Students always ask about the essay. Topic selection, length, style, message – there is so much to think about. We realize that it is not an easy process, to say the least. So it is our pleasure to share with you 14 exceptional essays penned by members of the Tufts Class of 2013.
So why do we love these essays?
These pieces captured the distinct voices of these young men and women, and forged a powerful and affective human connection with their readers. They truly helped to set these students apart in our applicant pool. They compelled, magnetized, and fascinated us. They demonstrated creativity and illuminated curiosity.
We are infinitely proud of these students and the essays they wrote. We hope that these works will inspire you to find your unique voice as you craft your words and stories in the months to come.
-The Tufts University Admissions Officers
Click on the student's name to read his or her essay:
Melis Aker
Ankara, Turkey
Bilkent University Preparatory School
JonFranco Barretto
Medford, MA
Minuteman Regional High School
Thomas Cahill
Basking Ridge, NJ
Ridge School
Xochitl Castro
Los Angeles, CA
Brentwood School
Carly Fuglei
Missoula, MT
Hellgate High School
Katherine Hegarty
Downington, PA
The Agnes Irwin School
Michael Hylind
Cockeysville, MD
St. Paul’s School for Boys
Shubham Kumar
New Delhi, India
Sanskriti School
Christina Luo
Rockville, MD
Richard Montgomery High School
Kelly Manser
Norfolk, VA
Norfolk Collegiate School
Jeffrey Marvel
Naples, FL
Naples High School
Juan Carlos Montemayor
Monterrey, Mexico
American School Foundation of Monterrey
Danielle Moscovitch
Santa Monica, CA
Santa Monica High School
Molly Wallace
Silver Spring, MD
James Hubert Blake High School
Melis Aker
Ankara, Turkey
Bilkent University Preparatory School
This essay was written in response to one of last year’s Optional Essay prompts on the Tufts Supplemental Application. To see this year’s Optional Essay prompts, please click here.
We are diverging branches of the same tree.
Elsewhere, a girl paints a tree on the wall. She is eleven years of age, and is the youngest in a family of six. She likes to paint her hands and press them on the wall of her school, as leaves for her crooked tree. (Green, pink and yellow.) She is one of the most talented artists I have ever seen. She is also the girl who darts down a field of shredded hopes, while dreaming of becoming a writer for children her age. (She has whispered in my ear, several times, that her book would contain illustrations. She told me that it would make it easier for kids here to read). She is the girl who is not scared to say, "I don't like you"; she feels it is important to be true to the self than any other being. (Her God is an exception). Sometimes, I feel as if I might have stolen her aspired future.
She paints on a wall overwhelmed by shadows of her oppression. In a distorted way, this does not scare her. She is happy, nonetheless. She is still the girl who kisses you four times in a greeting, and five times in a farewell. She will be the girl watching her male peers leave for “higher” school, in a year or so. (She will probably be pregnant by then.)
Her name is Nur.
Within our common culture, the name means 'light.' Within our separate lives, it means 'light of the future' for me, and 'light smothered by culture,' for her. Within our shared experience, we consume the same food, have the same eye color, speak the same language, breathe the same air, and have one heart within our bodies. We are not given the choice to choose our families, our lives and our appearance. And yet, we walk different paths, differ in dialect, are taught different values, and hold separate expectations.
The two of us live in different worlds within one country. It is unfortunate, on my behalf, to realize that our difference becomes my border of success, and her horizon of oppression. Sometimes, I feel as if she looks up to me. She intertwines our hands with the hope that I'll create change for her. She dreams; her eyes glisten as she thinks of conquering foreign lands within her mind. She looks at me; she sees through me. She sees similarity. She sees difference. She sees possibility.
Though really, there isn't much to look up to. There isn't much similarity, there isn't much difference.
There isn't much possibility.
