Le Tien Cong
(tiencongle)
New Member
Some IvyEssays for Prospective Undergraduate Students
Tier 1: Rank 1 (Harvard only)
ESSAY 1
Struck with sudden panic, I hastily flipped through the many papers in my
travel folder until I spotted the ticket. I nervously thrust it toward the
beaming stewardess, but took the time to return her wide smile. Before
stepping into the caterpillar tunnel I looked back at my parents, seeking
reassurance, but I sensed from their plastered-on grins and overly
enthusiastic waves that they were more terrified than I. I gave them a
departing wave, grabbed my violin case, and commenced my first solitary
journey.
Seated in the plane I began to study the pieces I would soon be performing,
trying to dispel the flutterings in my stomach. I listened to some
professional recordings on my Walkman, mimicking the fingerings with my
left hand while watching the sheet music.
"Where ya goin'?" smiling businessman-seatmate interrupted.
"To the National High School Orchestra," I answered politely, wanting to go
back to the music. "It's composed of students chosen from each state's
All-State ensemble." After three days of rehearsal, the orchestra would be
giving a concert at a convention center in Cincinnati. I focused back on
the music, thinking only of the seating audition I would have to face in a
few hours.
When I arrived at the hotel in Cincinnati, instruments and suitcases
cluttered every hallway, other kids milled around aimlessly, and the line
to pick up room keys was infinitely long. In line I met my social security
blanket, a friendly Japanese exchange student, [name], who announced
proudly and frequently, "I fro Tayx-aas!" Both glad to have met someone, we
adopted each other as friends of circumstance, and touched on a few of the
many differences between Japanese and American culture (including plumbing
apparatuses!)
Soon all of the performers received an audition schedule, and we went
rushing to our rooms to practice. I had an hour until my audition, and
repeated the hardest passages ad nauseam. When my time finally came, I
flew up to the ninth floor and into the dreaded audition room. Three
judges sat before a table. They chatted with me, futilely attempting to
calm me. All too soon they resumed serious expressions, and told me which
sections to perform. They were not the most difficult ones, but inevitably
my hands shook and sweated and my mind wandered...
I felt giddy leaving the audition room. The immense anxiety over the
audition was relieved, yet the adrenaline still rushed through me. I wanted
to yell and laugh and jump around and be completely silly, for my
long-awaited evaluation was over. After dinner the seating list would be
posted and I would know just where I fit in with the other musicians, all
of whom intimidated me by their mere presence at the convention.
Solitary, having been unable to find [name] or any of my three roommates,
I entered the dining room. I glanced feverishly around the giant room which
swarmed with strangers.
I gathered up all of my courage and pride for the first time ever, and
approached a group I had no preconceived notions about. I sat quietly at
first, gathering as much information as I could about the new people. Were
they friend material? After careful observation of their socialization, I
hypothesized that these complete strangers were very bright and easy to
talk to, and shared my buoyant (but sometimes timid), sense of humor. I
began to feel at home as we joked about SAT's, drivers' licenses, and other
teenage concerns. I realized then how easy it is to get along with people I
meet by coincidence. I became eager to test my newfound revelation.
The flutterings returned to my stomach when I approached the seating lists
which everyone strained to see. "I knew it; I got last chair," I heard
someone announce. My flutterings intensified. I located the violin list and
scanned for my name from the bottom up. My tender ego wouldn't let me start
at the top and get increasingly disappointed as I read farther and farther
down. "There I am, seventh seat. Pretty good out of twenty," I thought...
Every day at the convention seemed long, only because we did so many
wonderful things. We rehearsed for at least seven hours each day, made
numerous outings, and spent time meeting new friends.
On the second day, during a luncheon boat ride on the Ohio River, [name]
and I sat together, both dreaming of Japan. Looking over at her as we
talked, I remembered that in two days I would be torn from the young,
promising friendships I had been building. When some friends - including a
few I had met at the dinner table on the first night - approached us,
bearing a deck of cards, I became absorbed in a jovial game and quickly
forgot my sorrow.
Rehearsals were magical right from the start, because everyone rapidly grew
accustomed to the strangely professional sound of the group and began to
play without reserve, with full dynamics. I continually gazed, wide-eyed,
around the large, bright room, watching others, admiring their skill. We
were surrounded by pure talent, and the sky was our limit. We blossomed
under the conductor's suggestions, using our pre-developed technique to its
fullest.
Each time the orchestra played, my emotion soared, wafted by the beauty and
artfulness of the music, bringing goose-bumps to my skin and a joyful
feeling to my soul. I felt the power of the group - the talent and strength
of each individual - meld into a chorus of heavenly sound. I was just where
I wanted to be. I had everything I'd ever need. I was no longer doubting
myself among strangers; I was making music with friends.
