What person in your life has had the greatest influence upon who you are today?Auntie ElBy Samuel Choate, Weston, Mass.

Eleanor, or "Auntie El" as she was called by everyone, was my primary caretaker for the first fifteen years of my life. Auntie El grew up in the blue-collar town of Everett, Mass., never married and lived with my grandmother, who was her older sister. She spent her spare time bowling and looking for bargains on items nobody needed. Auntie El worked for the Gillette Company for 43 years in its South Boston factory as an inspection clerk in the Quality Control Group, scrutinizing the edges of razor blades under a microscope. Auntie El retired in November of 1989, the exact same month and year in which I was born. My parents both had demanding jobs with long hours and therefore needed someone to look after me during the day. Three months after I was born, they still had not found a babysitter, and time was running out. My grandmother volunteered her younger sister, mainly to get her out of the house they were sharing. Auntie El was called in to "pinch hit" on a temporary basis.

Cranky and wheezy from her latest cigarette, Auntie El walked into our house on her first day wearing her flowered apron and carrying a plastic grocery bag in which she packed her clothes for the week — not exactly Mary Poppins. Both my parents did not see this arrangement working, but were grateful for her services until a suitable caretaker could be found. She took care of me for two weeks until she went on a previously scheduled trip to Las Vegas. I guess she must have softened to the idea of caring for me because, halfway through the trip, she called my mother and told her she wanted the job full time. Auntie El started the next Monday.

No longer able to smoke because of my fragile lungs (I was on a respirator for several days after I was born), Auntie El had to find activities to take her mind off cigarettes. She took me on long walks every day and, as I grew older, would play catch with me in the backyard. Her health improved dramatically. We were good for each other.

As the years passed, we became even closer. By the time I was in first grade, she was a faculty favorite at my school and could be found waiting for me every day in the parking lot in her white Cutlass Ciera Oldsmobile with her BINGO plate on the front. She quickly became a school legend when she was the only adult in memory to join the Halloween parade which took us through every classroom in the school in costume. Auntie El wore a witch's hat and a black and orange polka dot apron; I was a fireman.

Through our years together, we had numerous adventures. One night, her nose bled profusely and she could not stop the bleeding. Since my parents were at work, she had to call an ambulance and was forced to take me with her. With the sirens blaring, I hopped in the back, dressed in my red Power Ranger pajamas.

Auntie El's tough, gritty mentality made me a stronger person. She grew up without a father and her family was poor. She and her siblings were taken out of school by tenth grade in order to help support the family. She never missed a chance to point out how hard my parents worked to provide me with great opportunities and called the town in which we lived "la de da land." I always had Auntie El to give me a dose of reality.

The littlest things seemed to pull Auntie El and me together. Our passion for food was a regular topic, and we would have daily discussions on what I had to eat for lunch that day at school. Late at night, I would sneak up to her room and watch episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond and would laugh until my parents heard us and ended the fun. No matter where we were, you could always find Auntie El and me laughing about something and enjoying the moment.

In the fall of my freshman year, Auntie El was diagnosed with colon cancer. After a successful operation, she spent some time in a rehabilitation center to regain her strength. On Thanksgiving evening, 2004, Auntie El suffered a heart attack. She fell to the floor, and hit her head. She was found later the next morning, and was pronounced dead. I found out when I heard my mother scream on the phone with the hospital. Auntie El's passing affected our whole family, but it was particularly tough for me. My good friend, my partner in crime and my teacher was no longer with me. Coming home to her every day for fifteen years was something I really enjoyed. Arriving home to an empty, quiet house and having days pass without talking to her was the worst experience of my life. I did not know life without Auntie El.

However, my family and I had to adjust but I did not know how to start over. I found myself thinking about Auntie El a lot and, one day, realized that she was still with me when I would hear her voice in the back of my mind during a test or a game or just when I was making dinner for myself.

More importantly, I realized that Auntie El instilled in me the values that I admired in her. She was genuine, caring and respectful. She taught me to work hard, and be mentally tough for life's challenges. Her perseverance and grit showed me a lot and provided me with the perfect role model for life.

What was a significant challenge from your past? What is a class, extra-curricular activity, or volunteering opportunity that has greatly influenced who you are today?Music for Prague 1968By Ryan Park Moraga, Calif.

“Do not judge this piece until you have performed it.” Repeatedly, Mr. Benstein challenged us to look beyond the rugged atonalism which went against every concept of our musical knowledge, and convey the raw emotion that inspired Karel Husa to compose Music for Prague 1968. At that time I did not understand how emotions could be expressed without words nor could I comprehend the nightmarish atmosphere of a Soviet invasion. Instead I was more overwhelmed by the foreign rhythms, the harsh, squeaking notes that existed in the highest registers of my clarinet, the thunderous tempo. I hated the song.

Just as Music for Prague shattered my perspective of music, my mother's unsuccessful battle against leukemia shattered the stability of my life. In October of 2005, after eight years and several failed treatments, it was determined that nothing more could be done for my mother. Over the next several months I watched as she withered away, living the last of her days with the feebleness of an old woman. When my mother lay too still in her sleep, I feared that I had lost her. And when she was awake, I was haunted by the images of her shivering violently in bed, the images blurred by the tears I tried to suppress in order to be strong for her, and the demoralizing feeling of helplessness that came with my inability to comfort her. I was torn emotionally. I wanted her suffering to end, but that meant losing her forever.

May 17 was the night of the concert and however nervous I was, all I can remember about that night was my mother, still a mother despite her physical state, harassing me for not taking a shower. It was for her that I vowed I would perform the song.

Mr. Benstein raised his baton and the melody of a bird song echoed from the flutes; the audience fell silent. The peaceful aura was broken by the minor chords of my clarinet, calling forth a looming presence. His baton strokes widened, and machine guns blasted from the snare drum, adding to the roaring of the brass tanks. My instrument emanated the cries of suffering, the notes shivering off my tongue. With the final upswing, he summoned the Hussite War song, and much of the pain that had built up inside my heart over the past months was lifted. My father told me later that he was deeply shaken by the piece as well. I realized that Music for Prague was not about the structure or the visual images it conjured, but instead it was the very lack of structure that allowed for Husa's emotions to stand out.