We seem different, and yet, are very similar. I paint my future, as she paints her walls. She thinks of her family, I do too. (Though I tend to think of myself often.) I quote Jean Paul Sartre. She quotes her neighbor. Both of us have hazel eyes. She is determined, I determine. I choose to run. She chooses to live. She has one photograph of herself; I have shoeboxes of them. I am aware of time. She is aware of details. Time is not prevalent in Nur's sense of living: it is, rather, quite fluid. She lives the moment, without measuring its intervals. She counts the number of red apples on a tree, rather than the seconds on a clock. She believes time limits people. In this sense, she is free.
She believes her story is written by her God. I believe mine is written by my choices. I am allowed choices. I am allowed a certain privilege. Sometimes, I question these privileges; how much I deserve them as opposed to her.
Seventeen minutes ago, I realized that both stories are of the same girl. Really, our divergence isn’t in our stories; it is in the manner they are written.
And to think, I only knew her for seventeen minutes.
Return to top of page
JonFranco Barretto
Medford, MA
Minuteman Regional High School
This essay was written in response to one of last year’s Optional Essay prompts on the Tufts Supplemental Application. To see this year’s Optional Essay prompts, please click here.
There is a special place that I like to go, which I have visited many times in my life, a place where I am the only human in existence. Although gravity is present in my sanctuary, the buoyancy of my body allows me to float as if I were suspended in space. It is eerily quiet there, except for an occasional delicate whoosh, a soft, sibilant whisper. This extremely comforting euphony is usually accompanied by the most tender of touches, similar to the sensation of a feather being brushed against various parts of my body. The scents experienced in this special place are soothing and clean.
There are rarely any bright colors to shock one's retinas in my utopia, and instead, there is a combination of different hues of blue, green, brown, gray, and white. The color scheme alone is conducive to peace and tranquility, and each time I descend into my serene abyss I leave the world behind me. There is no war. There is no recession. There is no poverty. There is no turmoil. There is no pain.
Although there is no human life in my paradise, life does exist. Some of the beings have been scientifically defined, while others are yet to be discovered. On each of my journeys through this haven, I am man; I am explorer; I am scientist. There are no limits, no boundaries. I am intoxicated by this extraordinary macrocosm, and each excursion proves to be more interesting than the last.
From the very first time I submerged myself into this fascinating world I seethed with excitement, and a strong desire emerged to know what some of these life forms are, how they came to be, how they sustain themselves, how their existence compares with ours. In my special place was born my yearning for the education and knowledge needed to comprehend life and death and everything in between, not only as it pertains to the organisms that I have encountered underwater in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Cape Cod, but human life, as well. It is there that I discovered that I don't want to be just an observer; I want to be involved. I want to understand how and why. Taking home in my beach bucket some of the small fish and plant life and clams and quahogs that I dug up from the bottom of the ocean to observe and examine was enough to keep my curiosity at bay when I was a child. But now, as a young adult, I have a whole new passion and yearning to conduct more research and study biology and related fields and gain as much knowledge as I can to establish a strong foundation to enter the field of medicine. I will continue to enjoy my special place, but for now, the world of science awaits me.
Return to top of page
Thomas Cahill
Basking Ridge, NJ
Ridge School
This essay was written in response to one of last year’s Optional Essay prompts on the Tufts Supplemental Application. To see this year’s Optional Essay prompts, please click here.
Optional Essay #6
Part 2
Return to top of page
Xochitl Castro
Los Angeles, CA
Brentwood School
My name was supposed to be Xochitl Itandehui Castro. Thankfully, my parents had the sense to drop the middle name and not brand me as a totally bizarre individual. They still kept the ridiculous, or as they saw it, unique and cultural first name which means “Queen of the Flowers.” This name caused me to always be stressed out about introducing myself ever since kindergarten. Whether it is to a single person or those terrifying times where I have to introduce myself to a group, I can always feel the tension in my shoulders as I ready myself to say my name. This anxiety usually causes me to make a fool of myself such as the time when I was so nervous during the first day of my SAT prep course that I just blurted my name out, skipping the whole row of people in front of me. The reason I am nervous is not because I lack confidence or am intimidated, but because I am embarrassed to pronounce my name correctly.