:lol: :mrgreen:
_____________________________________________________________
ESSAY 2
A Visit to Rural Kenya
At the end of July of '95, I boarded a plane that would take me from my
home in Cincinnati, Ohio, to Nairobi, Kenya. My parents had always wanted
to take our family abroad, but when my mother signed a contract to work for
the U.S. Agency for International Development in Kenya, plans materialized,
and we were soon on our way to an exotic year in Africa.
Besides the farewells I had to make to my friends at home, I had few
reservations about living abroad. What made it easy for me to come to
Africa was my eagerness to immerse myself in a new culture. I knew that I
might never get such an experience again, so I was determined to learn all
I could about the language, the history, and the people, of that far-off
place.
During the first few months of our stay, my family took various trips
around the country. We watched zebra and wildebeest migrate across the
Serengeti, saw hippos floating like rocks in Lake Victoria, marveled at
flamingos balancing knee-deep in a salt-lake. We climbed an extinct volcano
in the Rift Valley. We snorkeled in the Indian Ocean and fed fish from our
fingers. We hiked 17,000 feet above sea level to the peak of Mt. Kenya. And
we studied Swahili, the local language, every evening after dinner. But in
late October my aunt came to visit for a month. She romanced us with
stories of her experiences in rural Africa working in the Peace Corps. The
sharp contrast between the simple lifestyle she described and the one I was
leading shocked me as to how un-African my life was. I went to an American
school every day with mostly Europeans and Asians, which, despite being a
unique experience itself, isolated me from the larger Kenyan community. I
was also living in a city, where shopping malls, Italian restaurants,
late-night discos, and movie theaters were all available close at hand. Was
this really what I had come to see? My daily activities were almost the
same as the ones in the United States. I typed English essays late at night
on a computer; I showered with hot water every day after soccer practice; I
dined on fried chicken or fish fillets or hamburgers. I was in the midst of
a swarm of expatriates who had formed a community so tight that I could
live with all the luxuries of a technologically-modern lifestyle. I saw my
problem: I had wound myself so tightly in the routine of my school life
that I was no longer seeing Kenya or even Kenyans. I yearned to know some
of the African culture, but I didn't know how that could be achieved
without a drastic break in my academic progress, which I wasn't willing to
sacrifice.
After talking over this issue with my parents, I stumbled upon the perfect
solution. [name] is the son of [name] and [name], with whom my mother lived
twenty years ago when she came to Kenya as a volunteer nurse. [name] was
living with us while he attended [name] College, but he was going back to
his home village to visit his family over the Christmas holidays. I could
go with him and stay with his family there.
This excursion proved to be the most rewarding ten days of my entire stay
in Africa. In that short period, I learned more about Kenyan culture than I
had in the five months prior to that time. First of all, I witnessed how
different the female role is in Kenya than in America. The women--young and
old--did about twice the work the men did. They had to cook the meals, get
the milk, sweep the house, chop the firewood, take care of the children;
the list goes on and on. The men did some work on the farm, but mostly they
enjoyed a laid-back lifestyle. And it is not uncommon for a man to have
more than one wife. Jeremiah has had a total of three women as wives. What
seems unheard-of to a Westerner is commonplace to a Kenyan.
I also saw an intense restlessness for change. When the men sat around the
dinner table(women weren't allowed to eat with them), they would not merely
discuss the weather or the latest gossip of the village. No, they debated
the problems and merits of Kenya and what could be done to improve their
country. They voiced their apprehension of the government, their fear that
if they openly opposed the established authority, their family could be
persecuted by the president's special agents. They talked of the AIDS
epidemic spreading through the working class like wildfire. They expressed
their anger at the drug abuse of their nation's youth. But these men were
unwilling to accept the obstacles they faced and instead looked toward
solutions--education, fairer elections, less corruption, and others. I also
saw that a primitive life is not necessarily a painful one. Theirs is a
simple life--one without running water, or electricity, or telephones, or
cars. But being simple did not mean it was a pleasureless life. It meant
fetching water every day from a well. It meant cooking over a fire and
reading by a lantern. It meant walking to school instead of driving. But it
also meant no expensive phone bills, no wallet-straining car repairs, no
broken washing machines. A simple life had its hardships, but it also
avoided the hassles that Americans face in their complex modern lives. In
the village, we ate good food, children screamed and shouted with joy, we
laughed while playing card games, we flipped through old photo albums.
Their lifestyle was vastly different from mine, but they still had the same
goals that I did: to have fun, to get a good education, to be comfortable.
After the New Year, when I returned to my home in Nairobi, I went back
carrying in my mind a vivid picture of rural Kenya, but also satisfied that
I had learned something that could not be found in Nairobi's American
expatriate community.