She passed away only a couple of hours after the performance. For the first time in months she looked at peace as she lay still in the presence of her family and I was able to accept that she was in a better place. It was Karel Husa's ability to capture the loneliness and the pain of losing a loved one that allows Music for Prague to move us all. The rhythm and beat of music describe emotions not restricted by words, flowing together with the beating of the heart.

What was a significant challenge from your past?ExposedBy Danielle Burby Huntington Station, N.Y.

We wanted to choreograph a tap dance like no one had ever seen before. We wanted to tell a story while we danced. We wanted to deliver a monologue. In the brainstorming session, Elyssa, our teacher, told us to think of a story, an experience, and to tell it not only through our words, but through our feet as well. I sat on the cold floor, my arms wrapped around my knees, and I wondered what story I should tell. I sifted through my memories, grasping for inspiration. Nothing.

One by one, my friends stood before us, dancing their stories. First went James, his tap shoes ringing out like pealing bells against the springy floor, telling a funny story about doctors. Then Sally, her beautiful red hair, newly cut, swinging and swaying along with her and her bubbly tale of band camp. Then Katie, intricately weaving a pattern across the floor, speaking about her open heart surgery. Then my little sister, the youngest one there, timidly striking her feet against the ground, quietly recounting the time she and my father had gotten lost canoeing.

Finally, it was my turn. I was the last to go, and I still had a hundred stories racing through my head. I stood up and slowly walked across the long room, my tap shoes clickety-clacking with every step. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my reflection follow me in the mirror. I turned around and faced five pairs of expectant eyes. Of their own accord my feet took up a rhythm: ba da dum bum, ba da dum bum. And above the metallic sound of my tapping flew a story I hadn't consciously chosen; a story I had been keeping locked tightly away from even my deepest thoughts.

As I realized what I was saying, my feet quickened and the tapping grew more frantic. But the tapping couldn't drown out my words; a story about my grandmother. I began with the surprise visit my mother and I decided to pay. I told of the window through which I watched my grandmother fall. I told of the glass door, the locked glass door, and my grandmother's slumped form lying unmoving on the floor with just a door barring us from her. And my mother, my clean-mouthed mother, cursing and struggling to find a key, finally finding it and thrusting the door open. The two of us rushing to help my grandmother, me a few steps behind, unsure of what to do, of what was going on.

As I told the story, my feet and words felt clumsy and I didn't know what they would do or say next. Five pairs of eyes, full of pity, watched me. I choked on the words. My feet faltered. But I had begun, and now I had to see it through. I described the sour smell of alcohol seeping out of my grandmother's very pores; the blood, the crimson translucent blood, puddled and smeared across the floor. And worst of all, her eyes, bleary and unfocused, facing in different directions. I told of my own eyes, wide as steering wheels. Blood oozed out of the cut on her head. And my grandmother — my grandma — tried to act as though nothing had happened, as though she weren't drunk, as though she wasn't an alcoholic.

My tapping faded out after the words had finally stopped running out of my mouth. The tale hadn't been told in a cohesive manner and my dancing had been disjointed. But my story was out in the open. And as I stood there, I suddenly felt naked. I was utterly exposed. I had dug up a piece of my soul that I suddenly wasn't sure I should have uncovered. Even an hour later, riding shotgun in my mother's minivan, with the trees flying past me, I felt as though a piece of me had been scooped out and left for the vultures.

But miraculously, after I got beyond my feelings of vulnerability, my wound started to mend. It was as though by telling the story I had let out an infection. My anger toward my grandmother was scabbing over; my resentment was being changed into a small scar. And even though none of the people who had heard my story ever brought it up again, sharing that small piece of myself with them allowed me to accept what had happened and to heal.

What past experiences has influenced your decision to pursue a certain course of study and/or profession?Hameau FarmBy Hayden Kiessling Pound Ridge, N.Y.

I was sitting on the floor of a stall in a barn tucked away on one hundred acres of land in central Pennsylvania. Lying next to me was a very pregnant Ayrshire cow weighing well over 1,000 pounds. Petoria didn't scare me. I was used to being in such close proximity to her. She was my favorite cow at Hameau Farm. My third year there as a camper, I had shown Petoria in the farm show at the end of the session. Now she was quite a bit bigger, and very frightened. It was her first calf, and she didn't really understand what was about to happen.

Thirty curious girls surrounded the calm haven that I had created in the stall for Petoria. The campers watched through the bars of the stall, waiting quietly and patiently for something to happen. I thought back to five years before, when I had first seen a calf being born. The mother was out in the pasture, so my friends and I watched in awe and anticipation as the massive creature lay down on her side and started pushing. A new calf was always an exciting change at the farm. Chores were put on hold as we wondered at the slimy, skinny animal trying to take its first steps.

The day Petoria went into labor, the girls were supposed to go to the state park for a barbeque and a swim, but they chose unanimously to stay and watch Petoria bring her first baby into the world. These are the kinds of girls that come to Hameau Farm: inquisitive, hardworking, independent girls who would rather spend two weeks feeding a baby goat with a bottle than splashing around in a town pool with their friends or playing soccer for their travel team. Even though my days as a camper ended long ago, I still consider myself a Hameau Farm girl, and this was my seventh summer.

For the moment my place was in the stall, sitting in the hay with Petoria. She let out a soft moo, and I stroked her soft brown-spotted coat. She was ready. I moved aside so that she could lie on her side, first coaxing her to the center of the stall so that the campers would get a good view. She started pushing. A series of hushed whispers rippled through the line of young girls. I loved that they were so excited. These were a bunch of city girls who had been dropped off almost a week ago, not knowing what to expect, but willing to try something new. I thought back to my first week at camp, and how I hadn't even known how to wash my own dishes. When it was my chore group's turn in the kitchen after dinner, I not only learned how to scrub, rinse and sanitize, but by the end of the night, I learned how to make the perfect beard out of soap bubbles, and I picked up some great dance moves to Britney Spears songs. Everything was an adventure at camp, and today was proving to be no exception.

