Common App Essay Prompt:
Reflect on something that someone has done for you that has made you happy or thankful in a surprising way. How has this gratitude affected or motivated you?
The butterfly book and I were inseparable. When I was three years old, my grandmother gave me an adult butterfly encyclopedia, and I read it nonstop for months. I didn’t just admire the pictures; I spewed scientific butterfly facts to anyone who would listen until I drove them crazy. I was so obsessed, for a three-year-old, that it was frankly kind of bizarre.
Shortly after I got the book, my family visited the New York City Museum of Natural History, and, as fate would have it, the butterfly exhibit was open. I was so ecstatic that I could barely stand it. When I walked into the lush green jungle, my eyes lit up like a Christmas tree; I pointed out different species and twirled around, taking it all in. One of the workers welcomed us and described the rules of the exhibit, but my eyes were fixated on a display case depicting metamorphosis. I pointed to the case and blurted out, “Chrysalis!” She looked at me in awe, utterly astounded that a toddler could identify a chrysalis. She asked me to follow her to see something special. “Put out your hand,” she whispered, and a gorgeous yellow swallowtail floated down and perched on my finger. People stopped to gather around me and observe with reverence and amazement. Most three-year-olds probably would’ve crushed the delicate insect, but I stood as still as a statue with my jaw hanging open. I watched its intricate wings flap back and forth like rustling leaves in a morning breeze. After fourteen years, that day is still imbedded in my memory. For me, it represents the first moment when my passion for learning allowed me to find deep meaning in the simplest creature.
Seven years passed, and my Nonna — the same grandmother who gave me the butterfly book — died. I remember being distraught, crying in my room, when I suddenly caught a glimpse of a yellow swallowtail flitting past my window. From that moment on, Nonna has sent me yellow butterflies. Whenever I’m having a particularly awful day or find myself in unfamiliar territory, if I see a swallowtail I am instantly reassured. Just as the caterpillar is reborn as a butterfly, Nonna’s death was more like a metamorphosis than an end. I cannot point to a page in the encyclopedia where it explains how or why she sends them to me, but every time I see one, I know deep down that the creature is far more than a head, thorax, and abdomen. Butterflies are hope for something better after this life, evidence of my grandmother’s love, and a way to get me through the day when I need it most.
Did you know that most butterflies only live for a few days, or that they taste with their feet? I firmly believe that the chrysalis-screaming-three-year-old who is fascinated by these facts, and the grieving grandson who finds assurance in butterflies without any concrete evidence, are both still alive inside me. It seems strange that these differing narratives converge to form what butterflies mean to me, but I don’t think of them as contradictory in the slightest. In fact, I’ve found it’s nearly impossible to live with one and not the other. If I search only for abstractions and what lies beyond comprehension, then I couldn’t marvel at the pattern of a yellow swallowtail’s wing or the complex mechanism that allows it to fly. Conversely, if I lead my life focusing only on what can be memorized and observed, none of these facts really amount to anything. What a mundane world it would be if the butterfly could not contain love and sorrow and countless other meanings within its wings. I strive to search for the balance between the tangible and unexplainable; the world is my butterfly — replete with significance on and below the surface that I tirelessly work to find.
Common App Essay Prompt:
The lessons we take from obstacles we encounter can be fundamental to later success. Recount a time when you faced a challenge, setback, or failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?
The most rewarding experience of my life has likewise been the most frustrating. It’s the one where I failed the most, cried the most, laughed the most, and questioned the most. It all began with three words uttered on a neglected, dusty road of Costa Rica – “amigas por siempre?”
As part of an 8th grade trip, I visited a safehouse in Limon where abused children are placed by the government. The kids flooded me with heartbreaking stories their warm smiles and trusting hands masked their traumatic pasts. I promised one new friend, Idania, that I would return vowing that we would be “amigas por siempre.” Three summers and three visits later, after raising $30,000 that went towards constructing a learning center equipped with a bilingual library, educational games, and a computer lab, three more words stopped me in my tracks: “she can’t read.” I was talking with our Costa Rican tour guide about Idania, stumbling over my words in Spanish as I laid out what this bilingual library would do for the children. I expressed how it would give them hope for the future and how my friend, Idania, could become a doctor like she dreams of, even though she currently can’t read. I was shocked and dismayed to learn that Idania’s severe dyslexia had forced her to drop out of school.
