Accepted Essays

Accepted Submission #1

Untitled by Rochelle Jewell Shapiro

From the time I was in the Odyssey Program for gifted students in the third grade I have worn the Harvard baseball cap that my uncle, Kenneth Breadstein, (Harvard ’72), a major endower to Harvard, bought me. Of course, being respectful, I never wore my Harvard cap in class, only in the corridors, on the street, and everywhere else. If you look at my photo closely, you’ll see the proof because I have permanent hat head—thin hair on top and on the sides that bunches out around my ears.

In ninth grade I almost won the regional high school science fair for my study of the social systems of ants, but someone jiggled the table, and my jar of ants crashed to the ground, and the other competitors stepped on them.  In tenth grade honors history my teacher told me that I would have won the Historical Society award for the colonial newspaper that I wrote, but the glue I used to put the newspaper together made the pages bleed into each other. If it had done that immediately, I never would have handed it in that way. Unfortunately, it waited until I handed it in to bleed. (Unfortunately, she refused to put that in writing.) And last year I was absolutely assured that I was going to win the Junior Class Thespian Award for my portrayal of the “wandring minstrel” NankiPoo, until the costume mistress (who has always behaved toward me in an antagonistic manner, for some reason she has never deigned to inform me of) switched my wooden sandals with those of Ko-Ko (the Lord High Executioner) and as a result I slipped off the stage while wandering. Also, this past summer, I could have gone to Yugoslavia with my soccer team, but I didn’t want to do anything to harm my straight A average, so I went to summer school while everybody else was hanging out in the mall and taking who knows what drugs.

My favorite book is Catcher in the Rye, because I identify with Holden Caulfield who is in therapy like me, but I would never go to a prostitute like he did. Also, I am an extremely moral person who only wants to use my many talents and strong work ethic to give back to my community. For example, the summer before my junior year I went to The Mitzvah Corps at Rutgers University. We had choices. We could work in a soup kitchen or be a counselor at an inner city camp or in a camp for adults with disabilities or with senior citizens. I chose to do all of them. They said it couldn’t be done, but my uncle, Kenneth Breadstein, Harvard ‘72, hired me a limousine so I could show up in each place for an hour a day. That Fall I won the Rotary Club photography contest with my photos of the astonished faces of the inner city kids and the homeless people when I showed up in that limousine.

When I graduate, my uncle, Kenneth Breadstein, Harvard ‘72, has promised to give me a thousand dollars towards my future tuition to Harvard (a small percentage of what he’ll give to Harvard when I’m admitted.) I hope that you will accept me into Harvard. Not only will I be forever grateful, but my uncle, the endower, Kenneth Breadstein, Harvard ‘72, will be forever grateful, too.

About the author: Rochelle Jewell Shapiro is the author of the novel, Miriam the Medium, (Simon & Schuster, 2004). She teaches “Writing the Personal Essay” at UCLA extension.

Accepted Submission #2

A Day I Will Never Forget, Forever by Ben Cosgrove

Growing up alone with my parents and siblings, like an orphan, I longed to experience the sort of adventures that I read about in the books that I read.

We lived in a small, quiet Connecticut town. It was always dull, like a cheap knife. I woke up every morning hoping that something amazing would happen, and every night I went to bed disappointed. I kept my spirits up by remembering what Shakespeare said to Hamlet: "There are more things in heaven and earth than you, my friend."

And so I waited, mulling the things in heaven and earth that there were more of than me, and on a muggy August afternoon when I was 13 years old, it happened. (Emphasis mine.) I was in my bedroom, reading – I am a voracious and insatiable reader --when my younger brother appeared in the doorway and told me that a hot air balloon was about to crash land in the field across from our house.

Did I race to the scene? I did.

