is commonly referred to as a "messy" divorce around the time that I was learning to read. I remember staying up late at night deciphering the mysterious symbols in my numerous Dr. Seuss books, huddled under the covers with a flashlight, while the enraged voices of my parents fighting resonated in the next room.

In an effort to escape the war, I turned to books. Once they were separated and later divorced, I escaped into books from my mother's alcoholism. It was only years later, when I entered middle school, that I realized the joy of writing for myself. One afternoon, my mother was late picking me up, and I had already finished the book in my backpack. I took out my notebook in a fit of anger at myself and at my mother. I can't even remember what I wrote, but I do remember the feeling of absolute freedom. Ever since, I keep a pen and paper nearby for when the need to write overcomes me, which is often, but I have since loved to write for more than therapeutic purposes.

The instant Ms. Vernon, my IB English teacher, entered the classroom with her precariously balanced square glasses and her all-black ensemble, we all could clearly see that she was a force to be reckoned with. Our first novel to study was The Stories of Eva Luna by Isabel Allende, which eloquently depicts the double-standards between men and women in the Latino culture. When I did further research, I saw that Allende works to educate women in Latin America and Africa through charitable organizations and to raise awareness for injustice through her writing. I was so provoked by her powerful writing that I read all of her works, beginning with La casa de los espíritus. It was this piece that showed me that literature is more than just escapism, but can act as a vehicle to incite change in the real world. I began to write more and share with others, even about my childhood. I confessed to my friend, Tiana, about my long buried past after she read a paper that I had written for Psychology class about the effects of addiction. She effusively repeated how sorry she was. But, at the risk of penning a cliché, something Ms. Vernon never tolerated, I feel grateful for all my experiences as they have helped to shape who I am today.

As I learned from my first love, William Shakespeare, "Sweet are the uses of adversity."

Undergraduate / "True knowledge comes from compassion." - My Common App Essay - [3]

Any comments/revisions would be greatly appreciated!
The prompt I answered was about the person who influenced me most and why.
Thanks!

"True knowledge comes from compassion."- Anonymous
<<El conocimiento verdadero viene de la compasión.>> - Anónimo

* * *
Sitting in a hippy-era vegan café, I stumble upon this aphorism. It is scribbled on the tag of a yellowed chamomile tea bag, probably as an afterthought. I am instantly transported to when I was eight years old. My mother and I were vacationing in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico during the summer. She had decided to take advantage of her interim sobriety to have a "mother-daughter-bonding-experience" with me. Despite her good intentions, after she spotted the first tequila stand, all likelihood of bonding evaporated. I decided to explore on my own. I swam in the famously beautiful Playa los Muertos and gawked at the multi-storied hotels and resorts. But I also saw the dilapidated shanty towns and the kids my age playing soccer without shoes, a sight I had never witnessed in U.S. middle-class suburbia. One of these children was a boy named Jorge. Although he didn't speak much English and I didn't know any Spanish, we spent the whole week laughing and playing fútbol together. On my last day, I was complaining that I was hungry. Jorge proceeded to buy me an orange with what I now realize was likely the only money he would have for the month.

When I returned to school in the fall, I sat down to class in my itchy uniform (I attended a private school at the time), surprised to see a new face among my peers' of a distinctly darker hue. In homeroom, I learned that she had just moved to Texas and her mother had recently taken a job at the school. All I heard during lunch were shrieks of "She's from, like, Mexico or something!", "Her mom is a janitor!", and "I can't believe they let that wetback in here!" accompanied by the exaggeratedly horrified faces of my schoolmates. Recalling my friend Jorge, I couldn't imagine why they would be so mean to her. I was resolved to be her friend. The only impediment to my plan was that she absolutely refused to speak to anyone; except for her mother, I barely saw her make eye contact with a single plaid-skirted or Oxford-shirted soul. Determined, I approached my future friend during recess one day and introduced myself, offering her a hand to shake.

"Me llamo Marisol" she whispered.
Mar-i-sol. I pondered the syllables aloud. Each sound felt strong and fiery, emboldening me to ask more questions and to avidly absorb every word... although I had no idea of what she was saying. There, on the blistering cement with Marisol, I experienced a spark of what would later become one of my most ardent passions: a desire to communicate. I didn't know anyone else who spoke Spanish and my school didn't offer it as a class, so I made it my own mission to learn the language. I scoured my local library for grammar instruction books, invested my allowance in a collegiate Spanish dictionary of intimidating size, and impressed (or annoyed) anyone within earshot with my growing vocabulary. By the end of the month I planned on penning poetry like Pablo Neruda and delivering orations like Emiliano Zapata. Of course I only learned to count to ten and conjugate a few verbs in two weeks, but I didn't feel defeated because Marisol and I were able to piece together what we knew of each language - enough to hold increasingly longer conversations each day. Eventually she told me of her family in Mexico, her journey to the United States, and her homesickness. I realized what courage and strength it must have taken her to get here. I thought that all the other kids were missing out on getting to know her. If they had known all that she had endured, I felt certain that they would have a different point of view. She agreed. "Sólo no comprenden." They just don't understand.

Marisol clasped her patron saint medallion, a gift from her grandmother, around my neck. I offered her a poorly hand-woven, string bracelet in return, thinking of Jorge and his humble gift. Even though neither Marisol's necklace nor my bracelet was a Tiffany charm bracelet, as all the other girls were sporting, we each wore our friendship tokens to school the next day with pride.

Years after that casual exchange under the pecan tree, her few words still resonate with me. Gradually, thanks to Marisol's insight and other intertwined factors, I began spending more and more of my time trying to do just that: understand. I was already voraciously devouring any books I could get my hands on, but after my experiences with Marisol and Jorge I recognized that true knowledge can only be derived from connecting with others and understanding their situations.

All these memories revived from just little slip of paper on a tea bag. I tuck it into my pocket. Interestingly, the English word "to know" has two denotations in Spanish: "conocer" and "saber," the former meaning to acquire factual information and the latter indicating awareness or consciousness. I strive for saber. I crave knowledge that is based not only on textbooks and teachers, but also on communication and connection with others. I still can't write like Neruda or speak like Zapata, nor have I formulated a cure-all for the world's ills. But I have never lost my friendship necklace or mi pasión.