And, after all the anxiety, most people just have their own take on how my name should be pronounced. I’ve gotten a colorful myriad of pronunciations ranging from “Sushi” to “Sashitl” to even the embarrassing nickname “Social Studies.” The pronunciation that really stuck was “Social.” Before, I always tried to introduce myself properly, as if it were really that easy, but I frequently just got many mispronunciations that always seem to give my name a different twist each time. My life has always been full of meeting people, teachers, classmates, and having them stumble over my name. Every time I remember deliberating if I would have the courage to say my name correctly this time around.
This past summer I had to introduce myself once again to my coworkers as I had my first summer job. I thought with anticipation at all the new experiences I would have as I worked at Astroburger. The only thing that dampened my soaring high spirits was the dread of having to pronounce my name once again to a bunch of people who would not understand and just gaze at me quizzically as if I had spoken in a different language, not knowing how accurate their thought actually was. But, this time I was determined that it was now or never. I was tired of having to hide who I really was. Yes, I did have a strange name but that was not all that mattered about me.
Remarkably, it worked and most people got my name right except for my now close friend, Sophia. I tried to simplify it for her and resorted to using my alter ego name, but she would not let it go. “That’s so stupid!” she exclaimed as she finally got my name right, “Why would anyone call you ‘Social’?” For the first time, I realized she was right; I was hiding behind this simplified name to belong to the mass of people whose names were effortless to pronounce. I realized that sacrificing my name was not worth belonging when I was born to stand out, if only because of my name. From then on, I keep holding strong, pronouncing my name correctly when I introduce myself. Every time I introduce myself now, I still have to summon all the courage that is stored within me as a whirlwind of fear fills my body, but I have an obligation to myself. Nobody should have to hide who they are just to conform to the concept of normalcy.
I’m glad for the first time that my parents named me Xochitl because it has set me apart from everyone else. Why conform when destiny has set you apart? There is no reason. My mind was set. College would mark a new era for me, a time in which I would live out my life completely, being who I truly was, confusing name and all. Although I still long to be able to exude that unintentional nonchalance that I hear in other’s voices as they say their names, knowing that nobody else in the room hears it but myself, I feel confident that being myself will not be as hard as before. College will allow me to redefine myself as Xochitl, never anyone else.
Return to top of page
Carly Fuglei
Missoula, MT
Hellgate High School
This essay was written in response to one of last year’s Optional Essay prompts on the Tufts Supplemental Application. To see this year’s Optional Essay prompts, please click here.
Denture Care Solution, a Civil War Revolver and a No Whip Half-Caf Latte
The little boy's name was Jonah. He was a second grader at Sandalwood Elementary school in Kalamazoo, Michigan and he liked to hunt. At least he wished he could hunt; he spent his time dreaming about the day that he could take that fluffy coonskin hat out of the closet, grab a shotgun—his very own shotgun—and shoot one of them pesky wabbits, Elmer Fudd style. One day, Jonah went to visit his Aunt Meryl who lived in Springfield. He was sitting in her basement watching Bugs Bunny when he noticed the most marvelous thing he had ever seen hanging above her fireplace: a beautiful mahogany gun with an intricately carved design on its handle. It had a sleek dark shaft and would be perfect for shooting rabbits. He rushed upstairs and said to his aunt, "Aunt Meryl! That gun above the fireplace—do you use it for shooting rabbits?" Aunt Meryl laughed to herself and smiled. "No, Jonah. That is your uncle's antique revolver from the Civil War. We don't use it; we only look at it. Now, do you know what the Civil War was?" She continued talking, but Jonah didn't hear her. Something about death and destruction. He had much more important things to consider. Since I leave tomorrow, I'll only have one chance, he thought. If they don't use it, then why shouldn't I?
That night while Aunt Meryl was sleeping, Jonah stealthily crept downstairs. Careful not to make a noise, he climbed up on the mantle, reached up as far as he could, and grabbed the gun. It was surprisingly light. He cradled it for a moment, tracing its fancy design with his fingertips, before tiptoeing back upstairs. He shoved the pistol in his little blue backpack; it fit perfectly. He smiled. Jonah went to bed and dreamt about the next day. He would be on a plane back to Kalamazoo, where he would finally be able to hunt down all of the rabbits his heart desired.
