Prompt:
The quality of Rice's academic life and the Residential College System is heavily influenced by the unique life experiences and cultural traditions each student brings. What perspective do you feel that you will contribute to life at Rice?
On a whim, the box was picked up. I stood on my bed, looking down to the floor, and turned over the box releasing the multitude of letters from colleges and universities that had accumulated over the year. The colorful papers fluttered down landing sporadically on the floor like a collage. I jumped down on them, almost slipping, determined to look through every single letter, booklet and package.
Eyes weary from looking at the small lettering in the thick booklet from Chicago University; I lifted my gaze to let my eyes rest. Rather than seeing a wall of colorful stripes, as expected, I saw inspiration. Visible from my window was a recently shaved palm tree. I quickly grabbed my shoes and ran outside, my small, yappy-type dog running after me. Resting on the grass lay gold, in my eyes; trash in my parents'. I walked back inside dragging four or so palm tree branches behind me, thorns sticking out every which way, but I ignored those and the little cuts my fingers were attaining. Such trivial things were ignored for I saw something grand up ahead - I saw a fort. My grandfather built his house; my dad built my room and the study, extensions from our house. It was obviously in my blood to build, I assumed.
Time revealed, however, that I did not receive the amazing building genes my dad's side of the family possessed. After having painstakingly removed the leaves from the branches, cutting them to equal lengths, reviewing the remaining college letters, taping the letters together to form one continuous sheet, and connecting the four branches together, the fort collapsed. It descended slowly before my eyes, as if mocking me, laughing at me and my silly attempt to make a fort. This one minor setback didn't get to me though. I would not allow it to. I was determined to make a fort, I was determined to create something useful of seemingly useless objects, I was determined to create a nostalgic piece of functional art. With pride and resolve coursing through my veins, I set out to try again. This time, armed with a dome-like design, I was sure that I could not fail.
I was wrong. After two failed attempts my resilience was wavering. I wanted to make a fort, that much I knew. How? I had no clue. My impulsively thought out designs had both failed, and a little part of me wanted to just stop. Inside my head was a little voice telling me to reach for a videogame and command a group of loyal soldiers with the use of rhythm instead of making a fort, however epic it may be. A louder voice drowned out that softer voice. It was the voice of my parents telling me "SÃguele, mija," and "Andale, mija," encouraging me to continue and try again, to finish what I had set out to do.
I listened and persevered. At this point I realized that I was not the best at making plans, so I swallowed my pride and asked my future architect of a sister for help. She agreed, and, with two brains working at it rather than one, we were sure to succeed. We headed outside and -- like our ancestors -- used a bit of adobe to build the fort. The supports stood up well and were sturdy, reinforced with hardened mud, the sheet of paper went on smoothly and the fort was up.
I reveled in not my, but our success and stood back to admire the colorful 'building' we had created in the sweltering heat. After sitting inside for a while, I went back into my house to help my mother out with dinner. I did not notice the accumulation of thick, gray clouds or the darkening of the sky. I failed to notice that distinctive pre-rain smell. I failed to notice the miniscule droplets falling on my arms as I headed inside.
It rained. After finally getting the fort up, cruel nature quickly tore it down. I, however, felt no anger toward the rain as I saw it tear down the beautiful creation. I felt no exasperation as the papers got wet and soggy, as the dried mud keeping the supports up moistened and slipped away. As the vestige of my hard work melted away, I smiled. It wasn't really about the fort, I realized. It was about doing something, anything other than sitting around lazily during the summer. It was about showing my unique quirkiness and relentless determination and accomplishing something I could take pride in. It was about being creative and having fun through working laboriously, and it was fun.
I'm not sure about the last sentence, and I think my grammar needs some help.
My friend mentioned that the evolution of ideas in the second paragraph was like me - quick, sporadic, random and kind of hard to follow. After re-reading it I saw what she was talking about, but I'm not sure how to fix it or if it needs fixing...
Help please.
:)
I'm applying to Rice too! I haven't started this essay, though.
Anywaaaaaays.
I definitley liked your essay. From the beginning I wanted to keep reading, which usually doesnt happen for most of the essays i read on this site.
But for advice, just type out University of Chicago instead of Chicago University,
and maybe reword this sentence "Resting on the grass lay gold, in my eyes; trash in my parents'".
I understand what you mean when you say that but I had to re-read the sentence like, four times to get what you were saying. otherwise good job and good luck!
Quite an interesting essay. It would make a good short story.
Several issues: in some places it feels like the vocabulary is beyond you, like you're reaching for words instead of using them. When that happens, you lose your rhythm and naturalness.
You also did not make a strong enough connection to Rice in particular. The prompt is pretty specific, so you ought to do that, somewhere toward the end.
I liked the ending sentence, personally.
Yes. Sometimes, when we are writing, we have a word in mind, but we want a better one. So we might look in a thesaurus to find a synonym and choose one, but it doesn't mean exactly the same thing, but it sounds good, so we stick it in there. What happens is that the meaning is changed slightly, and it doesn't have the precision we need. It sounds stilted and artificial then.
The point of these essays is to be clear and direct. Use the words that come to you naturally, words you're comfortable with. Reaching is using those other words we've heard but haven't quite broken in.