I had believed I could save the children from a future of poverty, crime, and drugs. I thought that by building a gleaming learning center, the kids’ futures would be as bright as the pink butterflies we painted on the walls. The harsh reality was that I had failed not only the kids and the donors, but also the group of 30 students I brought down with my idealized dreams. That night, I curled up on my mattress shrouded by a mosquito net and cried. For the next few days, I was really bitter. I was bitter towards the people in my group who smiled and high-fived each other for “making a difference.” I was bitter towards another looming school year that would wedge thousands of miles and hours between the children and me. I was bitter that Idania would soon age out of the home with nowhere to go. On our last day together we read for two hours, her fingers tracing each word as she read with increasing confidence. Turning the last page with a sigh of accomplishment, she hugged me, her eyes shining with tears. That was the last time I saw her, finding out in an email months later that she had run away.
It was hard to return last summer and muster up the same enthusiasm. Dismayed, I searched the unfamiliar faces, knowing I wouldn’t be greeted by Idania’s bright almond eyes. Yet I found comfort in the glistening eyes of the other kids. Redirecting my vision, I hired tutors and workshop leaders to teach vocational skills like jewelry-making and nail painting, and educational courses including Rosetta Stone. Hopefully, these adults will become a lifeline for the children.
On the last day of our trip last summer, we visited a woman who runs an independent home in Costa Rica’s capital and had singlehandedly raised 80 children over the past 20 years. When she told me how desperately she needed a larger space, my heart longed to help. After returning to the United States, I was able to secure a sizable grant to construct a learning center on her property.
As I learn more and more about these children and how to best support them, I appreciate the importance and permanence of every moment, every interaction: sitting and listening to their stories as they braid my hair, telling a mute twelve year old she’s beautiful and strong and important and really believing it, promising to return and keeping that promise, and truly meaning it when I say “amigas por siempre.”
Common App Essay Prompt:
Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
Given the typical preconceptions of isolationism that people have about my hometown of Fargo, ND, notoriously spread by its namesake movie, it might be surprising to know that we have five distinct Starbucks outlets here. As I walk into one today, it is reassuring to think that I can get a blonde espresso in sub-zero weather whenever I choose. In most ways, however, Fargo still is a place of knoephla (that’s a dumpling), long winters, and iconic accents. In other words, a world of its own.
Every time I walk into one of Fargo’s Starbucks, I am no longer “Prisha,” but, rather, am assigned a new identity. During my freshman year of high school, I distinctly remember having to claim my coffee order under the name "Patricia.” Last year, I was called “Paige” twice, and most recently, I was even labeled "Peter.” Living in a state that is over 90% white, the Indian aspects of my life shrink within the overwhelming “Peace Garden” culture. Beyond the baristas who reduce my foreign Indian name to far more common alternatives, curating my true culture has been a constant challenge.
Since birth, I have been personally defined by this clash between two worlds. On one side, the melanin in my skin speaks for itself, boldly exposing the Indian heritage my parents gifted to me. In terms of my internal life, however, I have been complicated by my environment. While most people rely on their genetic code to represent themselves, the world of North Dakota, so at odds with my heritage, has strongly influenced my self-perception, and to this day, I still constantly question my cultural identity. Growing up, I was always fearful of being too “Americanized” in front of relatives, or too “Indian” in front of classmates and friends. I craved a sense of belonging that would somehow embrace both pieces of who I am.
Nothing for me was ever as simple as wholeheartedly committing to a single culture. The two halves of my being came with their own distinct characteristics that I wanted to hold onto. My typical daily actions, from sharing a South Indian breakfast dish like dosa and chutney with my family around the kitchen table to going to school and eating a tater tot hot dish with my classmates for lunch, proved that whether I realized it or not, I celebrated both sides of my culture on a daily basis.
This dualism extended as well to other spheres of my life. The rigorous expectations my parents placed upon me to succeed academically sparked my own intrinsic motivation for learning; unlike my peers, I never settle for cutting corners. Politically, as well, I am atypical. In this year’s crucial midterm elections, as I write this, North Dakota’s own senatorial race could well determine the future trajectory and composition of the federal government. Yet, my decision to openly advocate for a Democratic candidate in an extremely Republican state discomfited my peers and family friends. Fargo is known for its "North Dakota nice” mentality, and so polite, rather than political, is the rule of the day. Superficially, this can make life easy and pleasant, but it also makes change a long and difficult process and has led me to independently establish my beliefs.
