2014 WRA College Essays

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WESTERN RESERVE ACADEMY

College Essays 2014

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Western Reserve Academy adheres to a longstanding policy of admitting students of any race, color, creed, religion, national and ethnic origin subject to all the rights, privileges, programs and activities generally accorded or made available to students at the school. It does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, creed, religion, national or ethnic origin, or disability in the administration of its educational policies, scholarship and loan program or other school-administered programs.

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Introduction For the second time, we in the College Counseling Office worked to collect and now to share some of the excellent essays that were produced by our graduating seniors. These essays were the result of much toil and care by our students and, indeed, the many individuals who helped them along the way.

We are proud to share this, our second annual, College Essay collection.

The essays contained herein represent six essays written by members of the Class of 2014 that were submitted with their college applications and were simultaneously submitted for participation in our annual essay contest. The top three essays are noted accordingly, but all selected essays represent some outstanding writing by our students. Though we chose just six for publication, there were many possibilities for inclusion. We chose an array of styles and voices that we think reveal a terrific range of our students’ voices.

I would like to thank the faculty members who served as judges for the contest: Matt Gerber (History), Matt Peterson (English), Wanda Boesch (Science), and Katie Bonomo (Mathematics). Additionally, special acknowledgment should be extended to Kelly Hedgspeth, Haley Preston, and especially Anna Barlow, for directing this project for the second year.

Jeffrey R. Neill Director of College Counseling

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Untitled Alena Nichols ’14 (First place)

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t was on one of our famous “******* Family Adventures” that I redefined my life. My Dad insisted that we leave our comfortable, air conditioned hotel and see the real India that waited in the streets of New Delhi. The hotel, in his opinion, was not an authentic enough representation of India’s rich culture and history. He wanted his three “lazy” teenagers to abandon the poolside and experience India. I squeezed into the backseat of the car, beside my triplet brother and sister, and pulled out of the hotel gates. Upon leaving the hotel, we immediately found ourselves no longer on asphalt, but a crowded dirt road. We had finally arrived in India. Stuck in traffic between a rickshaw and a donkey, my perception of the world changed.

It would have been too easy to travel to India and never look past the hotel window and see the world below. Men in suits bartered with men in turbans at a fruit market while bikes darted in and out of the stagnant traffic. A woman was holding a crying baby to my brother’s window while a little boy tried to clean our front windshield with a dirty rag. Looking out my own window, I became anchored to the scene outside. Green eyes. All I remember is a pair of green eyes framed by short black hair. A girl, no more than eight, was dancing as her younger sister played on a flat drum. For reasons unknown to me, I was completely fascinated with this child. I rolled down the window, letting the hot April air spill into the car, and gave the girl the few rupees I had. Our hands touched for a moment. She smiled and thanked me in Hindi. Quickly, we were pulled apart as 1

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traffic began to flow. She disappeared into the endless crowd of people, and I vanished behind a tinted window.

“Did anyone see that girl?” I asked, looking for some confirmation about what I just experienced. “She was incredible! So talented and so pretty!” What I really wanted to ask was what she was doing there on the side of the road. How did someone I was so humbled by end up in such a rough station? What was I doing when I was eight?

Not dancing for my next meal. I tried to explain to my family about the incredible girl and why we should turn around immediately and empty our wallets. To this my Dad said three words I will never forget: “Accident of Birth.” For some reason – be it God, fate, the stars – I had ended up one side of the car window and she on the other.

Years later I still remember my green-eyed girl. She is a constant reminder to always be grateful for what I have and remember how it could easily have been me on the side of the road. My good fortune gives me an obligation to grab life by the shoulders and shake all I can from it. Especially at boarding school, where the world seems to end at the ivy-covered gate, it is easy to forget about tragedies far from home. I know, however, that these disasters are affecting people worldwide: a pair of brown eyes in Syria, or a pair of blue eyes in Russia. Whenever I am upset over some superficial problem, I imagine my green-eyed girl, her eyes a shade darker as she looks at me and asks, “Really? This is what upsets you?” I try to keep my problems in perspective and live to the fullest degree. I cannot say for certain how much money I gave on that hot day; one dollar, one million dollars, whatever the amount, I will forever be indebted to a young green-eyed girl in India, dancing for her next meal.

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In the Heat of the Middle Eastern Sun Noor Alali ’14 (Second place)

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s we boarded the airplane for Damascus, politely nudging people and navigating towards our seats, veiled women impatiently yanked their wailing little ones behind them. By their worried looks, I knew their children’s tears were not the only uneasy thoughts on their mind.