Tier 1: Rank 1 (Harvard only)
ESSAY 1
Struck with sudden panic, I hastily flipped through the many papers in my
travel folder until I spotted the ticket. I nervously thrust it toward the
beaming stewardess, but took the time to return her wide smile. Before
stepping into the caterpillar tunnel I looked back at my parents, seeking
reassurance, but I sensed from their plastered-on grins and overly
enthusiastic waves that they were more terrified than I. I gave them a
departing wave, grabbed my violin case, and commenced my first solitary
journey.
Seated in the plane I began to study the pieces I would soon be performing,
trying to dispel the flutterings in my stomach. I listened to some
professional recordings on my Walkman, mimicking the fingerings with my
left hand while watching the sheet music.
"Where ya goin'?" smiling businessman-seatmate interrupted.
"To the National High School Orchestra," I answered politely, wanting to go
back to the music. "It's composed of students chosen from each state's
All-State ensemble." After three days of rehearsal, the orchestra would be
giving a concert at a convention center in Cincinnati. I focused back on
the music, thinking only of the seating audition I would have to face in a
few hours.
When I arrived at the hotel in Cincinnati, instruments and suitcases
cluttered every hallway, other kids milled around aimlessly, and the line
to pick up room keys was infinitely long. In line I met my social security
blanket, a friendly Japanese exchange student, [name], who announced
proudly and frequently, "I fro Tayx-aas!" Both glad to have met someone, we
adopted each other as friends of circumstance, and touched on a few of the
many differences between Japanese and American culture (including plumbing
apparatuses!)
Soon all of the performers received an audition schedule, and we went
rushing to our rooms to practice. I had an hour until my audition, and
repeated the hardest passages ad nauseam. When my time finally came, I
flew up to the ninth floor and into the dreaded audition room. Three
judges sat before a table. They chatted with me, futilely attempting to
calm me. All too soon they resumed serious expressions, and told me which
sections to perform. They were not the most difficult ones, but inevitably
my hands shook and sweated and my mind wandered...
I felt giddy leaving the audition room. The immense anxiety over the
audition was relieved, yet the adrenaline still rushed through me. I wanted
to yell and laugh and jump around and be completely silly, for my
long-awaited evaluation was over. After dinner the seating list would be
posted and I would know just where I fit in with the other musicians, all
of whom intimidated me by their mere presence at the convention.
Solitary, having been unable to find [name] or any of my three roommates,
I entered the dining room. I glanced feverishly around the giant room which
swarmed with strangers.
I gathered up all of my courage and pride for the first time ever, and
approached a group I had no preconceived notions about. I sat quietly at
first, gathering as much information as I could about the new people. Were
they friend material? After careful observation of their socialization, I
hypothesized that these complete strangers were very bright and easy to
talk to, and shared my buoyant (but sometimes timid), sense of humor. I
began to feel at home as we joked about SAT's, drivers' licenses, and other
teenage concerns. I realized then how easy it is to get along with people I
meet by coincidence. I became eager to test my newfound revelation.
The flutterings returned to my stomach when I approached the seating lists
which everyone strained to see. "I knew it; I got last chair," I heard
someone announce. My flutterings intensified. I located the violin list and
scanned for my name from the bottom up. My tender ego wouldn't let me start
at the top and get increasingly disappointed as I read farther and farther
down. "There I am, seventh seat. Pretty good out of twenty," I thought...
Every day at the convention seemed long, only because we did so many
wonderful things. We rehearsed for at least seven hours each day, made
numerous outings, and spent time meeting new friends.
On the second day, during a luncheon boat ride on the Ohio River, [name]
and I sat together, both dreaming of Japan. Looking over at her as we
talked, I remembered that in two days I would be torn from the young,
promising friendships I had been building. When some friends - including a
few I had met at the dinner table on the first night - approached us,
bearing a deck of cards, I became absorbed in a jovial game and quickly
forgot my sorrow.
Rehearsals were magical right from the start, because everyone rapidly grew
accustomed to the strangely professional sound of the group and began to
play without reserve, with full dynamics. I continually gazed, wide-eyed,
around the large, bright room, watching others, admiring their skill. We
were surrounded by pure talent, and the sky was our limit. We blossomed
under the conductor's suggestions, using our pre-developed technique to its
fullest.
Each time the orchestra played, my emotion soared, wafted by the beauty and
artfulness of the music, bringing goose-bumps to my skin and a joyful
feeling to my soul. I felt the power of the group - the talent and strength
of each individual - meld into a chorus of heavenly sound. I was just where
I wanted to be. I had everything I'd ever need. I was no longer doubting
myself among strangers; I was making music with friends.