The annoyance of having the wrong name scribbled on my Starbucks cup is only a trivial piece of the process of integrating the two cultures that compose my identity. It may be that a strict definition of my culture is out of reach, given the divergent elements of my life. At once, I am an Indian-American, a North Dakotan, a scholar, a Starbucks lover, and so much more, all of which I will bring with me to college.
“Prisha!” the barista calls, holding aloft my blonde espresso.
I can’t believe it. At last, someone has gotten it right.
Common App Prompt:
Reflect on a time when you questioned or challenged a belief or idea. What prompted your thinking? What was the outcome?
“...without courage, compassion falters, and without compassion, courage has no direction.”
― Eric Greitens, The Heart and the Fist
I thought justice was as simple as two ends of a table. I planned to administer justice as I sat in a somber room with walls covered by oak bookshelves, rows of yearbooks and anthologies bearing the weight of the past, air conditioning chilling my sweat, and an aura of gravity filling the air. The massive oak table with its long, coursing grain, dominated my vision. A high school freshman, I took the last seat on the far end of the table for my first hearing of the Discipline Council: four teachers and six students selected by the administration to recommend penalties for serious offenses.
I looked out across a yawning gap of empty chairs separating me from the defendant seated on the opposite end, proud to represent the honor of my school and the courage to hold my peers accountable. I wanted to reach down and raise up my offending classmate by allowing the school justice system to do its work. I pulled out my notepad as my classmate began to tell his side of the story.
Stone-faced and jotting down notes, I listened as the defendant narrated his account of a relatively cut-and-dry plagiarism case. As he finished, he did something that shocked me, conflicting with the stoic culture of an all-boys’ school: he cried. While stories of boys crying to escape punishment abound, his tears rang true, running with sincerity and anguish, tugging my heart so hard that I toppled off my moral high ground. He was no longer the offender, but Jim (name changed) whom I studied with in English and Biology classes. Compassion and empathy ripped apart my once scientific approach to justice.
Disconcerted, I wondered how I could ever pass judgment on Jim’s case as he left the room and deliberations began. Jim’s tears had disabused me of my black and white view of the Discipline Council. I no longer sat on the side of the right, judging the side of the wrong. I had tumbled into the ambiguous chasm between the two, torn between the unrelenting forces of courage to fulfill my duty as a Discipline Council member and compassion for Jim. On the verge of tears, I sat pitifully while the other members discussed mitigating and aggravating factors, wondering why I had originally felt so honored.
I finally worked up enough courage to suggest that Jim’s clear penitence merited a reduced penalty. I expected to be shot down, but instead saw nodding heads. I turned to Dr. Stegomoeller, the faculty sponsor of the Discipline Council, and saw emotion in his eyes, realizing that he not only thought about justice, but he also felt compassion. A glance at the other faculty members and upperclassmen revealed that they too were conflicted. The deliberations were a collective effort to resolve that conflict, to find the balance between compassion and courageous duty. As we unanimously agreed on our recommended penalty, a two-day suspension, the mood in the room felt like that of the swim team after a draining practice; the last hour was tiring but worth it. Forging through that inner struggle made me certain that I’d made the right decision about the penalty.
The light bulb finally clicked. The conflict between compassion and the courage to hold my peers accountable was tortuous and tangled, but essential, because without that struggle neither virtue would have direction, and I would be truly lost. That afternoon in the Discipline Council taught me that as much as I wish for simple black and white choices, most decisions take place in the murky zone between virtue and vice as I’m tugged in every direction by conflicting values and emotions. I embrace that uncertainty, however, knowing that I will find a balance far more beautiful than any two-dimensional choice could possibly offer.
Common App Prompt:
Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
I am an aspiring hot sauce sommelier. Ever since I was a child, I have been in search of all that is spicy. I began by dabbling in peppers of the jarred variety. Pepperoncini, giardiniera, sports peppers, and jalapeños became not only toppings, but appetizers, complete entrées, and desserts. As my palate matured, I delved into a more aggressive assortment of spicy fare. I'm not referring to Flamin' Hot Cheetos, the crunchy snack devoured by dilettantes. No, it was bottles of infernal magma that came next in my tasting curriculum.
