Sample College Entrance Essays from College Confidential.com

#1

Banana Girl

I reached for a fish ball (my favorite), wedging the chopsticks tightly between my fingers. I felt a little clumsy leaning toward that center dish. The dinner wasn't all that formal, but I was trying to make a good impression. Then suddenly, my hand-eye coordination failed. Ten pairs of eyeballs watched in horror as my precious little fish ball squirted out the side of my sticks and bounced onto the table. In what seemed like one of those slow-motion dream sequences from the movies, I watched the little sphere leave a telltale trail of sauce as it rolled determinedly toward the table's edge. I tried to be cool. "No big deal," I thought, as I quietly tried to scoop it with my chopsticks. When that failed, I tried a stab, which only pushed it farther away. I quickly tried to cover my embarrassment by plastering a bright smile on my ever-reddening face. My father, who was witnessing this dining mini-drama, deftly secured the little ball and, with skill and grace, deposited it into my bowl. "Hmm," he muttered with a sigh, "'Can't even use chopsticks." A woman next to him joked, "A Chinese girl who can't use chopsticks?!" Other guests bit their lips, trying to suppress their laughter. As I pondered this unlikely scene, I couldn't fault their amusement. After all, it was remarkable how un-Chinese I had become. My friends call me "Banana Girl": Yellow skin on the outside and white on the inside. At times, I think I'm not Asian anymore, such as during the fish-ball incident. A while ago, my mother sagely predicted that it wouldn't be long before hamburgers and pizza would be a big part of my diet (they already represent two of my four daily food groups). "No problem for me," I said. I was okay with that. "Nothing wrong with being 'Americanized'," I thought. What people don't understand is that, although I am well adapted to America's culture, I still greatly respect Chinese traditions. When my great-grandmother died this past summer, we couldn't attend her funeral due to financial difficulties. Her death was unexpectedly sudden. So, out of respect for her and our Chinese heritage, we created our own funeral ceremony at home. My mother and I went to our local Chinese market and bought a number of items made of paper (aprons, plates, and other household goods). We even got some Chinese paper money. Then my mother got out her large cooking pot and we went into the back yard and put all the paper items (even the money) into the pot and began burning them. Chinese, especially the Cantonese people, believe that after a person dies, they move on to another life where they still need practical things like money and clothes. The only way the dead can receive these items is if their relatives gather and burn them, sending them into the air as smoke. After we completed the ceremonial burning, we prepared a feast in remembrance of my great-grandmother. This meal is a kind of symbolic "last supper" with the deceased. I find the tradition both elegant and comforting. As part of the ceremony, I held up three burning sticks and bowed toward the flaming pot. It was a way to say goodbye and pay respect. Technically, it doesn't make much sense because I bowed to the pot, not to my great-grandmother. I didn't think it was weird at all. I understand and respect that tradition. It is intended to assure that the dead are well provide for. I understand that many traditions aren't logical. It doesn't matter to me, though, because I embrace my Chinese heritage.

I'm pretty sure that I'll probably never master the skill of picking up food with two wooden sticks. In fact, I greatly prefer knives, forks, and spoons. Throughout my cultural transition, though, I've learned that adapting to one culture hasn't "erased" my original identity or my traditional background. I am blessed to have had the advantage of living in and understanding two vastly different cultures. I'm certain that that this diverse perspective will not only help me adapt to the challenges of college life but also bring an element of difference and freshness to my future college friendships. Please remember one thing, though: If fish balls are ever on the dining hall menu, just hand "Banana Girl" a fork!

* * * *

The lesson here for essay writers is to look around your everyday lives carefully. Scenes like those

immortalized here in "Banana Girl" happen all the time. The key to success is mustering the writing

skills necessary to articulate these little dramas, elevating them to the status of a significance window

into who you are and how you think.

TIP: Keep a journal in which you make notes of interesting happenings such as the "fish-ball"

dinner party. When it's time to write your college application essays, you'll have a treasury filled

with all kinds of real-life anecdotes waiting to be turned into winning essays just like "Banana Girl."

#2

The Rube Goldberg Project It was past midnight on Christmas day and I was holding a gun. I couldn't concentrate on what I was doing anymore. The clock's second hand ticked louder and my eyelids grew heavier as my contacts rubbed like sandpaper against my bloodshot eyes. Finally, out of pure frustration, I pulled the trigger. But nothing happened. I was out of glue. Hot-glue guns were like that. I squinted at the floor, littered with tape, glue droppings, wood, broken blades, and so much other stuff that I could hardly find a place to step let alone find another almost-invisible, clear glue stick. I asked one of my class team members to help. The response was an irritated insult from a weary-eyed creature who once was my friend. This was but one more chapter in the bitter saga known as "The Rube Goldberg Project." It was the first time that any of us had tried to build a machine. At first I didn't think it would be too hard: Just make a contraption of some sort, using as little money as possible, which could move a marble for at least one minute and no more than twenty minutes. Whatever team's machine came closest to either one minute or twenty minutes received the highest grade. It was a deceptively simple challenge. We didn't waste any time getting started. Lani, a senior and veteran of past Goldbergs, warned, "Don't procrastinate; you'll never finish." Armed with those words of wisdom, we rushed to MJ Designs for our supplies the same day that midterms ended. I even bought paint to decorate our project for extra points. We had no idea the misery that awaited us. We spent many days endlessly fixing our project and snapping at each other. Finally, one night our friendships fell apart. Jen argued with Karen over the phone for leaving our project to attend a church event. As the bickering and yelling got louder, I just wanted to hide in my closet, but for some reason I didn't let myself collapse into tears. Bending my sore back, I dutifully continued to saw away at a large block of wood. Then, suddenly, the door swung open and Jen ran out of the room, tears streaming down her face. After a long, awkward silence, I explained that it wasn't Karen's fault that she was not going to make it back from church in time. We couldn't let this stop our work. I looked around, picked up the saw, and continued working. Seeing me work, the others started to work too.