Petoria was breathing harder. I could see the feet starting to emerge. I knew that the front hooves would come out first and the calf would literally dive out of its mother. This calf had some of the biggest feet I had ever seen, and Petoria had clearly noticed as well. As pushing got harder, Petoria became more vocal, and then she stopped. She was out of energy, but she needed to push or the calf wouldn't survive. I tried to feed her grain and give her water, but Petoria would have none of it. She was exhausted.

After deferring to the camp director, I had to gather up twine from the bales of hay around the barn, tie them together, and tie the long string around the calf's exposed hooves. It was my turn to do the work. I pulled on the twine, but couldn't get a good grip on it. My fellow counselor and I tied our end of the rope around a pitchfork. That provided us with at least a little leverage. Three of us pulled on that handle for what seemed like an hour. By then there was no point in trying to keep the campers quiet and relaxed. They were all concerned, shouting words of encouragement to Petoria and clapping and cheering whenever a little more of the calf emerged.

It is a Hameau Farm custom to name a new baby animal something starting with the first letter of its mother's name, so when that little bull calf finally came out of Petoria, the campers voted, and we named him Presley, after The King. He was the center of attention for days after, but as I made my way down to the farmhouse to shower away the slime, dirt, and sawdust, I knew that he was just one of the many adventures that each one of those campers would have at Hameau Farm.

What past experiences has influenced your decision to pursue a certain course of study and/or profession?Block by Block, Word by WordBy Daniel Steinman Short Hills, N.J.

You can make almost anything out of LEGOs. You can build miniature spaceships, colorful forts, or cities of blocky skyscrapers that span the basement floor. My favorite was constructing ancient, booby-trapped temples like the ones from Indiana Jones.

In elementary school, I was fanatical about my LEGOs. I would build the medieval castle, complete with the moat and the drawbridge and guard stations and the throne room for the king and queen and their royal dog, Patches. (Coincidentally, Patches was also the name of my dog.) I would kneel for hours, hunched over the hundreds of blocks spread over the carpet, to select just the right piece for each part of the structure.

Once the castle walls were erected and the knights on horseback were set to approach from the other side of the moat, I was done. I didn't really play with the castle afterward. I moved it to the corner so that my sister's Barbie convertible wouldn't crash into it and ruin my little "Ages 3 and Up" masterpiece.

Looking back on my childhood, I was a bizarrely obsessive little kid. For days after building a fort or a spaceship, I would stop and examine that every plastic block was still in place.

It's strange to think that between the age of riding a tricycle and the age of driving a car, I am, in some ways, exactly the same. I don't play with LEGOs anymore, but I am a construction worker of types. Now I write essays and stories and newspaper articles, and I approach it with the same compulsion.

Every word is painstakingly selected with the same intensity I exerted as a child choosing the right color block. Every phrase is turned around and around in my head like arranging the walls of the castle gate. Every sentence is examined for its structural quality. At my desk — like kneeling over my rug — I craft meticulously.

By writing, I hope to create the grand and intricate images in my mind, to give them some physical incarnation. Inked on a page, a nebulous mass of related thoughts can be forged into something real. A story or essay can be erected as the fulfillment of a single concept. My gratification comes from being able to perfectly embody an idea. This can be frustrating because I've never written anything close to perfect. For as much as I agonize over my words and methodically rework every draft, my ideal eludes me. Still, I return to my desk and keep writing, editing, and rewriting because if I don't return to my desk, I'm sure I'll never write the essays, stories, and newspaper articles that I know I want to write.

You can make almost anything out of words. You can build planet-sized spaceships, long-lost medieval castles, or cities of glass structures that pierce the clouds. If my construction work is solid enough, I believe I will be able to make these worlds — real and imaginary — come alive on paper the way they did on the rug of my basement. So I continue to build — block by block, word by word, sentence by sentence — in the hope that I will end up with something I can put to the side of my desk and examine every once in a while to see that every word fits in place.

What past experiences has influenced your decision to pursue a certain course of study and/or profession?

Food for ThoughtJustin Winokur '18 Stowe High School, Stowe, Vermont

The memory of my first McDonald’s hamburger is still fresh in my mind. I can easily recall the way that the acidic pickles overpowered my senses, how their pungent fragrance wafted through my car and invaded my clothes. I can feel the soggy buns disintegrating atop my tongue, so unlike any other bread I have ever had, and the meager patty crumbling between my teeth. These flavors and textures are memorable because they were novel, because I was not raised on such hamburgers but tried one for the first time during a recent family car ride home from Canada. My parents were puzzled by my desire to consume a food that they had always regarded as taboo. My rationale was this: I do not eat the hamburger because it might be delicious or good for me. I eat it to learn about the world.

I was an intensely curious child. My parents did their best to fuel the flames of my natural desire to learn because, as a homeschooler, I did not have the strict schedule and resources of my public-school-going peers. In order for homeschooling to work I had to be self-motivated. My school days became about the things I wanted to learn, about the books I wanted to read and the pictures I wanted to draw. With no television, I was forced to use my imagination for entertainment. I wrote stories, visited science museums, had pretend sword fights in the woods with my friends, and learned how to play the cello. My Dad taught me to make music with a guitar and a piano, my mom taught me how to use pencils to turn three dimensions into two, I taught myself how to see meaning in poems and literature, and I learned my math facts by playing games with my family. I joined an alternative education community to study Japanese and writing. At times I took trips to art classes and yoga studios, or went to my Dad’s office and browsed law books while simultaneously growing tomatoes on his windowsills. Not once did I have to sacrifice my natural curiosity to finish my homework or stay up late to write an essay. I had freedom to educate myself and explore my mind.

My time was spent with other homeschoolers and their parents, a band of intellectuals, artists, business people, and activists. Together we took classes and talked politics, organized talent shows and had tremendous potlucks. Our dinners were not host to greasy fast food hamburgers and sugary sodas, but “weird hippy food”: salads from our backyards, vegetarian lasagna, poultry and beef raised by our neighbors, homemade this-and-that, organic everything. It was a delicious, comforting, tremendous part of my life that taught me how to value the Earth and the products of its soil. I was connected to my meals and aware of their journey to my table. To me, that was the way food should be. Yet the curiosity that I had freely nurtured screamed within me, “what else is there?” What, if this is the way food should be, could draw so many people to food so different?