Despite the current lack of certification offered for the profession which I am seeking, I am unquestionably qualified. I can tell you that a cayenne pepper sauce infused with hints of lime and passion fruit is the perfect pairing to bring out the subtle earthy undertones of your microwave ramen. I can also tell you that a drizzle of full-bodied Louisiana habanero on my homemade vanilla bean ice cream serves as an appetizing complement. For the truly brave connoisseur, I suggest sprinkling a few generous drops of Bhut Jolokia sauce atop a bowl of chili. Be warned, though; one drop too many and you might find yourself like I did, crying over a heaping bowl of kidney beans at the dining room table.
Although I consistently attempt to cultivate the rarest and most expertly crafted bottles of molten spice, like an oenophile who occasionally sips on $5.00 bottles of wine, I am neither fussy nor finicky. I have no qualms about dousing my omelets with Cholula, dipping my tofu in pools of Sriracha, or soaking my vegetarian chicken nuggets in the Frank's Red Hot that my mom bought from the dollar store. No matter the quality or cost, when gently swirled, wafted, and swished, the sauces excite my senses. Each initial taste, both surprising yet subtly familiar, has taught me the joy of the unknown and the possibility contained within the unexpected.
My ceaseless quest for piquancy has inspired many journeys, both gustatory and otherwise. It has dragged me into the depths of the souks of Marrakech, where I purchased tin cans filled with Harissa. Although the chili sauce certainly augmented the robust aroma of my tagine, my food was not the only thing enriched by this excursion.
My conquest has also brought me south, to the valleys of Chile, where I dined among the Mapuche and flavored my empanadas with a smoky seasoning of Merkén. Perhaps the ultimate test of my sensory strength occurred in Kolkata, India. After making the fatal mistake of revealing my penchant for spicy food to my friend's grandmother, I spent the night with a raw tongue and cold sweats.
I have learned that spice isn't always easy to digest. It is the distilled essence of a culture, burning with rich history. It is a universal language that communicates passion, pain, and renewal. Like an artfully concocted hot sauce, my being contains alternating layers of sweetness and daring which surround a core that is constantly being molded by my experiences and adventures.
I'm not sure what it is about spiciness that intrigues me. Maybe my fungiform papillae are mapped out in a geography uniquely designed to appreciate bold seasonings. Maybe these taste buds are especially receptive to the intricacies of the savors and zests that they observe. Or maybe it's simply my burning sense of curiosity, my desire to challenge myself, to stimulate my mind and to experience the fullness of life in all of its varieties and flavors.
Common App Prompt:
Discuss an accomplishment, event, or realization that sparked a period of personal growth and a new understanding of yourself or others.
Exhilarating wind breaks against my six-year-old smile. The whole world hears my proud shout: “I’M SKATING!” Yet pride fades quickly to fear when I realize I don’t know how to stop.
Life is like that. I spent my early childhood years exploring, learning how to be a human and learning what being human meant. Once I learned, I started skating. I breezed through life without struggle. At first, this rush was intoxicating. Then I couldn’t stop. I blinked and found myself skating through life a decade later, burying grandparents and kissing girlfriends. I wanted to slow down — to go back even — but I didn’t know how. I sped toward adulthood, panic-stricken.
Removing my rollerblades would require a second grader’s hand and a trip back to the skating rink. I chanced upon this renaissance while working as a volunteer for a youth enrichment program. Seven-year-olds filed into our summer classroom. Wasn’t I their age just yesterday? Among the crowd was Cameryn, a bouncy, giggling girl no different from her peers. Only a disability set her apart: Cameryn Cantrell was blind.
Immediately, I became her guide. Together we made crafts, drew pictures, and laughed with the rest of the group. I wish I could say that her overarching normality inspired me instantly, but it did not. After my years of service to special needs children, this was nothing new. I was skating.
My confidence was challenged the day we went to Hot Wheels. As Cameryn chatted the bus ride away, I worried how we would pass our two hours at the skating arcade. My concerns were answered upon arrival when she declared her shoe size to the skate stocker. Fearless little Cameryn was about to brave the rink. I tied the wheels to her feet, took a breath, and led her into the arena.
Air tickled our faces as we picked up speed. Cameryn squeezed my hand tighter. “I’ve never gone this fast before!” Her voice betrayed no trace of fear; instead, in her omnipresent darkness, she beamed a smile that radiated irresistible zeal. Butterflies rippled through my stomach. In that magical instant, my skates came off. Time regained its viscosity, and I felt alive again.
We traveled around the rink for another ninety minutes, but I don’t remember it this way. I remember that we skated, hand-in-hand, forever. Our infinity marked a watershed in my growth; although supervisors hailed me as a role model, I felt like Cameryn’s pupil. She had awakened me to the world as she saw it: through a lens of adventure.
