AP Language and Composition College Essay 2017

Name _________________________________________________ Date _________ Block _________

College Essay: Samples
Sample #1
Seventeen years, two eyes, one heart, one brain. A kaleidoscopic of cars whizzes by me as I waltz from
my bus stop in downtown Los Angeles to my home, a government-funded apartment complex. Seventeen years,
two eyes, one heart, one brain.
Seventeen years to slay apathy, stockpile verbal ammunition, doubt the status quo, and delay death
through learning and living. Seventeen years, and all it takes is just one traitorous second for everything to
disappear. As I linger on the curb, shifting my weight while balancing my AP textbooks, I worry about how easy it
would be to enter "the undiscovered country" where "no traveler returns." I worry about the insights I'll never
pocket, the pains I'll never retain. Two eyes, one heart, one brain.
Two eyes to judge. A black Honda swerves harshly, hissing at my mortality as it rounds the corner and
barely misses my defenseless flesh. Startled, I stumble. Miscalculating my threshold for shock, I fall to the
ground. My textbooks tango in descent as my backpack bemoans momentum's pull. Impassive, the light
changes. I pluck my books from the ground and cradle them in my arms before darting across the street. A
homeless person who has witnessed my misfortune smiles and I smile back. Head held high and shoulders back, I
hope my confident saunter is not nearly as comedic as I sense it is.
One heart to feel. Paranoia pricks my skin darkened with years of outdoor basketball practice and
running jaunts as I reflect on how young, female and distinctively pedestrian I am. Only dejected homeless
people and doleful carless souls negotiate these paths, where one would be hard-pressed to find even the
bravest of joggers. I routinely zigzag home alone since my mom works long hours as a seamstress and my dad
works on-again, off-again at a factory.
First, I cross the bridge overlooking the 101 Freeway. The second source of paranoia is the overpass I
must walk under, embracing obscurity as I pray for light. Needless to say, I usually jog these steps. Third, is the
gradual sloping upward of an unpaved sidewalk. In my seven years of walking home, I have seldom seen other
pedestrians walking beside or in front of me, but with the California sky peering at me from behind folded arms,
I am comforted in knowing I am not alone.
One brain to feed. With the relief of passing each perceived danger, I scurry along. Assuming the
lighthearted aura of Little Red Riding Hood, the tenacity of The Little Engine That Could, and the optimism of Dr.
Seuss, I take a detour to my beloved library. There, I bask in the tranquil familiarity of books, knowledge, words
and wisdom. Seventeen years, two eyes, one heart, one brain, one life.

Sample #2 by Hunter McCluer

I bought my boots last year, before my first big snowboarding trip. I decided on Sorels; both of my parents
had a pair and I always wore my moms. We have similar shoe sizes. My boots are a reddish brown, the color of
muddy clay, but on the website theyre listed as stout. Theyre fleece lined, temperature rated to -25 degrees,
completely waterproof, and a bit overkill if Im really being honest. But who doesnt love a good pair of boots?
Mine have walked the slushy streets of Salt Lake and Park City, back to my old home. Theyve been over the
Shenandoah Mountains, carrying me to blue holes and the Spartan Race that I ran this past September. Theyve
been through the forest behind my house, with my little brothers birdhouses and my old Nikon. My boots are
for adventuring.
And so a few weekends ago, they came with me up to Long Island for Hofstras Fall Open House, bumping
around in my duffel bag to the sounds of Frank Sinatra and cars passing by on I-495. As I wandered the campus
with my mother and my aunt (both Brooklynites), listened to smiling and passionate professors, toured the
delightfully endless playground of labs, and chatted with an R.A. from the Orange House, I felt more and more

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that Hofstra is a boots-on kind of placecandid and open about their principles, but at the same time focused
on the work they do and the students they receive and turn out.
And unfortunately, thats quite rare. Before I had gone to visit, people had told me that theres something
about Hofstra that just doesnt exist on other campuses; its a feeling. You cant say what it is but you know its
there. An attitude, shared by the students and faculty alike; we know what were about.
Listening to the dean of the Hofstra Honors College speak at the open house was enlightening and enjoyable,
but I got the feeling he was really saying, All right, show us what you can do.
Well Im ready if you are. Ill pack my boots.