Their beloved country of Syria was slowly embarking on a path towards civil war that was only becoming more detrimental each day and could possibly become a catastrophic war, engulfing all the Middle East. After experiencing the heated debates among the anxious Syrians in every home we visited and witnessing the public manifestations for and against the government, the whining of these children on the airplane only seemed to act as an introduction to me.

The click of my seat belt seemed to summon the engines of the airplane, as they began to rumble beneath my feet. Looking out the window, I bid a wonderful time in Paris goodbye. I began to dream as I recalled strolling through the manicured streets, peering through windows of magical bakeries and antique shops. Every summer we spend a month in Paris and a month in Syria, visiting the two sides of my family, and now it was time to fly to the hot, Middle Eastern country on the turquoise Mediterranean Sea. Until two years ago, traveling to Syria was an exciting vacation, basking in the equal warmth of the golden sun and the unconditional love of my dear relatives. Sadly, the times had changed. That summer, though, the unrest was just beginning and my father, following the news very closely, thought it was still safe for us to travel to the 3

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Middle East. The family was eager to see us. Due to my father’s demanding work schedule, my brother and I travel with only my mom, while my father remains at home for work. Then he meets us overseas for a short stay.

As we stepped off the plane into the dry, hot air of Damascus, we were greeted by my father. That evening over dinner, my father shook his head, admitting he realized that it was not a wise move to bring us to an unstable country. He could feel the wind of change, but it did not seem to be blowing in the right direction. Once a secure country, Syria now dangles like torn flesh, ripped apart by the two opposing parties, the aggressive government and the determined opposition, unfortunately both seeing violence as the only means to achieve their goals.

After a year away from our family, we missed each other deeply, and my father knew how much joy and brightness our presence would bring to his parents. The entire country, the memories, were slowly crumbling in front of their eyes and were taking a great toll on their well-being.

The next morning, we departed for Lattakia, the city by the Mediterranean Sea where my family lives. We boarded a small airplane to avoid any unfortunate circumstances on the road. When we finally arrived, my grandfather awaited us at the airport, his arms spread wide open. My brother and I sprinted towards him and jumped into his arms, famished for his love. He squeezed us tightly, heavy tears forming in his eyes like drops of honey. Feeling this happiness and love, I realized the healing effect of our meeting. The physical reality of our being together brought life back into my family, like a dehydrated flower quenched by water. It still feels like a magic spell, and I recognized that this trip was definitely a risk worth taking.

Two years and over 100,000 deaths later, I feel, like my grandfather, that the only cure for Syria’s tragedy is through dialogue and love for the other and for the country, as destructive brutality can only lead to more violence.

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Untitled Harold Zhu ’14 (Third place)

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y nose crinkled. The slight smell of burnt breakfast mingled with the scent of industrial cleaner. I dropped in to say good morning to my supervisor and proceeded to make my rounds. The youngest person in the entire building by at least ten years, I could not feel more out of place. I returned to the recreation room after hastily finishing my task. Retreating behind the sports section of The Plain Dealer, I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. This was just another typical day at the Stratford Commons/Kindred Healthcare Nursing Home, one of my first.

I heard the whir of an automated wheelchair and peeked around the newspaper. One of the residents had entered the room and was pointing at one thousand puzzle pieces lying scattered on the table.

Sitting down opposite of him, I asked his name. He pulled out a notepad and a pen. Jimmy was deaf and mute. As we pieced the puzzle together, we communicated in silent sentences. Although I told myself I was being helpful, I knew deep down that I was actually clinging to Jimmy and his silence because I was too afraid to engage in a legitimate conversation with one of the other residents.

One day, I mentioned that I play the violin, and my supervisor immediately asked me to perform for individual residents. While I agreed, I nervously anticipated the personal interactions that this would undoubtedly provide. Soon enough, I found myself knocking on the door of a woman named Roxana. Her daughter was visiting her, so I played for both of them. When I let my bow drift off on the final note, I looked up and was surprised to find Roxana’s daughter 5

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with tears in her eyes. Noticing my hesitant glance, her daughter explained that when Roxana was younger, she used to love music.

Now that she can no longer care for herself, music is one of the few things she can really enjoy.

This tiny bit of information served as a catalyst for my development as a member of the Stratford Commons community. Once I realized that these people placed so much value on the little things like a young musician playing a melody on his instrument, I began looking for other ways to treat them. I had fun with each of them, whether it be challenging Rose to her favorite game of cards, harmonizing with Olivia during the daily sing-along, or discussing the dismal state of Cleveland sports teams with Al. Irene was losing her memory and could not remember my name, so I set out to make her remember me every day. Angelo recounted his days of working on a farm, so I took him outside to water the vegetable garden.