I consumed the hamburger because that question consumed me. My curiosity to understand the other side of the argument and to see life from a different perspective overpowered my boundaries, for some things cannot be judged without first being experienced. The world is a massive place full of diversity and variety, and I did not want to limit myself by knowing just a part of it. I wanted to try that unfamiliar hamburger to perceive the world from a new angle, just as I wanted to attend public school and discover what was beyond my small, earthy, homeschooling community. I was taught to be curious, and that curiosity would not – will not – allow me to see life through a single lens.

What past experiences has influenced your decision to pursue a certain course of study and/or profession?Michelle B. Lee '18Bishop Guertin High School, Nashua, N.H.

I spent my entire childhood engulfed in the world of my imagination. I spent countless hours draped in taffeta gowns of bubblegum pink, ocean blue and sunshiny yellow as a medieval princess: Lady Michelle. My castle was a nearby church and my moat was the concrete road. The jester? My brother Tom. I slipped a patch over my eye and sailed onto my bed, now Blackbeard’s pirate ship my treasure map drawn onto my wall in magic marker until Admiral Tom came in and revealed my map to the king and queen. Other days my lush backyard became dotted with tumbleweeds as I put on a hat to become a cowboy in the Wild West chasing the Indian Sitting Tom. My saloon sheltered in my tree house. As I’ve grown into adolescence, my days of endless time travel have almost ended, my plaid skirt replacing the whimsical dresses and to-do lists replacing the hours of play. But not quite, my imagination and my world have one final fortress: Strawbery Banke.

At Strawbery Banke, a history museum comprised of restored houses, I exchange my skinny jeans for an empire waist dress complete with a bonnet and my world of imagination reopens. I am Mary Chase and my world is 1814, a time of James Madison and the war of 1812. Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you, the museum visitor, in on my secret: I flirt with the boys through the language of my fan. If I’m waving my fan quickly, I’m interested, but if I fan myself slowly? Run! My world morphs, and my empire waist dress turns into saddle shoes and a blouse and skirt cut from the same cloth. Before you know it, 1945 is in full swing and now I am Helen Jalicki, my life filled with radios, WWII and lines drawn up the backs of my legs with eyeliner pencils since nylons are rationed. But don’t tell my mother! I look at the sailors over the fence of the navy shipyard too…my mother probably shouldn’t find out about that either! I trade in my saddle shoes for an A-line skirt with crinoline itching my thighs, now Betty Quackenbush’s. Enter my world of 1955 and watch my nifty TV as the Cold War shivers on outside. I’ll show you my Elvis record, slightly warped since I sleep with it under my pillow so my mom won’t find it.

The worlds of my imagination are released, at Strawbery Banke, from the confines of Hardy-Weinberg equations and conjugating the subjunctive case. Here I can recreate those worlds, but instead of just inviting my older brother in, I invite hundreds of strangers, not just into the museum, but into my world, my imagination, my spin on history. There are 300 years of American history and old guys with PhDs have already written the history books. But now I get to write the history from the viewpoints of 17-year-old girls. I get my chance to say yes, Eisenhower matters but so does Betty. Mary, Helen and Betty matter just as much as Hamilton, FDR and MacArthur. When I open up my little world of history to the visitors, I realize the power of the individual. Individuals matter because all of them can open up their worlds to others and share history. Every individual who has ever lived, has influenced history and left a mark. They’ve mattered. They mattered when they were alive; they still matter today. Maybe I’ll end up a homemaker like Helen with four kids and a doting husband or maybe I’ll follow my dreams and end up in Zambia living and breathing my passion: public health. But either way my little world and my story are so much bigger than I am because they are something shared, something communal. My world and my story are pieces of the pointillist painting of the human condition: history.

What was a significant challenge from your past? How did over-coming the challenge shape who you are today?Mohammad O. Khan '17Conard High School, West Hartford, Conn.

I was born with a hammer in my ear. It enables me to hear the 6,000 human languages. One strikes me most: English. I speak it as my fifth. Read it as my second. Write it as my first. Although I speak four languages (excluding English), I am unfortunately and almost painfully a trite occurrence in my family. I come from the village of Tordher, Pakistan, a place where if you are born monolingual you will be regarded as an anomaly.

My family’s first language is Pashto. My mother’s second language is Hindko. My father’s second languages are Urdu and Hindi. This almost evokes a redefinition of the word infant (in fans, Latin for born without speech). At 10 months of age, a baby’s babbling resembles the household language. At 12 months, the baby can decipher sounds that carry a meaning (such as ma-ma). This is called the one-word stage, during which babies can become deaf to other languages in order to hone in on their native tongue. Big problem. It is hard to discriminate languages when they are spoken equally in a household. Thus, the first language I spoke at infancy is a conundrum. My best theory is that I was born with a hammer in my ear. It strikes spontaneously at sound waves, smiting them upon an anvil and transmuting them into words, sending back the useless while securing the significant.

The hammer strikes and selects. I do not. It decides if I need a word. This is why English is unique to me. It is the only language that I had the option to learn. It’s also the first that I learned in a classroom setting, and the only one for which I did not rely on my hammer or my family; when I first immigrated to the United States, upwards of 95% of my total family did not speak English. I found it a challenge, middle school through high school, to learn vocabulary and syntax. But then, I also saw how much of a polar opposite it was to the ability of my hammer. Memorization of vocab lists did not come as easily as learning 3,500 words a year before puberty, when the receptive senses develop. I excelled nonetheless and English became the first language that I could write and the second that I could read, after Arabic.

Now I am an honors student, yet I see myself as illiterate. Even though scientifically the ability to learn languages exponentially decreases with age, I am still shocked I can no longer depend on my hammer. I am also speaking my other languages less and less frequently because I am fixated on this language, English. I find ‘illiterate’ to be a strong and dangerous word. It conjures an image of an immigrant who cannot speak English. It is dangerous because it creates a one-sided opinion. Who would think that the immigrant speaks four languages? Literate is a strong word because it is used only in relation to English. Yet, I find the same bias while speaking with family in Pakistan through Skype. I speak all of my languages with an American accent, and my relatives call me illiterate as a joke in response. I take it seriously.

