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Lesson One: Influential Person Sample Essay
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EssayEdge) |
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Note: The below
essays were not
edited by
EssayEdge
Editors. They
appear as they
were initially
reviewed by
admissions
officers.
SAMPLE ESSAY 1:
I felt like a
cadet at West
Point
that first week
of fifth grade.
Mrs. Stith was
our sergeant,
commanding us to
"stand at
attention,"
"walk single
file," "keep
heads up" and
"speak only when
spoken to." We
had only two
rules to obey in
her classroom:
never talk while
Mrs. Stith is
talking, and do
your homework!
We did not dare
break these
rules, fearing
an arduous
obstacle course
to climb as our
consequence-or
perhaps a firing
squad awaiting
Mrs. Stith's
command to
release an
arsenal of
bullets into our
bodies.
My fifth-grade
mind was not
accustomed to
such a demanding
teacher.
Coloring outside
the lines,
reading The
Great Adventures
of Encyclopedia
Brown and
building mobiles
with
construction
paper had been
the norm. My
mouth gaped at
the sight of
endless reading
packets and
workbook pages.
I was in boot
camp now, and
Mrs. Stith was
going to toughen
up the troops.
Mrs. Stith could
see our agony,
our pleading
eyes hoping she
would blow her
whistle and let
us take a break
from the work.
But she yelled
at the class at
any sign of
softness. Twenty
pages of reading
every night kept
our stamina up.
I cried at the
thought of
learning how to
spell
"dictionary,"
"miserable" and
"criminal." I
sweated over
decimals. How
could I learn
all this and
still have time
to watch Cosby?
This wasn't a
youngster's
usual anxiety. I
honestly thought
I hated Mrs. Stith, or "Mrs.
Stiff," as we
called her,
snickering as we
pictured our
gray-haired
tyrant being
lowered into a
tomb. Who did
this old woman
think she was
anyway, always
barking at the
class? I had
always been the
teacher's pet.
"Is my work not
good enough?" I
wondered. How
could she
destroy my
confidence so
easily?
"Carrie, how
could you get
this question
wrong?"
"I . . . I . . .
don't know," I
managed,
lowering my head
in shame, unable
to look at Mrs. Stith's
disappointed
face.
"Don't you know
what a
preposition is?"
"Yes, Mrs. Stith,"
I replied,
knowing that
this blunder
meant K.P. duty.
I would have to
study my
composition book
a little extra
tonight.
I can't pinpoint
exactly why, but
sometime during
those first few
weeks I decided
to study hard
and make Mrs. Stith proud of
me. Maybe I
dreamed of
following in my
older brother's
prominent
footsteps
(sometimes I
thought they
were left by
Bigfoot). I
wanted to be as
studious and
intelligent as
Christopher. I
couldn't destroy
the name that my
brother and I
had established.
Mediocrity
wasn't part of
my vocabulary. I
had always been
the best in
class, favored
by my teachers
and often chosen
to read aloud or
go to the
chalkboard to do
multiplication
tables. The
difference was
that now it
didn't come so
easily. I would
have to work.
Two-page reports
turned into
detailed posters
explaining the
formation of
igneous,
metamorphic, and
sedimentary
rocks. Mrs.
Stith noticed
her students'
best efforts and
rewarded us for
hard work with
smelly stickers.
We loved those
stickers and
hung them on the
wall. One could
easily discern
my long trail of
grapes,
strawberries and
apples.
Reading
packets became
enjoyable. I
left the world
of Ramona Quimby
and discovered
Miss Havisham's
mansion, the
plummeting
guillotine and
Jacob Marley's
rattling chains.
That year marked
the beginning of
my battle with
the nerd
syndrome.
Fifth grade
helped establish
my reputation as
a brain. I would
skip recess and
stay after
school just to
talk with Mrs.
Stith. I would
spend hours
every night
studying beyond
the assigned
homework. I
didn't mind if
other kids
laughed at me
for being
studious; they
just hadn't met
the real
Mrs. Stith. I no
longer saw her
as a rigid drill
sergeant; now
she was a
helpful platoon
leader. For my
part, I was no
longer a raw
recruit but well
on my way to
becoming a
skilled soldier.
What once were
tears of fright
and frustration
turned to tears
of sorrow when I
graduated from
fifth grade. For
graduation Mrs.
Stith gave me a
special gift-a
copy of A Day
No Pigs Would Die.
She wrote on the
back cover: "I
loved this book.
I hope you will
too. You are an
outstanding
girl. Best of
luck always.
Love, Mrs. Stith."
Mrs. Stith
retired that
year and I never
saw my friend
again.
COMMENTS:
This essay grips
the reader from
the outset, as
the writer
employs a simile
in the opening
statement to
make her point:
"I
felt like a
cadet at West
Point
that first week
of fifth grade."