Although they were grateful for my time, I am infinitely more indebted to them. Collectively, they showed me just how joyful taking a bit out of my time to spend with someone else can be. Nothing quite beats the feeling I get when I see Jimmy’s face light up after we finally find the puzzle piece that completes the outer edge, and few people crack me up as hard as Sadie. These small moments are some that stand out most vividly in my memory and have led me to appreciate this unique community. After spending my summer at Stratford Commons, I realized that this place, which had initially been such a foreign environment, had become a part of me. Every time I walk through those doors, my heart lifts a little when I breathe in that familiar scent of burnt breakfast and bleach detergent.

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Untitled Kelsey Gordon ’14

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here is Carson?” I could hear my mother screaming from the kitchen. I frantically dashed down the stairs, tripping over my clumsy feet. It took me a few moments to realize that I had been in charge of watching my brother for ten minutes while our mother went to the store.

Hot tears streamed down my face, and I began to panic: where was Carson? I ran to the backyard, and felt a rush of relief when I saw my brother laughing and playing on the swing set. My mother ran to my side, and gave me a look that said “You are lucky.”

I was only eleven years old at that time, preventing me from understanding the magnitude of my decisions, especially when it came to Carson. I was four when my mother had him, changing my life in a way I could not comprehend then, and still have difficulty grasping. Born with several developmental disorders, (including CHARGE syndrome, autism and deaf-blind handicaps), my younger brother illuminates my family with humor and joy, and allows us to reflect upon our personal lives in a new perspective. While I can appreciate my brother now, there was an extended period of time in which I resented him. I hated the fact that my mother was constantly at the hospital for his appointments, because it seemed as if she had no time to spend with me. I felt as if Carson was depriving me of an “idealistic childhood,” while giving nothing to me in return; yet, the afternoon when I carelessly forgot about my brother was the day I began my transformation.

I gradually began to realize the power of my responsibility, and progressively discovered how necessary it was to my family. My mother 7

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was a single parent; therefore she had been our only source of income for several years. This situation led to her spending countless late nights at the office as well as needing the occasional weekend working spree. When my mother was unable to watch Carson, she depended on me to care for him. Carson and I began to form a unique relationship in which I discovered more about myself and my interactions with others. The way we communicate, because my brother is unable to speak, has taught me how to express myself in a different manner, by conveying my emotions without words. My experiences with Carson have made me focus on relating to others, even though I might not understand what they are feeling. Occasionally a miscommunication occurs, causing a brief moment of chaos between Carson and me; however, I have learned how to be patient in these situations as well as the necessity of the art of resolution. My brother and I quickly became close, and he knew he could depend on me when my mother was unavailable. Learning that I was able to handle such responsibilities, my mother began to give me more independence, and allowed me to control my life at a young age.

This transformation has impacted my life, causing me to become a kinder and more compassionate person. It has encouraged me to realize my potential, and the amount of responsibility I am able to handle. This situation forced me to mature rather early in my childhood, yet I have to come appreciate this aspect of my life. It has shaped my passions and my determination, supplementing my preestablished desire to succeed and engage. At the same time, this very personal change has influenced a gentler, more empathetic side of my personality; my ability to support others has persuaded me to become an adequate leader in the classroom, in the dormitories, and on my sports’ teams. Although I attend a boarding school, Carson remains a significant part of my life, and I don’t think I could ever repay him for the maturation he inspired within me.

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Mindo Abby Hermosilla ’14

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hat was when I realized they had abandoned me. I was working behind my camera, trying to capture a quiet woman on her porch; she glided a wooden comb through her stalk of black hair while a grey kitten peered out from between her legs.

Her smile was faint and would only last for the milliseconds I had my camera out, as if she insisted I seize the portrait. I knew this was the one photograph I had been wishing for ever since I landed in the exotic country. I knew I could not live with the guilt of never catching this woman in all her rustic elegance.

This is the story of how I got lost in Mindo, Ecuador.

When I peeked out from the viewfinder to wave a silent “thank you” to the woman, I realized the winding road into town was now deserted.

The mass of my fellow North American photography students had taken an indecipherable turn. And then, I was alone.

My study abroad in Ecuador with National Geographic Student Expeditions ran smoothly for the most part, yet I consider this situation one of the defining achievements of my young life (so far). As the child of Spanish-speaking immigrants to the United States, I found my life had always been infused with a rich culture, yet, weighed down by the pressures of balancing two languages in my little head. I juggled my English and Spanish by utilizing a sacred language-form: “Spanglish.” Yet, once school became a dominating force in my life, English took the reins of my speaking, writing and thinking. My proficiency in Spanish fell far from its shiny pedestal. With this decline, I grew ignorant of my heritage, as I dipped myself in the American traditions of mega-malls and rock music. It was not until high school that I felt absolutely compelled to reclaim my background as I realized how incapable I was of holding a conversation with my own 9

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parents. I grew determined to rekindle the language of my ancestors in a country not far from my father’s birthplace. I remember thinking to myself, “Ecuador would help me to speak the Spanish language, right?”

