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Outstanding Sample Essays
Short Answer: Willie Phan, Stanford University, Class of 2009 When I was little, my grandfather would treat me for helping him with yard work by becoming a magician. I recall watching him press his thumb against a hose nozzle to summon a fan of water. I'd look at the miniature geyser in time to see a rainbow appear, and I'd think to myself, "This must be magic!" Today, science still has not lost its mystical allure-though I can now explain the prismatic display with the concepts of light refraction and variation in frequencies. As a sophomore, I joined the biodiesel research team at my high school. I was excited to be doing something meaningful-not only for myself, but potentially for the scientific community as well. It was a surreal feeling to put on goggles and gloves, measure out the appropriate amount of soybean oil, methanol, and lye, and participate in the transesterification process from start to finish. For the first time, I truly understood the meaning of applied science. As we made batch after batch of this alternative fuel, then tested it for microbial content, I was venturing into uncharted areas of science. I was living my passion, right there with a pipette in one hand and a bottle of methylene blue in the other. I can't recall a time that I didn't have a fascination with science. I am invigorated by the prospect of pursuing answers to questions that shape our society. As I delve deeper into the biodiesel research, my love of science continues to grow, fueling the same spark that my grandfather ignited up more than a decade ago. Short answer: Jeff Lai, University of California-Berkeley, Class of 2010 My eyes were glued to the Petri dishes; I diverted all concentration from the world around me into the short plastic cylinders in front of me. During sophomore year, I conducted an independent research project on plasmid incorporation rates in E. Coli by mixing pLUX plasmids with Luria-Broth Agar that fed my bacteria. In two days, I eagerly ran to my dishes and peaked at the bacteria. With my hand shaking from nervousness and delight, I held a black light to count what percentage of bacteria incorporated the plasmid that allowed them to glow. I have had an affinity towards biology since fourth grade. I remember learning about photosynthesis, which led me to my first discovery of the wonders of nature. That day I returned home and sat next to the plum tree in my backyard, contemplating the effects of our oxygen and carbon dioxide exchange. I remember breathing on the tree, hoping to give it carbon dioxide and waiting for oxygen in return. I remained fixated on my spontaneous quest for some time, but in the end I decided that my results were inconclusive. Determined to find a tangible answer, I ran inside to read any book that was plant related. I carried this same intellectual enthusiasm through high school. My biology teacher, Mr. Hunt, and the AP Biology course nurtured my fascination to a point where discussion was not enough to satisfy my hunger for biology. I devoured each word and savored each picture in the microbiological section of my hardback, yet I still craved something more substantial. Performing the plasmid project brought my passion to life; I could have mixed the solution and counted bacteria for days on end and still find myself enthused. Sharing my results with Professor Wehmeyer from University of Arizona left me gratified for her help, but just like my E. Coli, the question addressed by my experiment soon proliferated into dozens of others about the possibilities of incorporation. Reacting in a way similar to a time six years ago, I sped to the UCI library to restart my cycle of reading and experimenting. Personal statement: Andrew Dao, Stanford University, Class of 2010 I was only six years old when I first witnessed the terrible power of my mom’s addiction. My parents had been arguing, and in frustration my mom went to her car and started to leave for the Bay 101 Casino. I remember my dad dragging my two brothers and me into the garage and yelling at us to lie down behind the car’s tires to keep my mom from leaving. She turned around and screamed at us, saying that if we didn’t move, she was going to run us over. Her eyes blazed with pure rage. I trembled with fear as I looked into her face—this mad, crazy woman couldn’t be my mom. My mom would never threaten her children. And yet she had, and it was convincing enough to make me jump out of the way. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I watched her car round the corner and disappear. That incident was the beginning of a slow decline. As the years passed, my mother’s presence around the house became increasingly rare. Through it all, however, I never once hated her. I despised her gambling addiction—the real cause of her absence. She was no longer the compassionate, dutiful, and loving mother I had known. She lived only for the lights above the casino table, the adrenaline rush of a huge bet, and the roll of the dice. To feed her addiction, she committed check fraud, credit card fraud, and even borrowed money from my father, her now ex-husband. Eventually she was incarcerated at the California Institution for Women. Visiting her there one day, she spoke words I will never forget. “Don’t end up like me,” she said. “I have fallen from grace, and I don’t want that to happen to you as well. Go to college, study hard, and have a successful career. But above all, be a good person; be someone I can be proud of.” I will never forget the anguish in her eyes and the emotion in her voice as she held me close and made me promise that I would never fall prey to addiction. Sometimes sleep seemed the only solution to my loneliness, but even that did not always dull the pain. Once, I woke up in the middle of the night in a panic. Crying out, I jumped from my bed and bolted to my mother’s old bedroom in search of comfort. Then it hit me: my mom didn’t live with us anymore. At that moment she was in some small, dark cell. I crumpled down and whimpered. The noise must have awoken my father because soon I felt two strong arms wrapped safely around me. I spent what seemed an eternity in my father’s arms. Afterwards I took my sleeping bag to his room and slept there. I couldn’t stand to be alone that night. During my childhood, what kept my dreams alive, and my thoughts focused on my future, was family—my brothers and father. I was lucky to have the love of a devoted family. But not everyone has that kind of support. They are the ones that need help the most. With that thought and my mother’s hopes for me in mind, my brothers and I spend Saturday