With my new sight, ignored caves look like invitations, and forgotten forests have become my playground. I’ve zip-lined through jungle canopies under the crackle of lightning and awed at nesting sea turtles on midnight trips to the beach. At school, I jumped into a theater class to live the fantasies of a dozen characters.
Such rediscovery is the hallmark of adulthood. Growing up means redefining our personhood and relearning our place in the world. Skating with Cameryn kindled within me a flame for new exploration that I strive to stoke each day. As long as that fire remains aglow, I can call myself an adult.
Common App Essay Prompt:
Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
“Whom do you look more like – your mother or your father?” Many people who meet me ask that question, yet I had never given it much thought. It ended up becoming an inside joke with my dad that I was lucky I hadn’t inherited his large nose.
I understood why people were curious about what happens when very different people like my parents come together. My grandparents emigrated from Spain to raise my mom in Venezuela, and my dad is Norwegian, making me half Venezuelan and half Norwegian with a dual Spanish citizenship in the mix. I thought that was all there was to my background. Simple enough.
Things got complicated during high school. When asked about race on set after set of standardized tests, I filled only the Hispanic circle because I’d always felt a pull towards the rich culture and language on my mom’s side. I grew up greedily listening in on my grandma’s phone calls to my mother in their rapid-fire Spanish and gorging myself on her paella during visits to Spain.
Yet when various affinity groups at Andover warmly invited me to their discussions on ethnicity, I let the emails sit at the bottom of my inbox with a pang of guilt. I imagined a sea of faces staring at me in those meetings, wondering what a girl with blonde Norwegian hair could possibly know about being Hispanic.
Then, I took a class in my junior year about Latin-American immigration. I’d never viewed my mother as an immigrant, except for her trademark accent that I’ve always prided myself on imitating. When I interviewed her for a paper, however, hearing her feelings forced me to reconsider my identity and the responsibilities it holds. All it took was one sentence: “What I regret most about being an immigrant is not doing a better job of teaching my daughter my language and culture.”
The guilt I once felt about being a Hispanic impostor was replaced with guilt for never considering the duty I owed my parents as a first-generation American to honor their sacrifices. I took for granted my materialization in the United States, giving no thought to the struggls my parents endured and the feelings of displacement they still feel.
I don’t yet fully understand what being first-generation means. Maybe it’s watching my parents’ eyes light up as they connect to their families in Norwegian and Spanish. It’s receiving photo albums from my grandparents’ weathered hands that are portals to a very different life. It’s unwrapping a thick Norwegian sweater for Christmas and wearing it as I drag my cross-country skis up the hill behind my dad, imagining the 18 words to describe snow in Norwegian. It’s dancing merengue next to my mom and slipping into Spanglish mid-conversation.
It also has a deeper significance. My love for singing in the shower, venturing onstage in coffee houses, and always being the first on the dance floor certainly comes from my Norwegian aunt who can play any song that’s requested on the piano. I owe my passion for tennis to my grandmother who still sends me animated text messages when Nadal wins a match. Seeing my grandfather and my mother launch companies in foreign countries sparked my own entrepreneurial spirit, inspiring me to start a nonprofit to help abused children I met in Costa Rica. My sociable personality must come from knowing firsthand that people who seem outwardly different can share many things in common. I attribute my newfound love of history to my interest in piecing together my family’s legacy.
This legacy gives me immense purpose to work my hardest while carrying on the cultures and values that have been cultivated inside our home. I’ll seek out the immigration stories of those around me, I’ll delve deeper into Spanish and maybe even Norwegian, and on the next standardized test, I’ll fill in two circles. I will do it proudly.
Common App Essay Prompt:
Share an essay on any topic of your choice. It can be one you've already written, one that responds to a different prompt, or one of your own design.
With every fortune cookie I devour, I stockpile the 0.50-by-2.20 inch, blue-inked crinkled white paper enclosed within its shell.
As my stockpile of 312 fortunes continues to grow, my “fortune box” is starting to overflow with affirmations. Eager to read each inspirational quote, I pick up the case, shuffle the papers around, and randomly pluck out three. Examining them, I am struck with how each fortune mirrors my life.
“Music will play an important role in inspiring your creativity.”