Outside, hovering above our neighbor’s field, a rainbow-colored hot air balloon was in obvious distress. My heart did not feel like it had stopped. It felt like it had finally started. (Emphasis mine, again.) I recall running across the lawn, across the street, out into the field. The silence was deadening. All I could hear was my own breath, and the wind, and the thud of my feet hitting the ground, and some people yelling behind me, and sirens in the distance, and a dog barking. Just complete silence. Eerie!

The balloon's basket was maybe 20 feet from the ground. A man's red face peered over the side. He was yelling something, obviously crying out for help.. A rope hung down toward me. I knew that I had to grab the rope and, even if it wrenched my arms from their sockets like two drumsticks torn from a rotisserie chicken, I had to hold on until that balloon was safe, and with a sudden, uncanny burst of strength I pulled the balloon down, down to the safety of the hard, unyielding earth.

I awoke in the hospital with minor burns. Apparently the corner of the basket hit the ground at an awkward angle, tilting the whole apparatus until the propane flame torched some frayed ropes and the whole thing went up like a candle. The balloonist and his passenger -- much younger than he, female, and for some reason naked -- thankfully made it out without a scratch. The entire field, however, was scorched, while all that remains of our neighbor's garage is a now a weed-grown concrete slab. They're still arguing with their insurance company over whether the conflagration constituted something called a force majeure.

Later, the man I rescued on that unforgettable day would claim that he was screaming at me to leave the rope alone, but that was when he was in the middle of a nasty divorce, so I don’t blame him for not remembering it all clearly. Despite the suffering and fear that I endured, I'm proud of my conduct on that terrible day. I could have run away from the disaster unfolding before me, but I ran toward it. I discovered, at that moment, my inner strength, my decency, my destiny. Would I do it again, knowing what I know now about the field going up in flames and the loss of our neighbors' antique canoe and having to get called as a witness in the divorce case?

You bet I would!

Without danger there can be no heroism. I’m living proof of that! I know that my life will be full of such adventures, and I cannot wait to continue having them on your beautiful campus -- wherever it might be.

About the author: Ben Cosgrove has worked as a carpenter, prep cook, janitor, lawn sprinkler installer and, since 1995, as an online writer and editor. He lives with his wife and daughter in Brooklyn, New York.

Accepted Submission #3

Untitled by Claire Barry

College matters to me because studies show that college graduates make more money, and I would like to make plenty of money.  I would like to make plenty of money because it helps others, is very patriotic, and God wills it to be my destiny.

Firstly, when you have money, you tend to spend money also.  This could be on a Lexus, a BMW, a Caddie Coupe de Ville, or possibly, to impress someone, a hybrid. The auto companies (they are really struggling these days), the gas companies (some of which use ethanol now), and even the mechanics (their hourly wages could put several families through college), all benefit.  When you have money you don’t have to shop at those Big Box stores that use the sweaty people (foreigners that get shot if they ask to use the bathroom), and you can afford designer clothes made in America, which is really much more patriotic

Secondly, on the American subject of patriotism, making lots of money is the American way, because that is what runs our great country.  Some people say it is freedom and democracy, but who cares about these if you can’t afford a really hot car or a plasma.

Thirdly and last, but definitely NOT LEAST, God wants everyone to be happy and fulfilled.  This means especially me, because a voice told me in a dream that this is my manifold destiny (well, the CD player was on, and it did sound like Madonna, but don’t worry about that).  Since money is the source of happiness and college is the source of my future money, my analysis tells me you will help others and further patriotism by admitting me to your school and offering me a full financial aid package. God also told me you should really think about waiving the GPA and SAT requirements because it is more democratic that way, and not all of us want to be geeks.

About the author: Claire Barry is a poet who has taught English composition at the high school level (which does not technically, as some have suggested, qualify her for sainthood).

Accepted Submission #4

War Games by Andi Brown

The desert was worse than I thought it would be: scorching hot, and forget a bullet, you could die of thirst alone.  There were insurgents everywhere around us – we had no idea where – but  my men were close by to back me up. 