I am on a trek to bridge the gap between writing in-depth English essays (regarding subjects like Thomas Jefferson’s contradictory life) and delivering English analyses orally to my peers (about topics such as Islamophobia and the dangers of stereotypes), while relearning how to enunciate words, with perfection, in the other languages that I know. For balance, I keep my feet in stirrups on the sides of the saddle of this speaking, bucking animal.

Now I can hear the hammer striking in the distance. The process takes effort. I am trying to dispel my bias of language and those who speak it. It is even more astounding and rewarding to know the fact that the hammer, anvil, and stirrup are more than symbols, but are actual parts of the human ear. They are the smallest bones in the human body, but arguably have the largest impact in transforming individuals. This minutia has to be heard. As I become an alumnus and walk across that platform, I want people to see more than just an archetypal, aspiring immigrant who seeks success through studying. We are all born with hammers in our ears. What sets everyone apart is the decision to see this as minutia or see this as the greatest gift.

What was a significant challenge from your past? How did over-coming the challenge shape who you are today?Ahmad Ashraf ’17Lahore Grammar School, Pakistan

“Mum, I'm gay.”

The horrified look on her face is my biggest fear. She's lived her whole life battling one tragedy after another. She has been caged, staying in an unhappy marriage for the sake of her children.

And now to hear this from her only son. The words terrify her. She cannot comprehend the meaning of this. She just doesn't understand; is it something she did? Is it her fault? Maybe her children did need a father after all. Maybe she could have prevented this if she'd seen the signs. Maybe she shouldn't have let him play with her duppattas, laughing away the concerns of her own mother.

Maybe she could have done something.

And I cry when I think of this. Because I know it may be true, even though it hasn't yet happened. I cry because she might love me less. At the unfairness of such love, based on such trivial criteria. But mostly, I cry because she might blame herself. Because it isn't her fault, if only she could understand. It's taken me years to comprehend, but it's not mine either.

I cannot really blame her. She is a Muslim. She is Pakistani. She was raised, conditioned, to hate me. What am I to say to that?

To distract myself, I fight. I volunteer at an LGBT foundation. I walk the streets, chanting for women's rights. I collaborate with the HRCP to arrange a minority rights conference at my school. I paint, I write, putting all my love, all my despair, all my thoughts onto paper. I cannot state that I am gay, so I fight for everybody else. And in that community, with those activists, I find peace. I find a history, I find lineage. In glitter, I trace my ancestors. I understand, finally, that love is made; relationships are built, not on blood, but on acceptance. Looking at those men and women, bold, brave, bright, I find my family. I realize it is our suffering that brings us together.

I think of my mother's suffering.

She too broke the rules. She is also an outcast. Against the wishes of her family, she became a doctor. Shocking society, she left a man she didn't love. Why do I look at her troubles negatively? She has transgressed as well, perhaps more than me. She would certainly understand. In our suffering, we are bound. With empty hands, we have no choice but to help each other; she and I. I underestimated my mother. Who am I to undermine her troubles? How dare I suggest she is like the rest of society when I know she isn't?

I imagine her, then, looking at me. Bemused. When I've made my big confession. “That's it?” she would say. And then she would walk off, leaving me beaming.

But even if she doesn't accept me, I have understood this: my existence is not based on one person. I have an entire tribe now, rights to fight for, slogans to shout. A whole family tree, waiting to be decked with rhinestones.

What person in your life has had the greatest influence upon who you are today?Olivia Rabbitt '16Bishop Feehan High School, Attleboro, Mass.

The bright blue eyes that alight with unfettered curiosity on the burgeoning bulletin board are not only my own. Nor are the ears that listen raptly to the hum of student life and the gentle sing-song of our tour guide’s voice. Almost in tandem, my companion and I tear ourselves from the vivid vignette of college life and return with unmatched strides to the vast expanses of the campus. As the tour continues, I am neither surprised by the eager questions my companion poses - “Where’s the baseball field?” - nor by the heightened interest painted so clearly across his face. Wandering amongst the tall stone buildings, I appreciate for the first time how much this visit means to my constant companion, my father.

Growing up in a home overflowing with seven children and two working parents, my father spilled out into the “real world” at age eighteen. He took with him his younger brother, an impossibly solid work ethic, and a Chevy Caprice. Neither of my grandparents were fazed by their son’s moving out of the house so abruptly; their expectation had always been clear: go to school, learn the basics, then work. The notion of higher education never crossed my father’s strong mind until years after his high school graduation. To hear him describe his adolescence is almost like hearing a fable told from the perspective of the Prodigal Son.

With the outspoken and unyielding influence of my mother, my father decided that none of his children would make the same foolish mistakes that he had made. Learning for learning’s sake was always the focus in our home. From our nightly story The Hobbit, to endless explorations in the woods, to gardening, to building, my brothers and I were never bored. While it was from my mother that I first learned to question and explore, it was my father who was able to capture my inquisitive spirit and help ground me in the practical.

Perhaps because he was a self-sufficient teen, my father exudes a quiet self-assuredness that can result only from years of independence and a deep understanding of the nature of the world. My father never once isolated me from the “real world.” Instead, he found a unique way of protecting that left me both completely aware and largely unscathed. By leaving me free to make mistakes and chase wild dreams, my father was always able to help ground me back in reality. Personal responsibilities, priorities and commitments are all values that are etched into my mind, just as they are within my father’s.

In a few short months, I will reach the same benchmark that my father did on his eighteenth birthday. However I will not go forth into a cruel, cold world without a guiding star. I have always known that my path in life will be paradoxically different from, but also much the same as, my father’s. Education has always been my focus, but the joy I find in nature and hard work could only be traits taught by the man who now walks beside me. I will, with luck, never buckle under the same burdens he has borne nor will I forget the values he has instilled in me.

On this sunny September afternoon, as I envision my own future, I cannot help but wonder what my father sees as we gaze across campus.