Interestingly, music became my creative outlet on my Lolo’s [grandfather’s] birthday: I recall my extremities pulsating with passion as I pressed “middle C” for the first time. Now, music ceaselessly plays throughout my brain, as I find myself scrambling for paper, transcribing the newest melody for my compositions. Sitting at my piano, I fill the house with fluttering arpeggios and swelling dynamics. Broadening my repertoire, my fingers learn the articulation of Chopin’s waltzes and Beethoven’s sonatas. I also hone my improvisational jazz skills, embodying my Lolo’s touch, still feeling his hands below mine as he taught me the II-V-I chord structure. When it’s time to relax, I put in my earbuds and immerse myself in any musical realm I desire. No matter where I am, I express my emotions with the universally understood language of music. I know Lolo would be proud of my musical artistry.
“Let others confide in you. It may not help you, but it surely will help them.”
As I read the second fortune, my mind floods with memories of confiding in my mother. Playing with my Hello Kitty plushie on the stairs, I overheard my mother counseling her mother over Lolo’s death. Later that night, I revealed my heartache, and she shared her sorrow, hugging me as tears streamed down both our cheeks. Wanting others to have the same support my mother gives me, I create a “safe space” for everyone I meet, whether by tutoring peers during lunch or having late-night FaceTimes with friends discussing our unwritten futures. Everyone should always have someone to talk to or have a shoulder to cry on. Regardless of the time or situation, my shoulder’s available, and I’m always one call away. Although I’m here to listen to and comfort others, I feel fulfilled, maturing with every person I assist.
“To learn a language is to have one more window from which to look at the world.”
This fortune reminds me of my bilingual household: not by birth, but by choice. I didn’t grow up speaking Tagalog, and my father didn’t grow up speaking English. Venting about my worries and stresses from school, I craved his verbal empathy. The language barrier distorted the distance between us: our words never reached each other while our hearts ached to be mutually understood. Scrolling through various telenovelas, I clutched a Tagalog dictionary, practicing my pronunciation and expanding my vocabulary. Last summer, as we strolled along our favorite boardwalk together, I mustered the confidence to speak the words of my mother tongue…no, my father’s tongue. The bulwark between us transformed into a bridge, connecting us. With this new Tagalog window, I finally see and understand Dad’s unconditional love for me.
I’ll admit that fortune cookies are tasteless, but the hidden meaningful messages are the true treat. Swiftly opening the plastic package and holding the crisp delight, my fortune frenzy ignites, excitement rushing through my fingertips while breaking its shell. Like people, the cookie’s value is on the inside, waiting to be revealed to the world. I liken myself to a fortune cookie: while having a golden-brown complexion and a delicate nature, I am more than what meets the eye — I’m a music connoisseur, a kindhearted companion, and a compassionate daughter.
A new journey awaits. Anxious about the future, I shake the box and pick another proverb. It reads: “Focus on your goal. Don’t look in any direction but ahead.”
To be continued…
Common App Prompt:
Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
Nobody cares down here. The asphyxiating world above soars from view as I descend into the water. Distinctions and inequalities wither away as the gorgonian sea fans grow denser, limiting the streaks of sunlight that still manage to penetrate this deep. Marine colors fade, along with human discrimination. It is still possible to discern the surface – the silhouette above of a green sea turtle navigating the waves – but nobody bothers to look up, to look back. Eighty feet from a dependable source of oxygen we are each other’s lifelines, and all we have to communicate with are our hands. No words are uttered – no words can be uttered. The sound of my regulator hissing and gurgling fades to a gentle murmur, then nothing. There’s absolute silence. What initially seems terrifying, what seems absurd, could not have been more beautifully engineered. Scuba diving is a refuge from the culture clash that shadows me: down here I am the same as everybody else.
But when I surface, I am a riddle no one can solve. I am neither British nor American but an amalgam of the two. The last eight years of my life have been spent in Massachusetts, yet when I open my mouth, I am indistinguishable from any British teenager.
Every day without exception my nationality is acknowledged. A boy who has held a mere four conversations with me since freshman year, all of which were compulsory in one way or another, asks me if I woke up at 4 o’clock this morning to catch the Royal Wedding; my sophomore year World History teacher glances in my direction, requesting a tacit confirmation of the accuracy of her details regarding the religious beliefs of Mary I and Edward VI; my reaction of “Ouch! That really hurt” to a friend who parks her chair leg on my foot in the library three years ago results in a tableful of laughing girls, mesmerized by my unintentional rendition of the YouTube sensation “Charlie bit my finger.” I hesitate, perplexed as to why I’ve been singled out. Now, a little wiser, I pause in frustration, hoping for this attention to be some type of joke. It never is.