The next day, Jonah had to get up early. Aunt Meryl woke him up at six to go to the airport. He hated airports. Jonah and Aunt Meryl were standing in the security line. Jonah was bored. He stared at the wall. He could see rabbits formed by the little dots on the ceiling. The woman in front of him was being interrogated by tall, blonde heavyset man in a black uniform for attempting to take breast milk on a plane. A teenager was forced to throw out her four ounce lip gloss because it wasn't in an airtight container. A toddler was politely asked to "kindly remove his shoes." A portly businesswoman looked daggers at the security guard as she was forced to pour out her four dollar no whip half-caf Starbucks latte. The tall blonde man was now patting down an eighty year old woman with large round glasses. Jonah stared at the rabbits in the ceiling.
Then, a security guard with rimmed glasses and a thick brown mustache held up Jonah's little blue backpack and yelled, "WHOSE IS THIS?" Jonah raised his hand and trotted up to the security guard. The guard eyed him suspiciously. Aunt Meryl stood about five feet behind him. "You," the guard said pointing at Jonah "is there anything you want to tell me?" Jonah stared blankly. "No." The guard forcefully reached his hand into Jonah's little blue backpack and climactically pulled out the antique Civil War revolver. Everyone in the security line gasped. "Terrorist!" the guard shrieked as the S.W.A.T. team rushed in. They shoved Jonah to the floor and told him not to move. Aunt Meryl screamed. Jonah writhed, so they maced him. Then he screamed, and tried to run so they tased him. The F.B.I. marched in, flashing their badges to everyone in sight. They cuffed him, strapped a black bag over Jonah's head and carried him through tinted glass doors, where they charged him with an attempted act of terror, sedition and treason.
The old lady with the big round glasses turned to the teenager and said, "Thank GOD I put this nitroglycerin in a three ounce saline solution container and this thermite 21 in a bottle marked 'Denture care' and by golly, I even remembered to put them in a quart sized Ziploc bag. Too bad Shelley didn't make it onboard with the ammonium nitrate 34 in the coffee cup. Now, did you remember to bring the liquid oxygen to ensure easy ignition?"
"Yep. All in my three ounce mascara container," the teen said as they boarded a plane for Los Angeles.
Return to top of page
Katherine Hegarty
Downington, PA
The Agnes Irwin School
In a society that changes as often as the latest celebutante’s hairstyle, it can seem that there’s nothing stable to hold onto. This is often where conventional wisdom, that knight upon his noble steed, comes cantering in. However, in my experience, conventional wisdom has been neither conventional nor wise. Case in point: “It’s like riding a bike!” Incapable of being a typical child, I didn’t learn to ride a two-wheeler until I was eleven years old. Being able to ride a bike was a source of ever-surging pride for me for the next two years, but in middle school, my bike just collected dust. Years later, I found myself at Paris à Vélo!, a tiny bike shop that offers tours of Paris. My tour group watched in horror as I managed to crash my bike within six rotations of my pedals, and I quickly realized that I could no longer ride a bike. The noble conventional steed appeared to me a donkey with a bum leg.
I admit I sobbed for ten minutes, bemoaning my handicap and vowing never to exit the shop bathroom. Enter Half One of the most notable difficulty of my pre-adult life: instead of tottering around on a bike I couldn’t steer, I was forced to stay behind and feel like the consummate loser. Fast-paced French mocking seemed inevitable when I left the bathroom, but instead, a highlighted map was thrust in my hands and my tear-blurred eyes studied it intently, locating the intended destination to be a somewhat-famous garden called La Place des Vosges. And now Half Two of my dilemma: I am atrociously inept at reading maps, and generally end up spinning in circles like a tired puppy. Yet there I was on La Rue Saint Sébastien, map in hand and despair in heart. I fully expected to get lost.