The writer does
a good job of
sprinkling that
image throughout
the essay,
providing
thematic
coherence. The
conflict posed
is one of
challenge: a
tough teacher
who expects more
from her
students than
they have been
used to. What is
most effective
is the language
the writer uses,
showing
the reader
exactly how she
felt at that
young age: "My
mouth gaped at
the sight of
endless reading
packets and
workbook pages."
The applicant
can be
categorized as
an
"overachiever"
("I had always
been the
teacher's pet.")
who also feels
she must push
himself based
upon his
brother's past
scholastic
successes. Mrs. Stith, however,
challenges this
overachiever to
push herself
even harder: "I
wanted to be as
studious and
intelligent as
Christopher."
The writer
employs a
skilled
transition
between
Paragraphs 8 and
9 ("That year
marked the
beginning of my
battle with the
nerd syndrome.
Fifth grade
helped establish
my reputation as
a brain."). The
resolution is
expected, with
the student
rising to his
teacher's
challenge, but
the success in
this piece lies
in the
execution-not
the originality
of the topic.
SAMPLE ESSAY 2:
I keep
remembering odd
things: the way
she loved
daffodils, her
delight at the
antics of our
dog, jokes she
told at the
dinner table,
her subtle brand
of feminism, the
look in her eyes
when she talked
about my future.
I knew about
college before
I'd ever heard
of high school;
I was Mom's
second chance at
the degree she
never had.
Her parents
pushed her too
much, too hard,
too fast, and
she always
wished she
hadn't let the
pressure
overwhelm her.
She dropped out
of college after
one semester for
marriage and a
secretarial job.
While she never
regretted
marrying my
father, she
always regretted
giving up her
dream of
becoming an
accountant. She
was determined
her eldest
daughter would
never miss an
opportunity, and
she missed out
on so many
herself so I
could succeed.
She was the one
person I could
talk to about
anything:
politics,
dating, parties,
failed tests, or
nail polish. She
was right about
so much, so
often-much more
than I gave her
credit for at
the time. We
never did agree
on clothes. She
favored the J.
Crew look, I
kept trying for
(and failing at)
the neo-sixties
style. One year
we didn't buy
any new clothes
at all in a
battle of wills:
she refused to
buy anything
that didn't "fit
me properly" and
I refused to
wear anything
with an
alligator on it.
She loved the
holidays,
Christmas most
of all. One of
the most
intensely
special times of
my life was
Christmas my
sophomore year,
when I played
Tiny Tim in a
local community
theater
production of "A
Christmas
Carol." Mom
delighted in my
endless
rehearsal
stories and
spent hours
helping me work
out ways of
disguising my
long hair.
There's a line
in the show:
"And it was
always said of
him that he knew
how to keep
Christmas well,
if any man alive
possessed the
knowledge."
Change the
pronouns and
that quote
describes Mom
perfectly.
I never imagined
she wouldn't be
here now,
micro-managing,
debating the
merits of
such-and-such
college with me,
chasing the dog
around the
living room,
ruining
spaghetti,
explaining
"power colors,"
and relishing
exciting changes
in IRS forms. I
never thought
cancer could
strike so
quickly, could
kill someone so
strong and
determined in
only a year.
She's the one
person I
couldn't imagine
living without;
now, since last
January, I've
had to.
Suddenly, I have
no one to talk
to about
meaningless
little things,
no one whose
advice I trust
implicitly to
help me with
decisions. When
I come home from
school, I come
home to an empty
house, haunted
by memories of
the year she
spent here
dying. I
remember the
disastrous
Thanksgiving
when she was
nauseous and
delusional, our
wonderful last
Christmas Eve
together, the
tangle of tubes
in the family
room, the
needlepoint
picture of
Rainbow Row she labored over
while stuck in
bed, and the
bags of M&Ms she
always kept
within reach.
What I feel
cheated of is
the future we'll
never have.
COMMENTS:
Writing about
the death of a
parent is one of
the most
difficult things
an applicant
could choose to
do. This student
took on the
challenge and,
as a result,
produced a
terrific essay.
The piece is
very positive at
first, relating
vivid, precise,
intimate details
of the student's
life with her
mother. Though
some of the
details may seem
mundane, they
provide the
reader with much
insight into the
girl, her
mother, and her
mother's
influence upon
her.
The piece
surprises the
reader-just as
the tragic event
shocked the
writer-at the
end of the
penultimate
paragraph when
the student
states: "I
never thought
cancer could
strike so
quickly, could
kill someone so
strong and
determined in
only a year."
The major
concern is that
the essay
becomes too
negative in the
conclusion,
focusing on how
the applicant
feels "cheated"
by the painful
loss of her
mother. However,
the reader
understands how
incredibly
difficult it
must have been
for this girl to
write such an
essay and is
impressed by her
maturity.
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