Describe the world you come from - for example, your family, community or school - and tell us how your world has shaped your dreams and aspirations.
Bzzzz. Riiiing. Bzzzz. Riiiing. Awakening from my dreamy sleep, I press snooze. Back to sleep. Riiiing. Snooze once more. Quietly my dad knocks on the door. "Jen, wake up. It's 5:30". Oh, how I dread the morning. Getting up I realize I have a mere twenty minutes to get ready. Scurrying around the room I gather my stuff, and, after doing so, I rush to eat my breakfast, a stale bagel and vegetarian sausage patty (sounds like an oxymoron to me). At dance I want nothing more than my soft bed and a blanket. All too cold, the wooden floor presses against my feet as I pirouette, chaine, and ponche. I wonder why I submit myself to such torture, but then I realize it is not torture if you enjoy it. Scanning, my eyes find the clock- 7:10. My clothes changed, I hurry to dreaded AP Calculus. Walking inside, I see my forty classmates more stressed than ever before. Shoot. Related rates. Optimization. Test Thursday. Today's Thursday. Oh well. Bring it on.
Bell rings. "Pencils down." Finally it's over. Welcoming my remaining classes, I breathe a sigh of relief and continue out the door. Periods 2-4 crawl by and finally lunchtime arrives. Needing a break, I sit at a bench with my friends, enjoying those glorious thirty minutes. Although I rarely have down time, constant busyness works for me. Everything I do is like a performance, whether or not I feel my best, I aim to perform at my best. I can only hope someday my job will be to perform, to act, to direct films, to edit films, or any combination of the arts. All I know is I'm ready for my Oscar.
Bell rings. The show must go on. Time for more monotonous classes, more assignments, more busy work. In English, Mrs. Stempson reminds me how soon applications are due. "Your essay can make the difference of an acceptance or rejection letter". Wow, no pressure. She continues, "I can tell you just what they want to see". I question this statement. Is there really a formula for this? I mean, I know they do not want to hear a laundry list of my qualities and accomplishments (I am a field hockey goalie, dance team captain, and nationally competitive horseback rider, in case you were wondering), but how could you really know exactly what they want? Suddenly the answer assaults me, I know what colleges want, they want me to be myself! Hurray for clichés. Unfortunately, being myself may not quite compare to the other kid, the kid with 10,000 hours of community service, the kid who is president of National Honor Society, Surfrider, Asian club, and The Simpsons club, the kid who invests time in everything he thinks the colleges want rather than investing time in things he find most enjoyable. The abrupt ring of the bell ends my thoughts.
Field hockey time. I rush to the locker room, rush to get dressed, rush to the field, rush to the bus. Today we play Torrey Pines, ranked 3rd in the county. We're about 30th, which means today I, the goalie, will be getting tons of action. This fact excites me because I enjoy nothing more than a challenge. Arriving, we begin our warm ups; however, I notice the other team just sitting and talking. They really think they have got this in the bag. Let the games begin. Time flies as shot after shot flies towards me. We lose 5-1. On the upside, 30 saves isn't too shabby. On the bus home, I am aware of my exhaustion, but I realize I wouldn't change it for the world. Dance, school, field hockey, homework, and some eating in between--that's my world. Arriving home, I set my alarm for the next day. Crawling under the covers, I gratefully fall asleep. . .
Riiing. Bzz. Encore.
Bzzzz. Riiiing. Bzzzz. Riiiing. Awakening from my dreamy sleep, I press snooze. Back to sleep. Riiiing. Snooze once more. Quietly my dad knocks on the door. "Jen, wake up. It's 5:30". Oh, how I dread the morning. Getting up I realize I have a mere twenty minutes to get ready. Scurrying around the room I gather my stuff, and, after doing so, I rush to eat my breakfast, a stale bagel and vegetarian sausage patty (sounds like an oxymoron to me). At dance I want nothing more than my soft bed and a blanket. All too cold, the wooden floor presses against my feet as I pirouette, chaine, and ponche. I wonder why I submit myself to such torture, but then I realize it is not torture if you enjoy it. Scanning, my eyes find the clock- 7:10. My clothes changed, I hurry to dreaded AP Calculus. Walking inside, I see my forty classmates more stressed than ever before. Shoot. Related rates. Optimization. Test Thursday. Today's Thursday. Oh well. Bring it on.
Bell rings. "Pencils down." Finally it's over. Welcoming my remaining classes, I breathe a sigh of relief and continue out the door. Periods 2-4 crawl by and finally lunchtime arrives. Needing a break, I sit at a bench with my friends, enjoying those glorious thirty minutes. Although I rarely have down time, constant busyness works for me. Everything I do is like a performance, whether or not I feel my best, I aim to perform at my best. I can only hope someday my job will be to perform, to act, to direct films, to edit films, or any combination of the arts. All I know is I'm ready for my Oscar.
Bell rings. The show must go on. Time for more monotonous classes, more assignments, more busy work. In English, Mrs. Stempson reminds me how soon applications are due. "Your essay can make the difference of an acceptance or rejection letter". Wow, no pressure. She continues, "I can tell you just what they want to see". I question this statement. Is there really a formula for this? I mean, I know they do not want to hear a laundry list of my qualities and accomplishments (I am a field hockey goalie, dance team captain, and nationally competitive horseback rider, in case you were wondering), but how could you really know exactly what they want? Suddenly the answer assaults me, I know what colleges want, they want me to be myself! Hurray for clichés. Unfortunately, being myself may not quite compare to the other kid, the kid with 10,000 hours of community service, the kid who is president of National Honor Society, Surfrider, Asian club, and The Simpsons club, the kid who invests time in everything he thinks the colleges want rather than investing time in things he find most enjoyable. The abrupt ring of the bell ends my thoughts.
Field hockey time. I rush to the locker room, rush to get dressed, rush to the field, rush to the bus. Today we play Torrey Pines, ranked 3rd in the county. We're about 30th, which means today I, the goalie, will be getting tons of action. This fact excites me because I enjoy nothing more than a challenge. Arriving, we begin our warm ups; however, I notice the other team just sitting and talking. They really think they have got this in the bag. Let the games begin. Time flies as shot after shot flies towards me. We lose 5-1. On the upside, 30 saves isn't too shabby. On the bus home, I am aware of my exhaustion, but I realize I wouldn't change it for the world. Dance, school, field hockey, homework, and some eating in between--that's my world. Arriving home, I set my alarm for the next day. Crawling under the covers, I gratefully fall asleep. . .
Riiing. Bzz. Encore.