For the next hour, I corrected numerous missteps, only making about two blocks of progress. Eventually, I pocketed the map and just walked, turning where turns felt right and letting interesting café-dwellers be my landmarks, but I wanted more. I needed to achieve something before I went back to my friends, confidently astride their vélos. I plopped down on a bench to create a story for everyone, but just couldn’t lie about my horrific morning. Simply put, everything had gone wrong, and I was about as pleased as a pilot after a botched crash landing. Head in hands, I looked around, noticing the beautiful surroundings of my little bench. The perfectly sculpted shrubbery reminded me of pictures I’d seen of elaborate French gardens… I looked to my left and saw a placard proclaiming that I was in La Place des Vosges, the garden I’d been headed for all morning! I laughed out loud, startling a few nearby pigeons and the old man feeding them, but I didn’t mind. This was suddenly the most gorgeous garden on Earth, simply because of the ordeal of getting there.
It has been said, and I wholeheartedly agree, that achievement is more satisfying when the extenuating circumstances of that achievement were difficult to overcome. Navigating unfamiliar backstreets in a bad mood was no small feat; likewise, seeing that big green sign was no small thrill. La Place des Vosges will always hold a special place in my heart, and hopefully someday I’ll go back… maybe even on bike.
Return to top of page
Michael Hylind
Cockeysville, MD
St. Paul’s School for Boys
I shook off years of hiding and spoke. “I want to be a writer,” I said to Jack. I had decided to come out of the “scriptorium” that day, revealing my passion for writing for the first time. Jack shared my appetite for books and his enthusiasm over good literature mirrored mine, so I assumed he would be supportive.
Jack’s reaction: a curled sneer, incredulous glare, and relentless interrogation. As far as he was concerned, my claim to writing was tantamount to saying, “I want to be a rock star and live forever!” He demanded I produce writing. I hesitated. My instincts urged me to remain in hiding and avoid his judgment. I reluctantly gave him a short story and suffered through the gnawing anticipation of critique. He didn’t like it, saying my writing career would limp through 10 years until I decided I wanted to move out of my parent’s basement. This was the memorable advice of my first critique: pursue a different occupation. Jack supplemented his encouragement with a trip to a nearby bookstore, where he, like some twisted Ghost of Christmas Past, told me where my writing was headed.
I followed Jack to the used books, past the endless “Best Sellers” sections filled with pristine hardbacks. As we traveled, the smell of chemically crisp new books was replaced with an earthly mold. People became scarce until we were alone. Disconnected from the rest of the store by muffling walls of soft paper, we silently approached where my last name would be. One of the lights was broken, so we resorted to the dull glow of our cell phones to discern the author’s names on the worn spines of the books. Jack pointed to a shelf and beckoned.
So there, in Powell’s City of Books, Portland Oregon, lost in the labyrinth of forgotten, musty used books, Jack proceeded to show me my fate: an alphabetical spot reserved between two obscure Nordic authors, doomed to book worms and neglect until I was forgotten. “Right here…this is you.” Jack said, pushing aside a space between two books, Fardaminnen by Claes Hylinger and Noveller fran Faroarna by Birgitta Hylin. They peeled apart slowly, attached with the glossy adhesive of spider webs and thick dust. 68,000 square feet of shelved books, an entire city block, and this would be me, packed into one of the innumerable aisles of the world’s biggest book store.
But Jack was incorrect in assuming this would scare me into “sensibility”. This city of books does not daunt me or my passion. I don’t mind that my name will be stuck between two obscure authors in a dusty store in Portland, Oregon. What draws me towards writing, and really everything else I do, is an intellectual restlessness that has always been apparent. Whispers of a good book will compulsively lead me to the library, personal experiences will drive me into feverish writing, and random thoughts will sneak along the margins of my class notes. Where my work settles has little interest to me. Its mere existence is satisfying enough; the finality of captured emotions, people, and stories locked into a verdict of adjectives on paper appeals to my intellect. My writing is not a scheme for fame or a counter-attack against mortality, but rather an addiction that leaves my imagination captured. I have no choice but to ignore Jack’s advice.
Return to top of page
Shubham Kumar
New Delhi, India
Sanskriti School
This essay was written in response to one of last year’s Optional Essay prompts on the Tufts Supplemental Application. To see this year’s Optional Essay prompts, please click here.
