Here's the prompt: Beyond your impressive academic credentials and extracurricular accomplishments, what else makes you unique and colorful? Provide us with some limited measure of your personality.
We know that nobody fits neatly into 500 words or less, but you can provide us with some suggestion of The Type of Person You Are. Anything goes! Inspire us, impress us or just make us laugh. Think of this optional opportunity as Show and Tell by proxy and with an attitude.
I wrote three different essays because I did not know what to write about at all.. so please choose the one that you like the best that is most relevant to the prompt and give feedback! :) thanks!
Writer: Olympia W.
#1
I stood there, gripping onto the front handlebars with moist palms. Cyclophobia is the scientific term; the fear of bicycles. So silly to imagine that a fourteen year old could be afraid of riding a simple bike, but I was.
Rewind to the summer of 1998-I was seven. My brothers were racing their bikes down the sidewalk to see who could reach the lamppost the fastest as I watched safely from the grass. All was fun and games as they competed until Eric, lost control of his bicycle and served into the lawn, knocking me over. The salty tears stung my lips-a result of biting down too hard in an attempt to distract myself from the staggering pain. The cries only grew worse while my mom resorted to scissors, chopping off my locks of brunette, in order to free my head from the knotted mess of chains and my sister cleansed my gashed knee with rubbing alcohol.
Two years later, I was nine and dying to ride the pink bicycle I had just received for Christmas. But, I hesitated every time I glanced at my scarred right knee. However, my parents convinced me to ride down the street with my dad holding on to the back of the seat. Naïve was I to think that he would keep a firm grip-my deceitful father released his hold as soon as I reached a steady pace. Then, disaster struck. I had carelessly overlooked a deflated football lying in the middle of the street and what next occurred is best explained by Newton's first law of motion: Objects in motion remain in motion in a straight line. So, although the ball stopped my bicycle, I remained in the air and eventually, thanks to gravity, plunged face first into the road.
At fourteen, I was any normal teenager haunted by her emotionally disturbing past of bicycles. It took one trip to West Virginia to change this. The vacation was all about embracing nature so the planned activities included white water rafting, mountain climbing, canoeing, horseback riding, and last but also least, the dreaded mountain biking. I wanted to go mountain biking, I was just scared. I could have opted out and stayed in the hotel room, but a talk with my Dad fostered my epiphany. How could I be so pathetic as to let a past fear dictate my future? If I wanted to ride that bike then I was going to ignore my fears and do it.
So I did. I shut my eyes, let go of the brake pedal, and at that very moment, my worries vanished. I could breathe again.
If there is one thing that I have learned from this bizarre irrational fear, it is that having fears is okay. However, letting these fears old hold me back from living life is not. At that moment, I promised myself never to let my phobias restrain me from doing what I want. First, I conquered cyclophobia; now on to conquering the world.
#2
The incessant beeping bounced off the walls throughout my entire house. The smoke detector. Crap. How did I manage to set the microwave on fire? I stood there paralyzed and in shock as I watched the scarlet flames burn the lid of the Cup Noodles and then slowly start to melt the foam cup. Finally, my little sister came down on account of the deafening noise and burnt smell; she took the hose from the kitchen sink and sprayed until the fire died. Sharon looked at me and laughed; "you couldn't even make a bowl of cereal if you wanted to without burning the house down."
As much as I didn't want to admit it, her observation was undeniably true. Although I had a passionate love for eating food, I could not even manage to toast a piece of bread without causing the slice to magically transform into a lump of black ash. My own mother actually banned me from the kitchen on Thanksgiving so I could not destroy the turkey dinner.
While these numerous past failures had never bothered me before, I became embarrassed by my lack of cooking skills when my boyfriend's mother asked me to lend her a hand with dinner. My cheeks reddened as I refused; I could not be trusted near sharp knives or hot stoves. As humiliating as this incident was, it was also an eye opener. My whole life, I had believed that learning to cook would be a waste of time. Instead, why not just marry a man capable of creating wonders in the kitchen? However, it was at that moment I realized that some time in my life- when I have moved out from my parent's house, graduated college (no longer reaping the benefits of dining-hall foods), and established myself in an apartment-chances are I will not be married. And, since a roommate will most likely be unwilling to cook me three meals a day, learning to cook is essential. I cannot live off McDonald's Dollar Menu forever.
Thus, I decided to learn how to cook. Every night before dinner, I would watch my mom in the kitchen-studying as she baked, boiled, and fried. Slowly but surely, she started letting me help her; stir some sauce here, chop a little celery there. At times, I was frustrated; how am I supposed to know what to do with a colander or double broiler? But, I did not allow this mild irritation become reason enough to throw in the towel. I suffered many injuries, but burnt hands and cut fingers did not hinder my goal of becoming a decent chef.
Through all of sweat, tears, and pain (literally) I have managed to become a satisfactory cook. Although my dishes are not nearly as gourmet as Hells Kitchen's Gordon Ramsey, they are masterpieces in my eyes because of what they represent: the end results of a goal achieved through determination and dedication. These qualities, and not to mention my newfound ability to successfully make Cup Noodles, are what make me unique and will allow me to flourish in college.
