Hey there. My essay was in response to the two UC admission prompts:
"Prompt #1 (freshman applicants)
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.
Prompt #2 (all applicants)
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?"
Though largely a narration, my intent was to answer both prompts within my 1000 word limit.
I'd really appreciate feedback and advice of any sort. I'm not sure if the essay overall is too vague for outside readers.
Thanks to those who took the time to look!
"One hundred and twenty four pounds at a height of six foot one." The doctor read off his clipboard stony faced and indifferent, continuing as he looked up at my father. "He's lost a third of his total body mass in four months." All friendliness of past encounters evaporated. Doing all he could to avoid eye contact, the physician ran down a list of possible causes. Each named hardened my father's expression as he stared ahead. "...hepatitis and advanced HIV are all likely possibilities," he finished listing. "Blood work will need to be done before we can be sure."
Emotion ran high for my family on the ride home as long withheld anxieties actualized. I sat behind my younger sister and brother, themselves behind my mother and father. Vividly I recall their silhouettes as gray, late December light entered the car windows, witness to my families grief. "I noticed something wrong from the time he got back," muffled words escaped my mother. "But I told myself otherwise, even as it got worse." More with himself than us, my father debated whether or not a long past transfusion could possibly transmit HIV. Both siblings, startled by their parent's anguish, were silent alongside me.
In these two weeks of our holiday, a collective breath was held for the soon to follow blood tests and their results. Despite my efforts to understate the suffocating severity, to avoid the topic of my well being all together, an underlying fear and grief gripped my father and mother. Through every graying hair and lining feature, I observed the weariness my parents endured on my behalf, and the tenderness behind their cause. With a distant thought of premature death, whilst faced with their overwhelming care and heartache, my family of five living in their dilapidated apartment never provided such reflective insight and grandeur.
Days were spent in poignant company. Nights then granted deep introspection. I'd listen to the ceiling creak, each loved one's restlessness an intimate tempo to which I thought below them. Whether acting upon the familiar comfort it would bring, or the tangible proof it would lend, I drew constantly. Ruffled pages of a sketchbook served as considerations and reconsiderations of valued beliefs. And the many drawings these withheld: a meticulous reappraisal. But, at times when the distant thought loomed nearest, always a question followed: "Where have you found fulfillment?"
Our Holiday passed with encouraging albeit befuddling breaths of relief. Blood tests resulted with nothing to be found. All the same, the rest of my junior year was at the whim of countless specialists unable to pinpoint reason or cause for my weight loss. Classes fell away to afternoons spent with my father. Whose uneasiness mounted, then subsided little through varied appointments and waiting rooms. But never did I feel these wasted.
In light of what happened, I appreciated the slow minutes. I'd observe the coming and goings of patients: mothers with newborn children, adults with their own aged parents, some on the verge of death, and some with untapped reservoirs of life. All who basked in the fluorescent lighted rooms alongside me and my father. Fleetingly, through pleasant recollections summer lent, an art instructor would always remind: "have meaning behind each stroke of your pen". And I'd take note of one's whispered birthday "August 19th, 1927..." Or quickly contour the fleeting expressions of a pouting toddler.
Eventually, a name would be called. We'd rise to our summons. And in each hallway, as my sketchbook shut, an assistant's warmness contrasted greatly to the stark uninterrupted quiet of each clinic. He or she shook our hand with sincere fondness; spoke graciously in spite of sufferance witnessed daily. And whether we were lead to the growingly familiar face of one gastroenterologist, or to some unmet recommendation, I was startled. The lifeless walls and endless tile hallways led my voice to oppressed and hurried whispers, yet here were those able to speak. To comment and laugh freely along the perpetual corridors with so many who were unable to do so. Guileless was their interest in me, and drawings produced minutes before. I could honestly return it. "I'd never be able to do what you do; the waiting rooms alone wear me out. I'd break down in here, facing this every day." With word of thanks, or a light laugh, one replied: "I guess it boils down to where you find fulfillment in helping others."
Inwardly, I smiled.
With school, art club became less a task undertaken through my successful summer and more an assertion against other's doubt. "Sure, I'll join," many told me, returning early year requests. "But I'm awful. I can't draw or do anything of the sort." Though readily inclusive, in the beginning I poorly convinced otherwise. Nonetheless, with fervor recent reevaluations brought, my persistence overtook. "Every individual has the capacity to observe, and to uniquely express. So we're all drawing anyway." Disgruntled disbelief fell away to unfailing interest as members carried out the roll of both model and observer. Summer bestowed through its many figure drawing sessions a method in aiding the pursuit of those around me. And always, with the noted end of falsely assessed potential, one would understand the small betterment they had attained.
Frequent hours of waiting rooms, specialists and their tests gradually faltered with my steady gain of bodyweight. So too did junior year, as its end brought a sense of fulfillment with, and apart from the passing grades I managed. But the intrinsic worth finds way in every strengthened bond of family, and the belief I played a small role in the growth of others.
One summer afternoon that followed, I again sat in a doctor's office. "Nothing's ever found. We know I'm fine." My parent's repeated response never left them, as a familiar gastroenterologist entered the room. "Well Kristian, don't take this personally, but I hope to never see you again." We shook hands as he noticed the sketchbook brought along. "You made this then?" he asked, looking through it. "I've noticed it the few times before... but such patience! How do you manage?" With word of thanks and a light laugh, I replied: "I guess it boils down to where you find fulfillment in helping others."
Inwardly, I smiled.
ang panget!!!walang kwenta!!!weak...
My one reply? How disheartening.