I sat staring at the image that encompassed the entirety of my computer screen. M.C. Escher's 'Relativity' was holding my attention like no other piece of art ever had. At first, I couldn't quite put a finger on what felt so different about it, apart from the unusually high staircase density. And then I did a double take.
I was seeing the impossible- an illusive synecdoche, each section independently coherent but meaningless as a whole. I didn't quite comprehend then how profoundly Escher's work would affect my conception of art and its implications.
Until this point, art had just been a creative hobby. This was the first time that a work of art had kept me thinking for hours, and being a person naturally inclined towards the sciences, it did not take very long for me to connect both these seemingly opposite expressions of human intellect. I began asking questions- why are art and science mutually exclusive when both strive to represent theories, observations, images in simple terms, be it through equations or through brushstrokes? Why does science today find art too abstract and imprecise? Why does art find science too dry?
Escher. Relativity. Relativity. Einstein. Suddenly it all fit in.
Escher has affected me in ways I couldn't have thought possible. Random pencil strokes turn into masterpieces when I use geometry and proportion. I see geometrical shapes in every object, tessellations in every texture, symmetry in everything natural. Equations come alive when I replace the variables with faces, hypotheses turn real in a fantasy world, and scientific theories become vivid as I turn them into movies that play in my head.
The questions I asked that day have led to more questions, challenging and stimulating me to begin looking for answers. Someday, I hope to bridge the chasm that divides my two passions, science and art, and merge them seamlessly into a strange loop, the way Escher blends different dimensions in his 'Drawing Hands'.
Return to top of page
Christina Luo
Rockville, MD
Richard Montgomery High School
As soon as the alarm clock screams at me to wake up, wake up it’s 6:15, YOU’RE GOING TO MISS YOUR BUS, I wake up. While I wake up to the humdrum of a microwave and my mom yelling at me to get up, there’s also something in the back of my brain, something soft, like it wants to stay hidden in the background. Then the realization dawns – it’s music. Some mornings it’s the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto in D Major. Other mornings it’s the theme song to “Friends”; once it was even the commercial jingle for Daisy Sour Cream. But whatever it is, I always wake up with music in my head.
It’s not just mornings; I rarely ever have silences and fermatas-over-rests in my head. My mind is like a CD on shuffle, always playing a classical song on repeat, until I hear a pop song on my friend’s iPod, which plays on repeat, until I hear a teacher whistling a Beatles song, which plays on repeat, until I hear African tribal music in music class, which actually doesn’t. Then I start all over again with another piano sonata, Broadway tune, Godfather soundtrack, pencil-tapping, or really anything with a melody or rhythm. Inspiration comes from every direction: today it was the tuning forks we used to learn about waves in Physics class, yesterday it was a kid clapping a hip-hop beat on his desk, the day before it was a concert at the Kennedy Center. That’s the thing about music – it’s the universal outlet for emotion, excess energy, or just life; with just a spoonful of effort, elbow grease, and desire, anything can be conveyed through music.
On those days when nothing seems to go right (you know, the days when you trip, fail a quiz, get a paper cut, and spill coffee on your shirt in the same hour), music seems to be the only solace. I once came home after working on the Tide, the school newspaper, only to realize the computer crashed and saved nothing from the past four hours. It was like nature decided to play keep away with me and the other editors’ work. So I went home, channeled my frustration into my fingertips, and pounded Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude on my piano. After that, I hammered Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy on the black and white keys, and after that, the first movement of Mendelssohn’s Piano Concerto No. 2. And then I was tired.
I felt exhilarated, yet depleted, liberated, yet worn out. It was like I was emptied of everything I felt, my body left tired and satiated. It was cathartic to just belt out everything I happened to be feeling into music. All my angry, stressed thoughts were focused into one coherent melody, as though my fingers were alchemists that transformed aggravation into something beautiful and lyrical, golden and pure.