I tried to serve as the bond in our group, holding our friendship and our project together. At times, it frustrated me because we buckled so easily, but I was determined that we would succeed and, indeed, we did. We built a "Lost in Space" machine that moved our marble for more than twelve minutes. It involved a staircase, a conveyor belt, and incline planes—a thing of intuitive beauty. Mrs. Killinger, our physics teacher, was so impressed that she awarded us the highest grade in our class. The grade turned out to be of secondary importance. Mrs. K and our classmates appreciated our hard work, tears, and determination. That's what made it all worthwhile to us. I realized that sometimes, no matter how hopeless things may seem at the moment, as long as I am willing to hang in there for just a little longer, the hard work usually pays off. Tenacity is a virtue . . . which helps when cleaning glue guns too.

* * * *

Yvonne capitalizes on her lead. What starts out as an ominous tale of suspense, turns into a

redeeming comedy of errors. At first, we don't know whether Yvonne is contemplating suicide or

murder, and we expect the worst when she pulls the trigger. It all turns out to something like one of

those umbrella rifles that clowns use. We can almost feel a big sense of relief when we realize that

this is a fun essay rather than a tragic one.

Tip: Put your best efforts into your lead. You get one chance to draw your readers into your writing.

Don't put them to sleep. Notice too how Yvonne ties everything up at the end by bringing the focus

back to the gun—the glue gun. She wraps her essay around the virtues of tenacity (a.k.a. "never give

up"). It has a nice symmetrical structure, kind of an A-B-A form with plenty of variety and personal

insights along the way. This scene is all too common among high school students scrambling to finish

a project, but Yvonne makes it come alive with her lively writing and careful structuring. It's a good

job.

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#3

Note: Essay #3 did not print with a title. What would be a good title? When I was a young, awkward adolescent, I considered myself to be a shy person, especially around boys. Because of this, my experiences at a coed middle school intimidated me somewhat. So, for the past five years, I have attended an all-girls school, which has helped me to become a stronger person. I have overcome my shyness and insecurities and developed much more confidence. Ironically, I believe that my shyness, something that I consider a communication barrier, has ultimately led me to focus on a field for my life's work: communications. Despite my aversion to it early on in life, I now love speaking to and interacting with people, be it as a friend, teacher, or public speaker. I now have a passion for stimulating conversation, and that enthusiasm manifests itself in three different and important aspects of my life outside of the classroom: peer support, volunteer work, and music. Peer support is a high school-sponsored program through which juniors and seniors are selected to work with eighth graders who attend Sacred Heart. It involves an intensive three-day workshop where student leaders learn how to listen effectively to and become mentors for the younger students. I love this work. Once a week, I get to speak to these impressionable boys and girls about anything that I feel is important. I enjoy learning about their lives and their issues and exploring possible solutions to their problems. We study today's society and its impact on them. I see much of my old self in these young people and that memory has helped me to help them become more confident about their everyday lives. My volunteer work centers on teaching, through a program called Summerbridge. After school, I go to a nearby public school and tutor learning-disadvantaged preteens. Instead of dealing with the students'

personal issues, as I do in peer support, the Summerbridge focus is more on communication through education. By working with these younger students, I have come to understand the importance of helping them comprehend and apply what they learn in the classroom. Their motivation, given their circumstances, is remarkable. We discuss in detail what they are learning so that I can keep them interested and motivated. Summerbridge is another example of how communication issues are very important to me. Not surprisingly, music has emerged as another, perhaps indirect, avenue for me to communicate with others. Singing allows me to convey my deep and personal emotions with others. When I sing, I am transported to another realm. The mundane everyday world around me disappears, and I am enveloped in my own, new space, especially when I am performing onstage. When I act, I am transformed, feeling the happiness, sadness, impishness, or even confusion that my character feels. My performance taps into that part of me where those qualities dwell, and I love sharing it with my audience. Music is a very special form of communication for me. Perhaps the person I am today is a compensation for who I was years ago. That awkward twelve-year old, however, is no more. Now I want to show the world what I can do. Communication has become my passion. It will be my future.