#3
An eight year old and armed with a goofy grin and ragged teddy bear, Caramel. I was invincible, unshakeable, indestructible. I feared no Boogey-monster lurking under her bed, did not run at the smell of spinach nor at the sight of a growling terrier, and laughed in the face of a challenge. My parents told me that I could be the first woman president, and I believed them. High hopes and dreams fill my head-I had no limits.
I was a chef. My "Easy Bake Oven" allowed me to bake the most marvelous goods-cupcakes, cookies, brownies-that I shared with her siblings. And when my Mom was exhausted after a long day at work, I'd help with dinner by stirring a wooden spoon in the simmering spaghetti sauce.
I was an athlete. When the neighborhood kids gathered after school to play Capture the Flag, I was never the last one picked. I imagined the most fanatical, extreme, and wild schemes that involved sly attacks, stealth operations, and secret hiding places-always leading my team to victory.
I was an artist. My classmates were jealous that I could always remain inside the lines while coloring. For my first grade teacher, Mrs. Davis, my best friend Annie and I drew a blue and pink portrait of "The Rainbow Fish". It was rumored to be more valuable than the Mona Lisa-even Picasso grew green with envy.
I was a friend. When my next door neighbor, Vicki, accidentally dropped her cherry popsicle in the grass and no one else would share, I happily sacrificed my own because I was taught that "sharing is caring".
But most of all, I was a lover. When my parent's fought about money, politics, what's for dinner, or anything-I played match maker and mediated their dispute. I believed less time should be spent fighting with each other and more time should be spent making one another happy.
To me, failing was not an option and giving it one hundred and ten percent was the only option. Skinned knees meant get right back up and try again. Boundaries? There were none. The sky wasn't the limit because there were no limits-just dreams, wishes, and desires.
Fast-forward nine years and I am one in the same. Although I may no longer be an athlete or artist, the qualities that I have learned and displayed through all my experiences as a child such as compassion, thoughtfulness, and creativity are still present now-they have helped me mature into the woman I am now.
Today, I do not know how to bake a soufflé, nor can I operate the various complicated machines at the gym. I can't even draw a picture without resorting to stick figures. But, I am a great shoulder to lean on and to this day, I remain the appointed referee of conflicts in my household. If there's one thing I learned as a child, it's that my life is boundless; there is an infinite array of opportunities for me to take advantage of. And I can be anything I want to be, but all I really want to be is happy. That's my life plan.
We know that nobody fits neatly into 500 words or less, but you can provide us with some suggestion of The Type of Person You Are. Anything goes! Inspire us, impress us or just make us laugh. Think of this optional opportunity as Show and Tell by proxy and with an attitude.
I wrote three different essays because I did not know what to write about at all.. so please choose the one that you like the best that is most relevant to the prompt and give feedback! :) thanks!
Writer: Olympia W.
#1
I stood there, gripping onto the front handlebars with moist palms. Cyclophobia is the scientific term; the fear of bicycles. So silly to imagine that a fourteen year old could be afraid of riding a simple bike, but I was.
Rewind to the summer of 1998-I was seven. My brothers were racing their bikes down the sidewalk to see who could reach the lamppost the fastest as I watched safely from the grass. All was fun and games as they competed until Eric, lost control of his bicycle and served into the lawn, knocking me over. The salty tears stung my lips-a result of biting down too hard in an attempt to distract myself from the staggering pain. The cries only grew worse while my mom resorted to scissors, chopping off my locks of brunette, in order to free my head from the knotted mess of chains and my sister cleansed my gashed knee with rubbing alcohol.
Two years later, I was nine and dying to ride the pink bicycle I had just received for Christmas. But, I hesitated every time I glanced at my scarred right knee. However, my parents convinced me to ride down the street with my dad holding on to the back of the seat. Naïve was I to think that he would keep a firm grip-my deceitful father released his hold as soon as I reached a steady pace. Then, disaster struck. I had carelessly overlooked a deflated football lying in the middle of the street and what next occurred is best explained by Newton's first law of motion: Objects in motion remain in motion in a straight line. So, although the ball stopped my bicycle, I remained in the air and eventually, thanks to gravity, plunged face first into the road.
At fourteen, I was any normal teenager haunted by her emotionally disturbing past of bicycles. It took one trip to West Virginia to change this. The vacation was all about embracing nature so the planned activities included white water rafting, mountain climbing, canoeing, horseback riding, and last but also least, the dreaded mountain biking. I wanted to go mountain biking, I was just scared. I could have opted out and stayed in the hotel room, but a talk with my Dad fostered my epiphany. How could I be so pathetic as to let a past fear dictate my future? If I wanted to ride that bike then I was going to ignore my fears and do it.
So I did. I shut my eyes, let go of the brake pedal, and at that very moment, my worries vanished. I could breathe again.