Right, absolutely, right.

Jogging into town, I found several natives just beginning their mornings as they strolled into pharmacies and markets. Roosters and dogs cooed to the ripe sun and my heart began to knock at my chest. I peeked into a tiny bakery and felt the hairs on my arms tingle with nerves; this was the moment I could finally prove to myself that I was not a lost case to my heritage. Yet, before anyone could spot this wandering American, I ducked away from the bakery doorway as quickly as humanly possible.

“Que haces, idiota? What are you doing, you idiot?” I was so scared of relapsing back to ignorance and losing all the Spanish I worked so hard to regain. Suddenly, I heard someone call me from inside. “¿Necesitas ayuda, hermana? Do you need help, honey?”

Within that moment, some fantastical phenomenon tapped into my synapses; everything clicked. I spoke fluently with the baker and found the way back to the hostel. Yet, this experience brought something greater than a resolution to a conflict, something bigger than just getting over my fears of abandoning my culture. From that moment, I knew the mode of communication so unique to the human race had become definite in my head. In retrospect, I understood more than just the Spanish language; I grasped onto how humans naturally adapt. Maybe I wanted to be stranded, dive into an unknown world, and lose my sense of direction for a bit. I figured, if I could finally step into my own culture, perhaps, I could strive to immerse myself in others’ as well. All I had to do was fall astray to define what I wanted to do with my life: to embrace cultural roots at their cores.

I still have that photograph. There are tinges in the woman’s skin where the lens had not been wiped off, emulating her brown hue into a haziness I had only seen on deities. When it comes down to it, this woman had this distant role in my recapturing of heritage. She is a South American vine stretching and crawling into my memory and graces. She lives in Mindo where the parrots are not taught how to say “Hola”. I miss that.

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Staying the Same Miles Van Blarcum ’14

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es, this is the same fire I have built countless times before. The slowly rising pile of ashes is in the very spot it was last time. I am sitting in the countryside in a plot of woods that I would call my favorite place to be. The air feels the same, in a familiar eclipse of reasonable temperatures and fall frosts killing the bugs. Orange maple leaves fall from the vibrant plumes of branches above, just as before. The nylon tent behind me looks startlingly unnatural among the forest floor, yet somehow always looks perfectly at home. The stars above haven’t changed either. I feel like the forest has held its breath since the last time I was here or is preserved in some sort of amber. Nothing in it has changed.

These 40 acres are protected by two things: Tinkers Creek that runs around the plateau like a moat, and the Conservation Easement which was placed upon it by my family. I like to think these are the two guardians of the woods: one is nature, the other the humans who care about them. Unlike our civilization, it has no reason to change. The water in the creek even looks the same to me as I carefully cross it. Maybe it is one of those fountains which uses the same water over and over again, secretly pumping back upstream. The repetition of the woods does not discount the beauty of it all, for camping never gets old. Yet I am still quietly searching for anything that is different. Change has to be here somewhere.

In the morning I begin the hike back to the road. The tent is stuffed in my backpack, and my clothes smell of damp woodsmoke cologne that I always leave the woods wearing. After crossing the creek, I begin to step over the chestnut log that marks the entrance 11

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to the trail. Mid-step, something catches my attention. Not a sight or a noise, but a memory. I am hit by a flashback of me as a much smaller child having to straddle the very same log to get over it, wiping moss onto my jeans. I finish my step and stop, realizing that I have found what has changed. I have. It’s me who not long ago only came to the woods with my father. Now I come by myself, armed and to hunt like Hemmingway’s Francis Macomber, or bringing silence and seeking salvation like Christopher McCandless. I may bring a friend, making us Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. The woods have shown fallen trees as its largest changes. I have presented it with a growing man playing many characters. Focusing on the logs while searching for changes in the forest, I have completely overlooked myself.

Something about how the woods never changes helps me cope with my guilt of not coming here more often. But nature is as generous as it is patient. If the woods changed more, my time here would be spent on reacquainting myself, instead of introspection. The woods don’t change so I can walk through it with ownership and recognition. I am its only visitor, for every other creature the woods is its habitat. As I cross the final hurdle over a ditch and up onto the road, the world returns and rushes to my mind as my boots touch pavement. As I get into my truck, I prepare myself to leave a sanctuary. My tires begin to turn, my life moves forward. But the forest waits for my return.

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Western Reserve Academy College Counseling Office 115 College Street Hudson, Ohio 44236 330.650.4400, ext. 8200 www.wra.net