The Admissions Committee would like to know more about you in your own words. Please submit a brief essay, either personal or creative, which you feel best describes you.
It is the same dream every night; my father hands me a small envelope addressed by my first-choice college, and I hastily glide my finger under the flap to open the letter and read the only words that appear in big font: "CONGRATULATIONS. YOU HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED!" My hands begin to shake with exaltation as my father, reading the letter along side of me, lays his hand on my shoulder in approbation. His distinct hands instantly catch my attention. My father's hands are like bear's paws, thick and brawny. His hands are as versatile as they come, steadily holding power tools for hours in the morning, and then dexterously preparing family dinner at night. His hands are direct representations of the arduous hardships he has endured after years of sacrifice to support our family. His hands, enveloped in a taut layer of dry skin, are cracked and scratched and burned and bruised. His hands are permanently scarred with psoriatic arthritis, a disease enflamed from his hours of work, outside in the dead of winter, without gloves. I look again at my letter. My own hard work, which has included long days spent at school participating in over ten extracurricular activities, and long nights spent studying for exams, has finally paid off. I am ready to begin molding my own hands into dexterous tools, so I can one day recompense my father for all the selfless sacrifices he has made to benefit me. I bask in the warmth of accomplishment that has begun to engulf my entire body.
It is the same dream every night; my father hands me a small envelope addressed by my first-choice college, and I hastily glide my finger under the flap to open the letter and read the only words that appear in big font: "CONGRATULATIONS. YOU HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED!" My hands begin to shake with exaltation as my father, reading the letter along side of me, lays his hand on my shoulder in approbation. His distinct hands instantly catch my attention. My father's hands are like bear's paws, thick and brawny. His hands are as versatile as they come, steadily holding power tools for hours in the morning, and then dexterously preparing family dinner at night. His hands are direct representations of the arduous hardships he has endured after years of sacrifice to support our family. His hands, enveloped in a taut layer of dry skin, are cracked and scratched and burned and bruised. His hands are permanently scarred with psoriatic arthritis, a disease enflamed from his hours of work, outside in the dead of winter, without gloves. I look again at my letter. My own hard work, which has included long days spent at school participating in over ten extracurricular activities, and long nights spent studying for exams, has finally paid off. I am ready to begin molding my own hands into dexterous tools, so I can one day recompense my father for all the selfless sacrifices he has made to benefit me. I bask in the warmth of accomplishment that has begun to engulf my entire body.
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