Most revel in my English accent. Sooner rather than later I assume the disguise of a magician, my trick being effortlessly simple, yet consistently engaging. In my repertoire: ‘dodgy’, ‘wonky’, ‘bloody hell’, ‘loo’, ‘rubbish’ – just to name a few. I once naively exposed the act to a nagging friend and now it’s a full-time show. I am a full-time show.
I am not a proficient riddle-teller. I don’t even know the solution to my own riddle. I am divided between two linguistic cultures, waiting for time to tell me which one to call home. Underwater I can escape: I can be myself without managing to perplex others. The silence of the deep lures me while I wait.
Common App Essay Prompt:
Discuss an accomplishment, event, or realization that sparked a period of personal growth and a new understanding of yourself or others.
One of my guilty pleasures is sitting on my bathroom floor. While these white and tan tiles don’t evoke the most alluring feelings for most, I can’t escape the euphoria of chaos-turned-harmony, the orderly ceramic squares juxtaposed against the makeup sprawled around my feet. “What look do I want to display?” I ask myself, staring into my handheld mirror, examining my features, and wiggling my toes, pondering about what I want to highlight. As I select a flat brush from my collection, I remind myself of the interplays between my cultural communities: my Filipino heritage and my American experiences.
Step 1: Apply Foundation. I saturate the brush’s fibers in a golden-brown swatch, swiping it across my round, sun-kissed cheeks, reminiscent of how my Filipino upbringing defines my homelife and social interactions. Two years ago, my family hosted Christmas: the epitome of family gatherings. I extended a bowl of homemade sinigang soup to my guests, smiling as the tangy tamarind tantalized their taste buds. As my uncles belted Martin Nivera, I accompanied their impromptu musicals, my crisp chords harmonizing their shameless vocals. And I navigated the organized warzone of our family gift exchange, juggling snowflake-ornamented boxes until I reached my final destination: delivering cherubic smiles to younger cousins’ faces.
Step 2: Apply Concealer. Following the base layer, I wave this magical makeup wand and pinpoint the sulking dark circles between my button nose and my coffee-colored almond eyes, instantly brightening my expressions — paralleling how my American spirit fuels my eternal quest towards confidence. How do I enliven…myself? I recount the uncountable hours scribbling speech flashcards one week before Presentation Day. While I flipped through my chronologized notes, my tongue tying at every other sentence, my gaze gravitated to a scrawled Post-it, compelling me to “speak — DON’T TALK — to the judge!!!” Brimming with newfound self-affirmation, I found myself rehearsing my unaccompanied speeches, shuffling through my bedroom, the crutches retired on my nightstand. And as the judge lent his attention, I blossomed with conviction in my stride, dignity in my stance.
Step 3: Blend, Blend, Blend. I pout upon examining the jarring transition between the two distinct layers, resembling the duels between my cultural identities. At school, I was a first-generation student, clutching my delicacy-teeming lunchbox through the hallways. But at the dinner table, I sometimes stayed quiet during family conversations, embarrassed that I forgot a word in Filipino.
I was intimidated by this isolative disparity.
I grab another brush and diffuse the distinction between the foundation and concealer. I now understand that I’ve been blending both cultures my entire life, working towards the American Dream. Coming home from elementary school, I watched my parents trickle quarters into a three-foot-tall water jug, its contents funding our first family trip to London. I watched as Mr. Gellis, my fifth-grade teacher, scribbled his final advice in my yearbook: “Go on to do bigger and better things!” Empowered by inspiration, I embody the immigrant sacrifices and American psyche’s ideologies. Sentence here about sacrifice. I redefine my limits: conducting one more laboratory test, performing on one more stage, edging one more year until I depart into unknown territory. I orchestrate the composition of my American Dream.
Step 4: Examine the Finished Look. I bring the mirror to my face and admire the completed masterpiece — makeup that highlights my best features. My eyes drift to my glistening lips, iridescent from lip gloss and the transformation provoked by the lessons I’ve learned from my cultures. With my palettes now piled parallel to the tile grout, I raise the handheld mirror to the ceiling and pose, witnessing this makeup choreography mature and my Filipino-American authenticity sparkle through my complexion. “I look like me.” And I reflect on the most vital step in my ever-developing makeup routine: the importance of blending the edges just a little bit more.