mornings at community runs, elderly homes, and homeless shelters, doing whatever we can to make a positive difference in the lives of others. But more than just a simple distraction, I have found a sense of fulfillment and purpose in my activities. Even if I have to sacrifice a few hours of sleep, I don’t mind waking up before the sun rises to carpool people to community service events. Those crisp, clear mornings are better spent knowing that I am making a real difference, not just dreaming about how I could or will do something in the future. In this way, I have been able to keep my promise to my mother and to myself. The family I will raise, the job I will have, and the responsibilities I will assume leave no room for drugs, alcohol, or gambling. I don’t want my kids to come home every day after school, hoping and longing for their dad to be home. Instead, I would rather my kids have a happy and carefree childhood, the one I never had myself. Personal statement: Travis Kiefer, Stanford University, Class of 2010 The mountain of timber was growing as I added a few more pieces of split wood. Breathing heavily, I set another block and swung my sledgehammer around, feeling the heavy impact and the woosh-crack of another successful split. Kindling was the inevitable choice for my family; it would heat our house in the winter and help ebb the costs of using propane. The economic limitations of my life propelled me to take action to make life better for my family. One of my first memories after coming home from a summer camp to an empty house was listening to two voice messages that said our electricity and phone line would be disconnected due to unpaid balances. My home life was always difficult but this experience helped me realize the implications of my family's situation. When I was five years old, my parents had a long, drawn out custody battle with raised voices and elevated tempers. My mother was eventually victorious, and her trophy consisted of working a dead-end job to support three young children. She remarried and my family was better able to provide for itself, but we were still clipping food stamps. I was unable to participate in extracurricular activities because money was tight. Often after coming home on the bus, I would start washing dishes, folding clothes, and changing the diapers of two new family members. I was raised in a family with parent's word as law and having to ask for permission to do almost everything except go to the bathroom. I began to fear my step-father after he beat me for not wanting to do dishes. I was in second grade and tired of doing dishes with my brother for my family because my parents would just sit and watch television afterwards. I felt it would be fair to have both parents and children do dishes every other night, but that was not the case; a quick beating resolved the issue. From that day on I did as I was told, and I worked hard at it. I feared to fail, and what that would mean, and sought to please my parents. It seems I never could please my parents. I continually try, but for everything I do, there is little acknowledgment and an attitude of indifference. It was in high school when I started to participate in extracurricular activities, but that was after I got a job to pay for transportation, extracurricular activities, and social life. One of the most significant risks I took was applying for the Quest Scholars Program. I filled out a twenty-two page application that would tell me whether or not I was a semi-finalist, and after I found out I was, I went to local businesses in my community and fundraised $1,700 for transportation to the interview. After going through the whole process of selling myself and dedicating many hours to an opportunity that may not have been fruitful, I received a phone call that told me I was invited to be a Quest Scholar. After hearing the news, I called my parents while my mother was recovering from surgery to tell them the great news. My step-father was the first to answer the phone, and I told him immediately. His first response was, “I'm proud of you.” That was the first time I can ever remember him saying that, and it left me speechless. I was awed by the fact that my step-father was finally proud of me for something, and there were tears welling up in my eyes. After choking out a quick thank you I asked to talk to my mother and tell her the news. It felt so good to finally hear my parents say that something I did was worthwhile, especially after putting much time and energy to the cause. When my step-father came home from the hospital and heard the message about the bills, all he could do was shake his head. I stood there, not knowing what to say. The following morning, before we both went to work, my step-father asked me to take the last remaining cash he had and pay the electric and phone company. It wasn't near enough to cover the bills and he asked me to tell the companies that he would pay the rest of the bills when he received his next paycheck. I took the cash in my hand, looked my step-father in the eyes, and told him that I would pay the remainder of the bills. I also gave him enough money so that he could visit my mother in a couple of days because she was still at the hospital. The moment right before I told my step-father I would pay the bills seemed to last an eternity. My mind was racing with thoughts of why I should help out when I received so little from them, as compared to my heart telling me it was my moral responsibility to help my family in any way, shape or form. That moment, when I said I would pay the rest of the bills, was the first time I had taken a stand on what I would do when speaking with my step-father. My body trembled with uneasiness and I said I would help because I love my family. No matter how much it seemed they may not appreciate me, deep down, I knew I loved them. It has been a few months since that critical moment in my life. I still help pay for bills and my parents are developing a financial crutch on me, which will be an issue when I go to college. I feel a sense of responsibility to help them, but they aren't fiscally prudent. My parents spend excessive amounts of money on trivial things, like donuts, when we have bill collectors calling daily. My parents still have a pickup initially valued at their total income for a year when it could be sold and used to purchase things such as decent plumbing, heating, and the debts still outstanding. I can't change my parents, but I can learn from their errors, and do my best to help in extreme circumstances. Essay Home | Essay Strategy | Sample Essays | Admissions Officer Perspective
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