:lol: :mrgreen:
_____________________________________________________________
ESSAY 2
A Visit to Rural Kenya
At the end of July of '95, I boarded a plane that would take me from my
home in Cincinnati, Ohio, to Nairobi, Kenya. My parents had always wanted
to take our family abroad, but when my mother signed a contract to work for
the U.S. Agency for International Development in Kenya, plans materialized,
and we were soon on our way to an exotic year in Africa.
Besides the farewells I had to make to my friends at home, I had few
reservations about living abroad. What made it easy for me to come to
Africa was my eagerness to immerse myself in a new culture. I knew that I
might never get such an experience again, so I was determined to learn all
I could about the language, the history, and the people, of that far-off
place.
During the first few months of our stay, my family took various trips
around the country. We watched zebra and wildebeest migrate across the
Serengeti, saw hippos floating like rocks in Lake Victoria, marveled at
flamingos balancing knee-deep in a salt-lake. We climbed an extinct volcano
in the Rift Valley. We snorkeled in the Indian Ocean and fed fish from our
fingers. We hiked 17,000 feet above sea level to the peak of Mt. Kenya. And
we studied Swahili, the local language, every evening after dinner. But in
late October my aunt came to visit for a month. She romanced us with
stories of her experiences in rural Africa working in the Peace Corps. The
sharp contrast between the simple lifestyle she described and the one I was
leading shocked me as to how un-African my life was. I went to an American
school every day with mostly Europeans and Asians, which, despite being a
unique experience itself, isolated me from the larger Kenyan community. I
was also living in a city, where shopping malls, Italian restaurants,
late-night discos, and movie theaters were all available close at hand. Was
this really what I had come to see? My daily activities were almost the
same as the ones in the United States. I typed English essays late at night
on a computer; I showered with hot water every day after soccer practice; I
dined on fried chicken or fish fillets or hamburgers. I was in the midst of
a swarm of expatriates who had formed a community so tight that I could
live with all the luxuries of a technologically-modern lifestyle. I saw my
problem: I had wound myself so tightly in the routine of my school life
that I was no longer seeing Kenya or even Kenyans. I yearned to know some
of the African culture, but I didn't know how that could be achieved
without a drastic break in my academic progress, which I wasn't willing to
sacrifice.
After talking over this issue with my parents, I stumbled upon the perfect
solution. [name] is the son of [name] and [name], with whom my mother lived
twenty years ago when she came to Kenya as a volunteer nurse. [name] was
living with us while he attended [name] College, but he was going back to
his home village to visit his family over the Christmas holidays. I could
go with him and stay with his family there.
This excursion proved to be the most rewarding ten days of my entire stay
in Africa. In that short period, I learned more about Kenyan culture than I
had in the five months prior to that time. First of all, I witnessed how
different the female role is in Kenya than in America. The women--young and
old--did about twice the work the men did. They had to cook the meals, get
the milk, sweep the house, chop the firewood, take care of the children;
the list goes on and on. The men did some work on the farm, but mostly they
enjoyed a laid-back lifestyle. And it is not uncommon for a man to have
more than one wife. Jeremiah has had a total of three women as wives. What
seems unheard-of to a Westerner is commonplace to a Kenyan.
I also saw an intense restlessness for change. When the men sat around the
dinner table(women weren't allowed to eat with them), they would not merely
discuss the weather or the latest gossip of the village. No, they debated
the problems and merits of Kenya and what could be done to improve their
country. They voiced their apprehension of the government, their fear that
if they openly opposed the established authority, their family could be
persecuted by the president's special agents. They talked of the AIDS
epidemic spreading through the working class like wildfire. They expressed
their anger at the drug abuse of their nation's youth. But these men were
unwilling to accept the obstacles they faced and instead looked toward
solutions--education, fairer elections, less corruption, and others. I also
saw that a primitive life is not necessarily a painful one. Theirs is a
simple life--one without running water, or electricity, or telephones, or
cars. But being simple did not mean it was a pleasureless life. It meant
fetching water every day from a well. It meant cooking over a fire and
reading by a lantern. It meant walking to school instead of driving. But it
also meant no expensive phone bills, no wallet-straining car repairs, no
broken washing machines. A simple life had its hardships, but it also
avoided the hassles that Americans face in their complex modern lives. In
the village, we ate good food, children screamed and shouted with joy, we
laughed while playing card games, we flipped through old photo albums.
Their lifestyle was vastly different from mine, but they still had the same
goals that I did: to have fun, to get a good education, to be comfortable.
After the New Year, when I returned to my home in Nairobi, I went back
carrying in my mind a vivid picture of rural Kenya, but also satisfied that
I had learned something that could not be found in Nairobi's American
expatriate community.
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