Why we tell you to keep developing your essay ...even after admissions When Reggie handed me his college essay free-write in the middle of my Essay Intensive writing workshop at JPMorgan's The Fellowship Initiative, I just about fell out of my chair. "I haven't really written about this before," he said offhandedly. "What do you think? Could you tell me if it's good?" Students contextualize their writing this way to me all the time-- regarding everything from compulsory chicken scratch, to sob stories about a low grade on a math test, to Oedipal tales, to wrenching sagas of family illness. But this essay was different. Within a few sentences, a loved one was cruelly dead-- and his real loss was not even months old. Continue Reading …
relationships
Sample Essay: What makes a dad?
“He Doesn’t Know Me”: What Makes a Dad? A Personal Essay I got out of the car so that he could find parking. The tension between us was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. My father and I had been at each other’s throats for weeks. I didn’t like the way he treated me and he was sick of hearing me talk about it. Looking at it now, it amuses me that he believed that a pair of sneakers and a trip to Chipotle would make it all better. A part of me wanted to believe that our relationship would improve. That he wouldn’t forget my birthday and that he wouldn’t forget the days that he was supposed to come and visit. But I knew that it wasn’t going to change. One lunch wasn’t going to fix anything. Even though I was 11, I already knew that the damage had become irreversible. We entered Chipotle and I immediately smelled the aroma of guacamole. It was particularly busy and there was almost nowhere to sit. There was a sense of joy in the room, something that didn’t exist between me and my father. I walked over to the only empty table, while he ordered our food. There was a small puddle of hot sauce left by the last customer who didn’t have the decency to clean it up. I took a brown napkin from the dispenser and wiped it away, restoring the table to its shiny, silver condition. He walked over with a blank expression on his face as he placed our food on the table. I said, “Thank you,” but there was no response. My father stared at me from across the circular metal table with his cold dark brown eyes. The light bounced off the middle of his sweaty, bald caramel-colored head. Part of his chest tattoo was visible through his white t-shirt. He scratched his stubble before beginning to unwrap his burrito. We ate in silence for about five minutes until he got bored and decided to stir the pot. “I don’t like your hair that way,” he said in a harsh tone. “Sorry, but it’s not your hair so why does it matter?” I asked. “You are my child and I don’t like your Continue Reading …