It’s kind of bizarre how that works, how music completely smoothes over all the bumps and potholes in daily life; how simply hearing a favorite song on the radio makes me smile like the Cheshire Cat, albeit a little less creepy. The extent to which I dedicate anything, be it community service, academics, or even learning to crochet, has stemmed from my devotion to music. Banging away on the piano, playing violin in a quartet for a wedding, or even waking up to the Mario theme song has taught me, in essence, the nature of equilibrium and reciprocation – the intensity of effort put in to an activity only spits back out the same intensity of joy and passion.
Or maybe not. Sometimes the effort put in returns in a bigger, amplified package, as something even better and more beautiful than before.
Return to top of page
Kelly Manser
Norfolk, VA
Norfolk Collegiate School
This essay was written in response to one of last year’s Optional Essay prompts on the Tufts Supplemental Application. To see this year’s Optional Essay prompts, please click here.
Optional Essay #6
Return to top of page
Jeffrey Marvel
Naples, FL
Naples High School
This essay was written in response to one of last year’s Optional Essay prompts on the Tufts Supplemental Application. To see this year’s Optional Essay prompts, please click here.
It's Saturday morning and I'm driving to Kelly's Fish House to help my father unload this week's catch: king mackerel. I'm dressed in my worst clothes, discolored with years of sweat and stains. Upon arriving, I begin the mundane task of lifting fish after fish onto a conveyor belt to be weighed. Less than a stone's throw away, cars buzz by on a busy overpass. Beyond this lie luxury waterfront condos and their accompanying yachts. Occasionally, I glance up and take it all in, the condos, the yachts, the fancy restaurants and cars, all while I'm covered in sweat and fish grime.
Naples is a city of anomalies. My family comes from a dying middle class that was once Naples' pride and joy. The city still clings to its pioneer past, however. One can see it in the occasional weathered beach house tucked away beside multi-million dollar homes. One can see it in the small commercial fishing fleet, scattered among a maze of canals and waterways. These anomalies extend into everyday life. Many days during the summer, I'd start my morning with a run passing a plethora of mega-mansions along the way. Then, I would hop in my '89 Volvo and drive fifteen minutes east to the church where I volunteer, passing derelict neighborhoods and abandoned homes along the way. I would spend the day tutoring kids who come from low-income families, families that are an essential element behind what makes Naples a thriving town. They build our homes, mow our lawns, and perform the numerous other tasks that many reject. Over the years, this unique perspective has shown me that life is not one-dimensional, no matter how much we want to believe that it is. Always, some down to earth reality accompanies the glitter and pizzazz. It's easy to go through life with blinders on, ignoring these issues, picking and choosing what we see. But to see both sides, to work with the people who make civilized life as we know it possible, makes one-dimensional thinking nearly impossible.
Return to top of page
Juan Carlos Montemayor
Monterrey, Mexico
American School Foundation of Monterrey
This essay was written in response to one of last year’s Optional Essay prompts on the Tufts Supplemental Application. To see this year’s Optional Essay prompts, please click here.
/**
* Made by Juan Carlos Montemayor EXCLUSIVELY for Tufts University.
*
* This is an answer to the Optional Essay section of the Tufts Supplement,
* prompt number six.
*
* NOTE: This has already been sent as an 8.5 x 11 inch sheet of paper through the mail.
*
* See if you can figure out what the secret message is. If stuck, give to nearest programmer. :D
**/
import java.awt.event.*;
import javax.swing.*;
public class OptionalEssay implements ActionListener {
JButton answerB = new JButton("The Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything Else is...");
JTextField resultField = new JTextField(11);
JPanel panel = new JPanel();
JFrame frame = new JFrame();
String[] secretArray = new String[10];
String[] encryptedArray = {"u","J"," ","o","G","!","s","o","b","m"};
public static void main (String args[]) {
OptionalEssay essay = new OptionalEssay();
essay.createUI();
}
public void createUI () {
panel.add(answerB);
answerB.addActionListener(this);
panel.add(resultField);
frame.add(panel);
frame.setSize(420,100);
frame.setVisible(true);
}
public void actionPerformed (ActionEvent e) {
decrypt(encryptedArray);
resultField.setText(secretMessage(0));
}
private void decrypt (String[] initialArray) {
for (int i = 0; i < 10; i++){
if (i <= 4)
secretArray[i+5] = initialArray[i];
else if (i >= 5)
secretArray[i-5] = initialArray[i];
}
}
private String secretMessage (int n) {
if (n == 9)
return secretArray[n];
else
return (secretMessage(n+1) + secretArray[n]);
}
}
Return to top of page
Danielle Moscovitch
Santa Monica, CA
Santa Monica High School
This essay was written in response to one of last year’s Optional Essay prompts on the Tufts Supplemental Application. To see this year’s Optional Essay prompts, please click here.