What is a significant responsibility that has influenced your life?What was a significant challenge from your past? How did over-coming the challenge shape who you are today?Kevin Zevallos '16 High School of Telecommunication Arts, Brooklyn, NY

I live alone — I always have since elementary school. I wasn't privileged with having my parents there for me. I didn't grow up with my father; he left when I was four. My mom worked from morning to night, so I spent no time with her. While I grew to appreciate her sacrifices, it strained our relationship. My sister Paola, however, was there for me.

Paola picked me up every day from elementary school. Walking home was the best time of my day; the time I got to connect with a person and actually tell them what I drew in school or the new song I learned to play on my recorder. She was the one who fed me, read me bedtime stories and tucked me into bed. I grew to love her like a mother. In time, Paola left me too.

Having to tend to her newborn child, LaMya, my sister could no longer devote her attention to me. Since I was only in second grade when Paola had LaMya, I did not comprehend my sister’s actions. I felt abandoned, and I longed to hear someone say I’m proud of you. I used that as a driving force to excel in elementary school.

Before my niece was born I wasn’t the brightest kid; I would get C’s and B’s. Diligent studying, however, paid off. In the fifth grade, Kings County sent me a letter about the “Citation of Honor.” I was one out of two kids in my school to receive this award. My mother and sister told me si tu quieres, puedes; if you want it, you can achieve it. Like the engraving on a statue, those words stuck with me forever. I felt empowered knowing my mother and sister had faith in me. In high school, when my mother told me yo quiero que tengas un mejor vida que la mia; I want you to have a better life than mine, I finally accepted that they had other responsibilities. I don’t remember the last time anyone asked me how my day was, but I admire my family's sacrifices for their children to have a better life.

Now I pick up my niece from school and listen to her day as my sister did for me. Everything I learned from my family, I pass on to LaMya. My family’s values of sacrifice and self-determination, values embodied in my persona, I echo on to her. One day, if she ever feels lonely, she’ll know who to come to.

Work drains so much vitality from the people I care about. I know they must work so that one day I will go to a great college, have a good career, and be successful. I will not let my family’s economic situation deter me from my future. I used to be selfish and stubborn; I longed for their attention to hear that they are proud me when in reality they always were. I now understand and don’t feel so alone anymore.

What past experiences has influenced your decision to pursue a certain course of study and/or profession?

Outgrowing the Garage—Elijah

The air is tainted with unnatural fumes of grease, wood, and burnt electrical tape. Oil slicks stain the floor. Thick wooden shelves sag unnervingly close to buckling under the weight of old house paint and power tools. A workbench lies buried beneath papers, rulers, cans, and metal shards. An uncomfortable growl pours from the water heater. Most people wouldn’t describe my grimy garage as pleasant, but I love spending my free time here. It’s where I built a 2 ft trebuchet in sixth grade, a 4 ft trebuchet in seventh grade, and plan to build an 8 ft trebuchet this winter break. It’s where I built a battlebot and slapped an Arduino microcontroller on top to give it intelligence. Ever since I sat watching jets shake the sky and explosions rock the screen in the movie Iron Man as a stunned sixth grader, I’ve spent weekends experimenting in my garage, trying to learn everything I can about engineering and robotics.

Sure, outside of my garage I love wildlife and hiking, history, and weird foods. I love classic rock, jazz, and maybe even secretly Katy Perry. Nevertheless, I’ve always had a life plan centered on robotics: go to a great college, learn robotics, build robots, get a Bernese mountain dog, and live happily ever after in a beautiful forest home. It seems strange that I’ve committed myself to robotics so easily despite my many interests, but in reality, robotics combines nearly all of them. Computer science, electrical engineering, and mechanical engineering are crucial to the robot, but combine them with biology, astronomy, music, or ecology, and that’s when robotics becomes amazing. I could help the sick with robots that give surgeons more dexterity while operating. I could help the poor with affordable, robot-made products. I could aid the elderly, replace the limbs of wounded warriors, and keep fire fighters from harm’s way, all with robots. Although these robots may not be the crimson and gold Iron Man suit that first got me interested, I love the realistic and heroic possibilities in the field of robotics.

Almost as exciting as imagining the robots I could build, is imagining where I could build them. I could become a professor and research cutting edge A.I. algorithms. I could become an entrepreneur and bring my creations to market. I could even become an employee for a tech company and devote myself to its latest innovations. Maybe next year around this time, I will even be studying on the Freshman Quad. With the LCSR robotics lab, the minor in robotics, a top-notch engineering program, a beautiful campus, incredible seafood, and what the visiting admissions counselor described as a “vibrant a cappella scene,” Johns Hopkins will both make college fun and satisfy my inner nerd. But for now, I will go on working in my garage, competing for space with the family car.

“We like Elijah’s essay because you really get a sense of his personality—the essay is light-hearted, but still does a good job of highlighting his interest in robotics in a descriptive and entertaining way by comparing it to his fascination with Iron Man. He ties his interests back to opportunities at JHU like the freedom to combine multiple academic fields, research in the LCSR lab, and the a cappella scene. As you are reading his essay, you picture someone who will explore academic programs, student groups, and opportunities on and off campus—you picture a dynamic member of our Hopkins community.”—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

Explain the two following ideas: what do excel with and what do you struggle with.

String Theory—Joanna

If string theory is really true, then the entire world is made up of strings, and I cannot tie a single one. This past summer, I applied for my very first job at a small, busy bakery and café in my neighborhood. I knew that if I were hired there, I would learn how to use a cash register, prepare sandwiches, and take cake orders. I imagined that my biggest struggle would be catering to demanding New Yorkers, but I never thought that it would be the benign act of tying a box that would become both my biggest obstacle and greatest teacher.

On my first day of work in late August, one of the bakery’s employees hastily explained the procedure. It seemed simple: wrap the string around your hand, then wrap it three times around the box both ways, and knot it. I recited the anthem in my head, “three times, turn it, three times, knot” until it became my mantra. After observing multiple employees, it was clear that anyone tying the box could complete it in a matter of seconds. For weeks, I labored endlessly, only to watch the strong and small pieces of my pride unravel each time I tried.

As I rushed to discreetly shove half-tied cake boxes into plastic bags, I could not help but wonder what was wrong with me. I have learned Mozart arias, memorized the functional groups in organic chemistry, and calculated the anti-derivatives of functions that I will probably never use in real life—all with a modest amount of energy. For some reason though, after a month’s effort, tying string around a cake box still left me in a quandary.

