Eep. I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing, but here's a draft of my common app essay, or, one of my drafts. I was wondering whether the subject matter is appropriate and has a clear message, because I don't think it does. ;; Also, would this be categorised as 'topic of your choice'? I don't think it quite fits into the others.
I'm sorry, I'm applying as an international and really have little idea what to write about, so...apologies for the meagre quality. Here goes...
Queerly Phrased
It was raining, not untypical for a summer day in the South of England, rain mapping pampiniform rivers against my window pane. I watched from my bed.
Around me, an array of seemingly random school day debris - several books, an uneaten lunch, a beloved tatty notebook filled with sporadic bursts of inspiration, a dictionary that I could never be far from, and before me, a small scrap of paper, scrunched into a tight ball by an even tighter fist. Once unfolded, the paper bore four letters, capitalised, scratched into the surface by angry red ink.
Dyke.
Dyke - noun. Offensive slang used as a disparaging term for a lesbian.
My mind recited the words freely, dictionary surplus to requirements.
Words have always been my solace. My heart lies in the beauty and intricate composition of language, in writing, in literature, and always has - my first word was walrus, which isn't that exciting despite the oddity, but something to add to dinner party conversation if the topic ever arises. Language fascinates me, encapsulates me, a sprawling oak tree of knowledge that I have been trying to climb since I could walk, and yet, here was one, monosyllabic word, four letters, that had brought tears to my eyes.
Admittedly I am not the most interesting person - and already delving into self-deprecation which I excuse as a characteristically British trait - a stereotype even, as a perpetual tea-drinker and cynic, enunciating in BBC accent and with stiff upper lip too. There is little that can be said about me that sets me apart from most applicants, except perhaps that I smile too much and dye my hair ginger, have a penchant for sarcasm, overly floral wallpaper, and trying to bake. And yes, there is the fact I am a lesbian, but I am confident in my own identity. Above all, I am me. It simply took one scribbled word hurled at my forehead for me to realise that.
That piece of paper taught me that words have infinite power. It instilled in me a sense of pride in who I am, and perhaps most importantly, it was the spark that opened up the world of words to me, their mystery and beauty, and almost at once I became determined to be a linguist.
I went to school the next day with my books and my notepad, my dictionary and assortment of pens, brimming with an uncharacteristic newfound courage. I am naturally shy, prefer the company of Pratchett, Austen and McCaffrey than a large group of people, but still I sought a meeting with my head of year that morning and together we discussed the formation of an LGBT social club for the school, plus the inclusion of homophobia as a form of bullying in school policy. I strived to do what I could, so that others might feel the same self-acceptance that I did.
There are some who still look at me and don't see past my sexuality. There will always be those who think I am inferior. But despite the hurt that words can cause and the intolerance of others, they do not change my identity, nor my love for the language I am honoured to speak. One day, a distant autumn day, I hope to walk with my girlfriend through Central Park, reciting Shakespeare's most elegant verse and smiling as I tell her the kaleidoscope of New York foliage pales in comparison to her eyes. I hope to marry her, start a family, buy a Japanese peace lily, and most of all, study the language I love so dearly.
I am me, and I am so grateful I realised that.
I'm sorry, I'm applying as an international and really have little idea what to write about, so...apologies for the meagre quality. Here goes...
Queerly Phrased
It was raining, not untypical for a summer day in the South of England, rain mapping pampiniform rivers against my window pane. I watched from my bed.
Around me, an array of seemingly random school day debris - several books, an uneaten lunch, a beloved tatty notebook filled with sporadic bursts of inspiration, a dictionary that I could never be far from, and before me, a small scrap of paper, scrunched into a tight ball by an even tighter fist. Once unfolded, the paper bore four letters, capitalised, scratched into the surface by angry red ink.
Dyke.
Dyke - noun. Offensive slang used as a disparaging term for a lesbian.
My mind recited the words freely, dictionary surplus to requirements.
Words have always been my solace. My heart lies in the beauty and intricate composition of language, in writing, in literature, and always has - my first word was walrus, which isn't that exciting despite the oddity, but something to add to dinner party conversation if the topic ever arises. Language fascinates me, encapsulates me, a sprawling oak tree of knowledge that I have been trying to climb since I could walk, and yet, here was one, monosyllabic word, four letters, that had brought tears to my eyes.
Admittedly I am not the most interesting person - and already delving into self-deprecation which I excuse as a characteristically British trait - a stereotype even, as a perpetual tea-drinker and cynic, enunciating in BBC accent and with stiff upper lip too. There is little that can be said about me that sets me apart from most applicants, except perhaps that I smile too much and dye my hair ginger, have a penchant for sarcasm, overly floral wallpaper, and trying to bake. And yes, there is the fact I am a lesbian, but I am confident in my own identity. Above all, I am me. It simply took one scribbled word hurled at my forehead for me to realise that.
That piece of paper taught me that words have infinite power. It instilled in me a sense of pride in who I am, and perhaps most importantly, it was the spark that opened up the world of words to me, their mystery and beauty, and almost at once I became determined to be a linguist.
I went to school the next day with my books and my notepad, my dictionary and assortment of pens, brimming with an uncharacteristic newfound courage. I am naturally shy, prefer the company of Pratchett, Austen and McCaffrey than a large group of people, but still I sought a meeting with my head of year that morning and together we discussed the formation of an LGBT social club for the school, plus the inclusion of homophobia as a form of bullying in school policy. I strived to do what I could, so that others might feel the same self-acceptance that I did.
There are some who still look at me and don't see past my sexuality. There will always be those who think I am inferior. But despite the hurt that words can cause and the intolerance of others, they do not change my identity, nor my love for the language I am honoured to speak. One day, a distant autumn day, I hope to walk with my girlfriend through Central Park, reciting Shakespeare's most elegant verse and smiling as I tell her the kaleidoscope of New York foliage pales in comparison to her eyes. I hope to marry her, start a family, buy a Japanese peace lily, and most of all, study the language I love so dearly.
I am me, and I am so grateful I realised that.