I heard an "RPG" (Rocket Propelled Grenade) whizzing by and I ducked. We were getting deeper and deeper into enemy territory.  My heart was pounding.  When I became squad leader, I never anticipated how I'd feel. I never thought about the responsibility, and the pressure that would come with it.  There had been so many times when I wondered if I truly deserved or even wanted to lead these men.

Just an hour earlier, I had lost one of them, a private named Ben.  He wasn't the easiest guy to get along with, and I’d had to work really hard to overcome my personal feelings, to be the leader he needed me to be. His number came up when I was addressing the needs of a wounded soldier and I didn't see the enemy in our midst.  Next thing I knew, we had lost him. I didn’t think I could ever forgive myself.

Of course, I vowed to try harder, to be the person every one of my men could depend on, and I rose to that self-imposed challenge. The next time the enemy got close, my squad and I maneuvered three insurgents into a position where they were forced to surrender.
When we interrogated the prisoners, I was careful to always be mindful of Geneva Convention rules.  Morally, I could not condone waterboarding or any other kind of torture. Fortunately, my thorough, sensitive and careful questioning yielded the information we needed about what our enemy was planning in our sector.

And that's how my squad and I won the Iraq War Simulation Championships.

What did I learn from this experience?  Not for the first time (which was the presidency of my seventh grade class) I experienced first-hand the burden and thrill of leadership.  I honed my skills in persuasion, team-building, and yes, humility.  I became an expert at preparing for the unexpected.  And I learned tolerance, how to get along with even the most obnoxious of people, who shall remain nameless. 

To paraphrase President John F. Kennedy, "Ask not what your college can do for you.  Ask what you can do for your college."  My aspirations are not small. I hope to attain high leadership positions in the college I attend. Learning how to help my fellow undergraduates feel safe under my authority will be just as fulfilling to me as leading my men in the "deserts of Iraq".

About the author: Andi Brown is a professional fundraiser who lives with her children in the Boston area.  She has studied fiction writing at the University of Iowa and is hoping to secure a publisher for her comic novel.

Accepted Submission #5

My Triumph Over Disability by Maya King

Imagine living in a world where you are ostracized and misunderstood simply because of a disability you can’t control. Picture having to watch others be rewarded with success while you struggle and meet only with discouragement and failure. Imagine being shunned by peers for being different, or coming home each night to parents who relentlessly tell you your condition is a figment of your imagination. People with my disability must live with these realities every day. My disability is Home/Work Anxiety Disorder (or “H/WAD”)

Ever since my first days of kindergarten, I can remember struggling with this appalling challenge. When my teacher explained to me the concept of bringing “work” from “school” to my “home” in order to complete it there, my whole body reacted physically. My limbs froze, my heart began to hammer in my chest, and I broke into tears. My brain could not wrap itself around this concept. After rigorous persuasion (and, I must honestly divulge, actual threats) from my teacher, I agreed to attempt taking an assignment home with me, but despite valiant struggle, I found it impossible to complete the task.

It was a terrible day for me when my parents discovered my illness. It pains me to make public the fact that they did not support me as conscientious parents ought to have. In fact, the disdain they displayed toward my situation was devastating to my young and impressionable mind. Without regard for my suffering, they stood over me and forced me to toil over my assignments (sometimes, when I could not satisfy my parents on this score, they grew so resentful that they “technically” completed the work themselves). When my peers learned of my disability, my torment in school only amplified. Most of my classmates actually seemed to be irritated by the fact that my “H/WAD” prevented me from doing my homework, while a few misguidedly idolized me for “showing the teachers who’s boss”, never understanding that the condition was out of my control. The School administration showed no support for me whatsoever, telling me that I would actually have to accept the grades my ignorant and intolerant teachers gave me. Not one person in my life understood how much I longed to bring home my books and work diligently for hours, and year after year my torment only got worse. It goes without saying that the grades I have had to accept as a result of “H/WAD” do not reflect my profound intelligence and promise.

About the author: Maya King is a high school student in Georgia

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