As the weeks progressed, my skills slowly began to improve. Of course there were days when I just wanted to throw all of the string in the trash and use Scotch tape; this sense of defeat was neither welcome nor wanted, but remarks like “Oh, you must be new” from snarky customers catapulted my determination to greater heights.

It should be more difficult to develop an internal pulse and sense of legato in a piece of music than it is to find the necessary rhythm required to tie a box, but this seemingly trivial task has clearly proven not to be trivial at all. The difficulties that I encountered trying to keep a single knot intact are proof of this. The lack of cooperation between my coordination and my understanding left me frazzled, but the satisfaction I felt when I successfully tied my first box was almost as great as any I had felt before.

Scientists developing string theory say that string can exist in a straight line, but it can also bend, oscillate, or break apart. I am thankful that the string I work with is not quite as temperamental, but I still cringe when someone asks for a chocolate mandel bread. Supposedly, the string suggested in string theory is responsible for unifying general relativity with quantum physics. The only thing I am responsible for when I use string is delivering someone’s pie to them without the box falling apart. Tying a cake box may not be quantum physics, but it is just as crucial to holding together what matters.

I am beginning to realize that I should not be ashamed if it takes me longer to learn. I persist, and I continue to tie boxes every weekend at work. Even though I occasionally backslide into feelings of exasperation, I always rewrap the string around my hand and start over because I have learned that the most gratifying victories come from tenacity. If the universe really is comprised of strings, I am confident that I will be able to tie them together, even if I do have to keep my fingers crossed that my knots hold up.

“Joanna does a great job of grabbing your attention from the first sentence by comparing her struggles learning to tie up bakery boxes to string theory. We get a glimpse at her personality throughout the essay—she is not afraid to laugh at herself or admit failure. She uses her story to illustrate that she recognized a weakness, refused to give up, and is able to grow from it; which gives us a sense of how she will tackle challenges here at JHU. Her voice definitely came through in this essay. She also used the space effectively to tell us a lot about who she is—her love of music and science, her dedication to a part-time job, and her ability to put things in perspective. Even though the actual topic itself—learning to tie string around bakery orders—seems narrow in scope, it allowed us to see how well-rounded her interests were and really get to know her through her writing.”—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

What person in your life has had the greatest influence upon who you are today?

Temper—Morley

I feel perfectly content at Woodrow Wilson Skateboard Park, a cement swell in the ground located just west of the easternmost point of the north side of Chicago and trapped perennially in the mental space inhabited by fourteen-year-old angry youths. Outside of home and school, it is the place where I have spent most of my life. Its terrain so familiar, I could navigate it blindfolded, towed on my board by a pack of feral dogs. Much of what I know of life, I learned there.

A sea of nods and handshakes and back pats welcomes my every arrival to this municipal oasis. Here, I am known. Called variously Mor, Bob Morley, Mordog, Mo, Mo Money, or (long story) Tom Pork. It is the only place on earth where (were an election ever to be held) I could almost certainly be mayor. Among the strange, sometimes downcast, and essentially good people here, I have found another family. I need them as much as they need me and as much as we all need skateboarding. This four-wheeled toy brings us inner peace. Skateboarding is a standing meditation, a time to put conscious thought aside and let primal impulse guide the body through various jumps and balancing acts. I turn to skating in times of joy and in times of strife, to celebrate a good day, escape writer’s block, social failures, or other minor tragedies.

It is at Wilson that I encountered once, and then again, a man called Temper. I was thirteen when I crashed into a beefy shadowy figure I had heard talked about only in whispers. This man, known by the word he had chosen to affix to hundreds of walls around Chicago, had earned a spot in the community as a respected graffiti artist and skateboarder. His improbably light feet and on-board grace were known to most of the city. I was barely inaugurated into the park scene when I plowed headlong into him, knocking both of us down, turtle-like and winded. I hadn’t been paying attention and apologized rapid-fire while trying to scrape my body off of his. When we both got to our feet, Temper knocked me down again and walked away without comment. It was the most frightening thing that ever happened to me at Wilson. He left the park that day, and I had seen him once, maybe twice, since.

The five years since the incident have been more or less good to me. In high school, I abandoned the dream of becoming a professional skateboarder and discovered a fuller gamut of life’s offerings. I learned to think about things other than skating and in turn discovered physics, girls, cooking, and writing—a pursuit I love as much as skateboarding. The same cannot be said for the passage of time in Temper’s life. I saw him recently and had lunch with him and my friend. He told us of overcoming a crippling drug addiction, spending time in jail, and contracting AIDS—a disease that every day reminds him that his time on earth is coming to an end. He is trying his best to make the most of it all. It was with the greatest trepidation that I told him about the Wilson incident. Over pizza and lemon soda, I explained how much he had scared me. I added that it was important that it had happened. I think it helped me grow up, I explained. An awkward silence followed. His head turned down and to the side for a moment. Then he just laughed. His eyes apologized, and I laughed too, collectively embracing that very Wilson mentality: life, like skateboarding and men named “Temper,” will knock you down. There is nothing else to do but forgive, forget, and stand back up.

“Morley’s structure for the essay is measured with each paragraph transitioning to a different personal quality. He sets the scene and characters, and then shifts into the meat of the essay, writing about how a specific incident epitomizes the park experience. The essay beautifully ties in Morley’s personality with his experiences at Woodrow Wilson. His focus is always on developing how the park has shaped HIM. After reading the essay, I have a much better understanding of who Morley is and what qualities he will bring to Hopkins. We get the sense that he is reflective and authentic—the type of JHU student you’d want as your lab partner or in your writing group.”—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

What person in your life has had the greatest influence upon who you are today?What is a class, extra-curricular activity, or volunteering opportunity that has greatly influenced who you are today?Hometown—Quan

Life without language: all the ideas, thoughts, and emotions present, but unable to be expressed. This is how I picture my grandfather when he first immigrated to America with my grandmother and their nine children. Lost, he wanders around, hoping to bump into someone who can understand him. He raises his own children to know Vietnamese and hopes his future grandchildren would also be connected to the language of their ancestors. But when I form my lips into unnatural shapes to speak these words, they come out pathetically.