In my junior year at Santa Monica High School, my AP English teacher assigned my class the rather broad task of creating "a parody of anything." As the enormous history geek that I am, I believed there could exist no greater parody than a Facebook made by Alexander Hamilton. While satirizing the diminished meaning and misleading personal representation that comes from online networking (a diminishing in which I happen to participate every day), I would simultaneously create a modern, socializing webpage for my favorite Founding Father. I chuckled just thinking about it. I did not expect, however, that others would share my enthusiasm.
After creating a real online profile for "Big Ham," as well as an event page for the upcoming "Hamilton-Burr Duel (the sequel)," I printed out the pages from Facebook and thought it was the end of my days posing as the resurrected, way-hipper version of our country's first Secretary of Treasury. But I was mistaken.
Within days of my site's activation, I received at least forty 'friend requests' from high school and college students all around the country, who left excited comments on the page and invited their friends to add me as well. I checked the event page for the duel I had made and, to my astonishment, eighty two people whom I had never met or contacted were listed as 'attending'! Excited and jumpy, I decided to keep up the Faux Father Hoax and responded to the posts, hinting at a disposition favoring revolution and the chartering of National Banks. I've since continued to update the Facebook every month or so.
And so, my 8 and ½ by 11 creation can be viewed at this link: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1043109874&v=feed&viewas=1057470237. Add Alexander Hamilton as a friend! I'm sure he will be very excited to accept your request. If you don't have a Facebook, you can click "Add as Friend" and then follow the instructions to create an account (it will only take a few minutes). To fully enjoy his site, make sure to click and read his "info," "photo,s" and "wall" (the buttons are all next to each other near the top of the page). After clicking "wall", there are links below the "Write Something" box--"Posts by Alexander," "Posts by Others." By clicking those, you can read some of the many comments my pal Al has received in the past months (some are a bit surprising…you'll see). I think you'll soon share my excitement for the incredible, unifying power of the internet…and of our country's founders.
Return to top of page
Molly Wallace
Silver Spring, MD
James Hubert Blake High School
This essay was written in response to one of last year’s Optional Essay prompts on the Tufts Supplemental Application. To see this year’s Optional Essay prompts, please click here.
I am someone who sits, eight hours a week, trapped in a small remodeled bathroom, doing absolutely nothing. This bathroom is my prison. It is also an editing booth. I sit there, week after week, editing tedious, annoying, unrelentingly boring wedding videos. Drag clip, match to music, fade to black. Over, and over, and over again.
While completing such monotonous work, what, you may ask, do I reflect on? Other than the average introspection and psychoanalysis, all I have really learned about myself is how much I hate weddings. The drama, the sappiness, the entire over-the-top spectacle--it all irritates me to no end. So I have made a few decisions, just in case I ever end up throwing one of these excessive extravaganzas.
First, little to no ceremony. I want to be faster than Britney Spears with this whole shebang. I do, you do, excellent, we're done. Anyone who attempts to recite first Corinthians will be shot point-blank. Second, absolutely no planning. Guests will receive sticky-notes (with details) on their doors the day before the wedding. There's nothing worse than a bride who can't enjoy "her day" because the caterer didn't bring enough pigs-in-a-blanket. And the cake would be store-bought. Probably freezer-stored, too.
So why is any of this important? Because just as significant as who a person is at age seventeen, is who they want to be in the future. Now, I don't necessarily want to be married, or angry, or both, but I do know this: I want to be original. I want to do things that make a difference in this world, the sort of things that have meaning. And I definitely cannot change the world by making wedding videos for the rest of my miserable life.