Personal statement essay. Any topic.
In the grand scheme of things, eight little ducklings don't change the lives of many people. But they changed my life one October afternoon in 2000. My father picked me up from school and as we pulled into our driveway, I heard a strange sound. An adult duck was standing in our street, looking down into a storm drain; pacing nervously and quacking nonstop. I investigated and found the reasons, all eight of them. While out for a walk with their mother, eight little ducklings had apparently fallen through the grate covering the storm drain and now they were trapped. A police officer happened by. He pronounced them "wild animals" and after wishing them luck, he left. All I could think of was those little lives and the mother standing there, frantically imploring her brood to join her. Something had to be done, and apparently the fates had willed me to that time and place for a reason. I had to make a difference; I had to help. Luckily, my father is a true animal lover and it was easy to convince him to help as well. Putting my fears aside, I persuaded him to remove the heavy metal grating over the drain and lower me by rope the ten feet or so to the floor of the drain where the anxious ducklings huddled. Bugs covered the walls of the drain and the only light was a shaft of sunlight from the setting sun. I carefully placed each ducking into a small box I had and watched as the fear in their wide eyes vanished. My father raised my ducklings and I back to more familiar ground as the terrified mother duck approached me apprehensively. I set the box down and watched as the mother duck reunited with her family. As they waddled off into the sunset, I will never forget the way I felt. They were wild animals to be sure, but the lives of those ducklings mattered, if only to their mother and me. I had made a difference. Tomorrow morning, as the sun rose, they would be together. That was important to them. I didn't fully understand how important it was to me until years later.
In the summer of 2009, at the end of my sophomore year, I was employed as an executive assistant by a nonprofit organization called Peninsula Bridge, a summer school program for underprivileged area teenagers given at the Priory. One day, as I was leaving for home, I noticed Justin, a small figure of a small boy, sitting amid the shadows, head down. As school had dismissed for the day, I approached him to see if he needed help. He did not speak at first, but instead looked up at me with tears streaming down his face. Finally, he said, "I hate my home. I can't live with my family anymore. I hate my life." Up to then, I knew Justin as only a faceless name on an attendance sheet; one of those who never stood out, never caused a problem and never asked for help. Now he makes a statement perhaps best addressed by a child psychologist with 20 years experience, but this time, it fell to me. For a moment, all I could do was stare at the hapless boy. When my senses returned, I sat next to him and asked him to tell me about it. Softly, he explained his life to me: the angry outbursts of an alcoholic uncle, the abuse of his mother by his now deceased father, and the constant torment by cousins for being the "runt" of the family. He pulled from his pocket a small collection of dog-eared "Pokemon" cards and showed them to me. "These are my only friends," he told me, "but I trust you, too." I smiled but I also felt the full weight of the bond we had somehow forged.
As they had before, the fates had intervened. Eight little ducklings once needed help and this time it was a young boy. Over the next few weeks, he shared some of his pain with me and I tried to listen and offer what encouragement I could. Gradually, he came to understand his family situation and how to deal with the pressures of his life. On graduation day from summer school, he could hardly contain himself. Everyone else saw an exuberant little boy named Justin proudly receive his diploma, but I saw a very special person, a unique little boy whose life had touched mine if only for a brief, but important moment. I experienced my own graduation as well that day. At the Priory, we learn in a Benedictine environment. We learn that listening, and truly hearing, involves more than your head; it also includes your heart. The empathy I felt for Justin seemed to provide meaning to my own life and allowed me to see, perhaps for the first time, my gift. I do not know how many more Justins there are out there. But I know it is too many, and I want to do all I can to give them, and all of us, a better life.
In the grand scheme of things, eight little ducklings don't change the lives of many people. But they changed my life one October afternoon in 2000. My father picked me up from school and as we pulled into our driveway, I heard a strange sound. An adult duck was standing in our street, looking down into a storm drain; pacing nervously and quacking nonstop. I investigated and found the reasons, all eight of them. While out for a walk with their mother, eight little ducklings had apparently fallen through the grate covering the storm drain and now they were trapped. A police officer happened by. He pronounced them "wild animals" and after wishing them luck, he left. All I could think of was those little lives and the mother standing there, frantically imploring her brood to join her. Something had to be done, and apparently the fates had willed me to that time and place for a reason. I had to make a difference; I had to help. Luckily, my father is a true animal lover and it was easy to convince him to help as well. Putting my fears aside, I persuaded him to remove the heavy metal grating over the drain and lower me by rope the ten feet or so to the floor of the drain where the anxious ducklings huddled. Bugs covered the walls of the drain and the only light was a shaft of sunlight from the setting sun. I carefully placed each ducking into a small box I had and watched as the fear in their wide eyes vanished. My father raised my ducklings and I back to more familiar ground as the terrified mother duck approached me apprehensively. I set the box down and watched as the mother duck reunited with her family. As they waddled off into the sunset, I will never forget the way I felt. They were wild animals to be sure, but the lives of those ducklings mattered, if only to their mother and me. I had made a difference. Tomorrow morning, as the sun rose, they would be together. That was important to them. I didn't fully understand how important it was to me until years later.
In the summer of 2009, at the end of my sophomore year, I was employed as an executive assistant by a nonprofit organization called Peninsula Bridge, a summer school program for underprivileged area teenagers given at the Priory. One day, as I was leaving for home, I noticed Justin, a small figure of a small boy, sitting amid the shadows, head down. As school had dismissed for the day, I approached him to see if he needed help. He did not speak at first, but instead looked up at me with tears streaming down his face. Finally, he said, "I hate my home. I can't live with my family anymore. I hate my life." Up to then, I knew Justin as only a faceless name on an attendance sheet; one of those who never stood out, never caused a problem and never asked for help. Now he makes a statement perhaps best addressed by a child psychologist with 20 years experience, but this time, it fell to me. For a moment, all I could do was stare at the hapless boy. When my senses returned, I sat next to him and asked him to tell me about it. Softly, he explained his life to me: the angry outbursts of an alcoholic uncle, the abuse of his mother by his now deceased father, and the constant torment by cousins for being the "runt" of the family. He pulled from his pocket a small collection of dog-eared "Pokemon" cards and showed them to me. "These are my only friends," he told me, "but I trust you, too." I smiled but I also felt the full weight of the bond we had somehow forged.
As they had before, the fates had intervened. Eight little ducklings once needed help and this time it was a young boy. Over the next few weeks, he shared some of his pain with me and I tried to listen and offer what encouragement I could. Gradually, he came to understand his family situation and how to deal with the pressures of his life. On graduation day from summer school, he could hardly contain himself. Everyone else saw an exuberant little boy named Justin proudly receive his diploma, but I saw a very special person, a unique little boy whose life had touched mine if only for a brief, but important moment. I experienced my own graduation as well that day. At the Priory, we learn in a Benedictine environment. We learn that listening, and truly hearing, involves more than your head; it also includes your heart. The empathy I felt for Justin seemed to provide meaning to my own life and allowed me to see, perhaps for the first time, my gift. I do not know how many more Justins there are out there. But I know it is too many, and I want to do all I can to give them, and all of us, a better life.
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