I cannot speak Vietnamese.

As a child, the conversations between me and my grandfather consisted of feeble attempts at speaking each other’s language. Only a couple of familiar words could momentarily break the wall that divided us. Whenever I visited his house, I exchanged a shaky “Chào ông” for his heavily accented “He-llo,” and ran off before the shame from my inability to understand could affect me.

At the time, I was unaware of the synchronized rhythm that beats in the hearts of me, my father, and my grandfather. My grandfather loves playing the violin. Although he is not classically trained and can hardly keep a beat, he loves it and I can sense it every time he plays. When my family came to America, my father struggled to adjust as any teenage immigrant would. Vietnamese was confined to his family’s home and English was difficult to learn, so instead, he picked up the guitar and taught himself how to play “Yesterday” by the Beatles. Forty years later, he claims he still cannot get it down perfectly. On the piano in our living room, he sings in broken English…

“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away…”

Like my grandfather, music is a part of my father’s design. By the unchangeable threads of heredity, I was also fated to have a connection to music, just like them. And it was music that could break the language barrier between me and my grandfather.

A single sheet of music sat in front of me. It was a beautiful piece, no doubt, but we, the All-State Senior Band, were playing it without any emotion. After a couple of unsuccessful run-throughs of this piece entitled “Hometown,” our guest conductor Samuel Hazo told us to look at measure thirty-three, reflect on a personal memory that reminded us of that part, and write about it right there on our sheet music. Soon after instructing us to do the same in the other parts of the piece, everyone’s sheet music was filled with our lives in the form of tiny scribbles between the lines of melodies. When we played the piece again, we were finally able to “sing our life stories,” as Mr. Hazo would call it. Every musical phrase became a vessel for retelling our most precious memories: stories of first loves and recollections of childhood memories. No one had to say a single word.

There in the music, I finally spoke to my grandparents. As I played measure thirty-three, I pictured them sitting there on that boat in the middle of the ocean, holding onto a faint glimmer of hope for a new life in America, looking for their own new “hometown.” I said “thank you” for their courage to come to the strange and unknown America and “sorry” for being unable to speak Vietnamese. After the concert that night, I received a bigger hug than usual from them and I knew that they had heard and understood me. Being a part of a family and culture is more than just knowing the language. Emotions are enough to make words unnecessary. In my family, we speak three different languages: Vietnamese, the language of our origin, English, the language of our new home, and music to connect everything together.

“I like that Quan shares a piece of his life and one of his passions that we may not have known otherwise with us in the essay: music. He ties his innate love of music back to his family and makes a really powerful connection between music and language. He captures the reader’s attention from the first few sentences by weaving the story of his family into an expansion on one of his favorite activities. You really get a taste of how passionate he is about music and that it is something he would share with our JHU community. Quan provides us with a window into some of what he values most in life—family, his cultural heritage, and music— and what he would bring to our student body.”—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee

What person in your life has had the greatest influence upon who you are today?

Spring Instead of Summer—Jacqueline

Sometimes I had dreams of being in plane crashes with my twin brother, Matt.

We’re standing on the wing of a plane, balancing in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Matt is screaming, “No! I don’t want to jump! Where’s the water? Where’s the water?” A wave rushes over the wing and takes us under. Matt calls, “Jacqui!” reaches for my hand, and I wake up.

I know a lot about my backstory because it has shaped who I am and who I want to be. Knowledge of this story is necessary—I need to keep the words alive, even if time wants to quiet them. I know my story so that I do not forget, so that I can tell others.

My brother, Matt, is visually impaired and has autism. We were born in May instead of August, sixteen weeks early, during spring instead of summer. Of all the seasons, maybe we should have been born in winter. Matt and I clung together on the icy medical tables. Winter children, at home in the frost, trying to take air into translucent lungs.

The facts of our story are easy to tell. I can tell about the identical scars that run from our shoulder blades to our chests. How our doctors and parents looked at us, in our isolettes, with heavy eyes. About the five percent chance of survival that we beat, or the likelihood that Matt would never be able to see and I would never speak. I can tell others that I would not change our story—that I want to tell it throughout my lifetime, because it has a purpose. I can say that the dream of us clinging together on the plane wing in the middle of the Atlantic is a continuation of how I feel and who I am.

It’s harder, though, to tell of the pride I feel whenever my voice carries across the room. Nine years of voice therapy, nine years of learning how to project and nurture my one working vocal cord—I’m afraid people won’t understand. They might just think of it as a story with a nice ending. But my goal is not to tell a nice story—it is to make others feel something deep in their chests, like I do.

It’s even harder to share the very core of who I am; the fact that Matt and I are forever tied together with the story of how we were born. We are here for different reasons—mine to write and be his guide; his to make others happy, like he makes me. Where we come from and how we got here makes us who we are in this moment. That’s the purpose of our story; that’s what I want others to know.

My half of our story allows me to exist in a world that is parallel to Matt’s. Few others fit in his world—but I must. And my ability to fit into his world drives… everything. It makes me strive to see him smile, even if it’s a hint of one that appears when I tell him his socks are totally cool. It brings my dreams of plane crashes alive, so I can release those feelings into my writing, and truly be part of his world. I must fit into Matt’s world forever, and so I must be a good enough sister to tell his story.

My backstory makes me who I am—a writer, a guide, a sister. I am a girl standing on the wing of a plane, eager for my words to stretch to every continent. Eager for everyone to know my story.

“I often read essays where the student writes about someone who has influenced their life. Admissions officers want to get a better understanding of YOU. These essays can be tricky because there is a tendency to focus on the person who has influenced you, instead of focusing on how you have been changed. Jacqueline did a fantastic job of focusing on how her brother has shaped HER life. Her writing style is personable with vivid parallels and divergences between herself and her twin. The reader feels like they are on a journey through Jacqueline’s life in just a few hundred words. This essay captivated me with details that would not have shown up at any other point in the application. We get a sense of passion and purpose about her that reminds us of the energy Hopkins students bring to campus.”—Johns Hopkins Undergraduate Admissions Committee