If there is one thing that I have learned from this bizarre irrational fear, it is that having fears is okay. However, letting these fears old hold me back from living life is not. At that moment, I promised myself never to let my phobias restrain me from doing what I want. First, I conquered cyclophobia; now on to conquering the world.
#2
The incessant beeping bounced off the walls throughout my entire house. The smoke detector. Crap. How did I manage to set the microwave on fire? I stood there paralyzed and in shock as I watched the scarlet flames burn the lid of the Cup Noodles and then slowly start to melt the foam cup. Finally, my little sister came down on account of the deafening noise and burnt smell; she took the hose from the kitchen sink and sprayed until the fire died. Sharon looked at me and laughed; "you couldn't even make a bowl of cereal if you wanted to without burning the house down."
As much as I didn't want to admit it, her observation was undeniably true. Although I had a passionate love for eating food, I could not even manage to toast a piece of bread without causing the slice to magically transform into a lump of black ash. My own mother actually banned me from the kitchen on Thanksgiving so I could not destroy the turkey dinner.
While these numerous past failures had never bothered me before, I became embarrassed by my lack of cooking skills when my boyfriend's mother asked me to lend her a hand with dinner. My cheeks reddened as I refused; I could not be trusted near sharp knives or hot stoves. As humiliating as this incident was, it was also an eye opener. My whole life, I had believed that learning to cook would be a waste of time. Instead, why not just marry a man capable of creating wonders in the kitchen? However, it was at that moment I realized that some time in my life- when I have moved out from my parent's house, graduated college (no longer reaping the benefits of dining-hall foods), and established myself in an apartment-chances are I will not be married. And, since a roommate will most likely be unwilling to cook me three meals a day, learning to cook is essential. I cannot live off McDonald's Dollar Menu forever.
Thus, I decided to learn how to cook. Every night before dinner, I would watch my mom in the kitchen-studying as she baked, boiled, and fried. Slowly but surely, she started letting me help her; stir some sauce here, chop a little celery there. At times, I was frustrated; how am I supposed to know what to do with a colander or double broiler? But, I did not allow this mild irritation become reason enough to throw in the towel. I suffered many injuries, but burnt hands and cut fingers did not hinder my goal of becoming a decent chef.
Through all of sweat, tears, and pain (literally) I have managed to become a satisfactory cook. Although my dishes are not nearly as gourmet as Hells Kitchen's Gordon Ramsey, they are masterpieces in my eyes because of what they represent: the end results of a goal achieved through determination and dedication. These qualities, and not to mention my newfound ability to successfully make Cup Noodles, are what make me unique and will allow me to flourish in college.
#3
An eight year old and armed with a goofy grin and ragged teddy bear, Caramel. I was invincible, unshakeable, indestructible. I feared no Boogey-monster lurking under her bed, did not run at the smell of spinach nor at the sight of a growling terrier, and laughed in the face of a challenge. My parents told me that I could be the first woman president, and I believed them. High hopes and dreams fill my head-I had no limits.
I was a chef. My "Easy Bake Oven" allowed me to bake the most marvelous goods-cupcakes, cookies, brownies-that I shared with her siblings. And when my Mom was exhausted after a long day at work, I'd help with dinner by stirring a wooden spoon in the simmering spaghetti sauce.
I was an athlete. When the neighborhood kids gathered after school to play Capture the Flag, I was never the last one picked. I imagined the most fanatical, extreme, and wild schemes that involved sly attacks, stealth operations, and secret hiding places-always leading my team to victory.
I was an artist. My classmates were jealous that I could always remain inside the lines while coloring. For my first grade teacher, Mrs. Davis, my best friend Annie and I drew a blue and pink portrait of "The Rainbow Fish". It was rumored to be more valuable than the Mona Lisa-even Picasso grew green with envy.
I was a friend. When my next door neighbor, Vicki, accidentally dropped her cherry popsicle in the grass and no one else would share, I happily sacrificed my own because I was taught that "sharing is caring".
But most of all, I was a lover. When my parent's fought about money, politics, what's for dinner, or anything-I played match maker and mediated their dispute. I believed less time should be spent fighting with each other and more time should be spent making one another happy.
To me, failing was not an option and giving it one hundred and ten percent was the only option. Skinned knees meant get right back up and try again. Boundaries? There were none. The sky wasn't the limit because there were no limits-just dreams, wishes, and desires.
Fast-forward nine years and I am one in the same. Although I may no longer be an athlete or artist, the qualities that I have learned and displayed through all my experiences as a child such as compassion, thoughtfulness, and creativity are still present now-they have helped me mature into the woman I am now.
Today, I do not know how to bake a soufflé, nor can I operate the various complicated machines at the gym. I can't even draw a picture without resorting to stick figures. But, I am a great shoulder to lean on and to this day, I remain the appointed referee of conflicts in my household. If there's one thing I learned as a child, it's that my life is boundless; there is an infinite array of opportunities for me to take advantage of. And I can be anything I want to be, but all I really want to be is happy. That's my life plan.
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