Overall, It's a fairly well written essay, but you should focus on how this changed you as a person. You should share with the school how much of a stronger person you have become through this experience.
I've done some revisions. Thanks for the feedback, stephskk:
"One hundred and twenty four pounds at a height of six foot one." The doctor read off his clipboard stony faced and indifferent, continuing as he looked up at my father. "He's lost a third of his total body mass in four months." All friendliness of past encounters evaporated. Doing all he could to avoid eye contact, the physician ran down a list of possible causes. Each name hardened my father's expression as he stared ahead. "...hepatitis and advanced HIV are all likely possibilities," he finished listing. "Blood work will need to be done before we can be sure."
Emotions ran high for my family on the ride home, as long withheld anxieties actualized. I sat behind my younger sister and brother, themselves behind my mother and father. Vividly I recall their silhouettes as gray, late December light entered the car windows, witness to my family's grief. "I noticed something wrong from the time he got back," muffled words escaped my mother. "But I told myself otherwise, even as it got worse." More with himself than us, my father debated whether a long past transfusion could possibly transmit HIV. Both siblings, startled by their parent's anguish, were silent alongside me.
In these two weeks of our holiday, a collective breath was held for the soon resulting blood tests. Despite efforts to understate the suffocating severity, an underlying fear and grief gripped my father and mother. I observed, through each graying hair and aging feature, the weariness endured on my behalf, and the underlying tenderness their worry rooted from. Distant thoughts of premature death felt near facing the overwhelming care and heartache of my family. Yet living in our dilapidated apartment alongside them never provided such insight and introspective grandeur.
Days were spent in poignant company. Nights granted deep reflection. I'd listen to the ceiling creak where they slept in the room overhead; each loved one's restlessness an intimate tempo to which I drew. Blank pages of a sketchbook took shape, as I recollected my childhood home growing small from a moving van, stroked the feathers of a first pet, or heard the murmured grievances of a funeral, its meaning of loss, was then, unfamiliar. Yet when the distant thought of death drew close, each drawing and the reflective hindsight it provided, presented a question: "Where have you found fulfillment?"
Our Holiday passed with encouraging albeit befuddling breaths of relief. Blood tests revealed nothing. All the same, the rest of my junior year was at the whim of countless specialists unable to pinpoint reason or cause for my weight loss. Classes fell away to afternoons spent with my father, whose uneasiness mounted, then subsided little through varied appointments and waiting rooms. But never did I feel these long days wasted.
I appreciated the slow minutes in each waiting room where I'd observe the coming and going of patients: mothers with newborn children, adults with their own aged parents, some on the verge of death, and some with untapped reservoirs of life. All illuminated by the fluorescent light alongside my father and I. Fleetingly, through pleasant recollections summer lent me, an art instructor would remind: "have a purpose behind each stroke of the pen." And I'd take note of one's whispered birthday "August 19th, 1927..." Or quickly contour the fleeting expressions of a pouting toddler; the recalled words of my teacher held new meaning.
Eventually, a name would be called. We'd rise to our summons. As my sketchbook shut, the nurse's warm greeting would contrast greatly with the impersonal quiet of the clinic. He or she would shake my hand with sincere fondness, and speak graciously in spite of the suffering they'd witness daily. Whether we were lead to the growingly familiar face of one gastroenterologist, or to some unmet specialist, I was startled: the lifeless walls and seemingly endless hallways discouraged my voice to hurried whispers. Yet here were those able to speak clearly, to comment and laugh freely along the perpetual corridors with the many ill patients unable to do so. Guileless was their interest in me, and mine in them, telling them: "I'd never be able to do what you do; the waiting rooms alone wear me out. I'd break down in here, facing this every day." With word of thanks, or a light laugh, one replied: "I guess it boils down to where you find fulfillment in helping others."
Inwardly, I smiled.
When possible, school's art club became less my extracurricular task and more an assertion against other's self-doubt. "Sure, I'll join," many told me, returning early year requests. "But I'm awful. I can't draw or do anything of the sort." Though readily inclusive, in the beginning, I poorly convinced members otherwise. Nonetheless, with the fervor ill health had brought, my persistence took charge: "Every individual has the capacity to observe, and to uniquely express. So we're all drawing anyway." Disgruntled disbelief fell away to unfailing interest. Members carried out the rolls of both model and observer as my summer bestowed, through its many figure drawing sessions, a prime example of how to aid the artistic pursuit of those around me. Always, with the noted end of falsely assessed potential, one would understand the small betterment they had attained.
The frequent hours of waiting rooms, specialists and their tests gradually waned with my steady gain of bodyweight. So too did my junior year. Though proud of my passing grades despite prevalent absence, the intrinsic worth of my school year found way through strengthened bonds of family, the belief I aided the growth of others, and a renewed certainty of personal worth and purpose.
One summer afternoon, I again sat in a doctor's office as a familiar gastroenterologist entered the room. "Well Kristian, don't take this personally, but I hope to never see you again." We shook hands and he noted the now frayed sketchbook I brought along. "You made this then?" he asked, looking through it. "I've noticed it the few times before... but such patience! How do you manage?" With word of thanks and a light laugh, I replied: "It depends on how you find fulfillment in the aide of others."
Inwardly, I smiled.
How are you going to make this into the two required parts.
it is an essay for each section, not one that answers both.
Kerfuffin is right...you must answer each prompt in a separate essay, each at least 250 words. Even if you could answer both prompts in one essay, it would be a better choice to devote two pieces that address the individual prompts. That way, you have more flexibility to showcase a wider range of your different talents/attributes.