Sample #3
It is almost midnight. My feet are sore, my hands are calloused, my head is pounding and the
smell of The Red Parrot - food and cigarette smoke - is seeping from my body. I have just worked for 12
hours and feel 100 years old, but it is worth it.
At nine years old I started working with my older sister at a laundromat. I folded every piece of
laundry with a smile. It may be odd for a nine-year-old to choose to work rather than go to a friends
house, but I was only thinking of what I was working for. Now I could finally afford Friday night dances,
field trips and other things most parents normally pay for.
When I could legally work, I got a job bussing tables at The Red Parrot, an enormous restaurant
located on the Atlantic coast. I bussed tables with the same attitude I had at the laundromat, but by 14,
my ideals morphed.
You should start saving for college, if you want to go, one of my seven sisters wisely explained.
It was a turning point - no longer would I save for petty things, but instead, for my future. That first
summers earnings are now part of my college savings.
That summer I was faced with everything from needing to fend for myself to having to help
support my family, but from it all, my job proved the largest stepping stone. It led to my maturity and
with it came financial independence and the responsibility of others dependence.
Well, it is midnight, just a regular Saturday night, and since that summer I have matured. I have
learned how to manage school and work, but to me they are one and the same. I work for what I want,
whether an income or an education. My hard work has paid off. At school it has made it possible for me
to graduate a year early, and at the Red Parrot I have been promoted from hostess to head hostess, and
now waitress and head hostess. Work has become part of a rope that holds my life together. This rope is
tied so tightly that I do not have time for much else. I cannot pursue other activities, study for that extra
A+ or go out on Saturday nights. Yet, I can buy groceries, help my mother with bills and buy my car. To be
frank, working for what I need far outweighs working for what I want.
Working has become one of the most important parts of my life, and I love it. If I need anything, I
work for it. Since my parents cannot buy me clothes, give me lunch money or pay for my college
education, I will.

Sample #4
I think that the first time that science really made sense was in seventh grade, when a frog lay splayed
out on the desk in front of me. The stench of formaldehyde made my eyes water and my stomach churn, but I
did not really notice, fascinated by the still form, its innards arranged in neat array under the flap I had incised in
its abdomen. Inside were the precise engineering marvels, finer than the gearings within a Swiss watch, each
perfectly evolved through a process I had only read about and never truly understood. Here was the basis for
religion, the faith in a higher power that actually represents faith in the innumerable and incomprehensible
wonders of nature.

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I have always enjoyed observing patterns: the point and counterpoint in Beethoven's 15th string quartet
and the intricate fingerings and crescendo in his Kreutzer sonata, for example, as well as the rise and fall of the
empires of history.
It is the intricate patterns of life, however, that particularly fascinate me, and my brief surgery on the frog
led me to envision a career in medicine. On the surface it seems simple, painless (for the doctor), and rewarding;
just put the jigsaw puzzle of life back together in some semblance of order: a drug here, an incision there, and
the patient will be cured.
However, the flip side of the coin terrifies me: what if those jigsaw pieces will not fit back into place?
What if something goes wrong, an artery bursts, the patient hemorrhages and dies within seconds? Science is
beautiful in an abstract sense when dealing with grand theories, words on a page, even the peaceful revelations
of the frog, but perhaps the frog was not a good analogy for the experience of medicine. After all, there was no
danger; it had already passed on. If I had to explain to a grieving family why they have lost their young daughter,
however, the crushing realities might become just a little too real.
Nevertheless, working hands-on would be more satisfying to me than to remain in abstraction, in a
world that, while appealing in its lack of emotional trauma, offers relatively little in the way of direct human
application and personal reward. Surely in medicine there must exist great triumphs, something to balance the
overwhelming defeats. The common medical adage is that "it never gets easy." I suppose this is true. In a way, I
hope that it is because, while some might believe that emotions cloud the mind of a superior doctor, I believe
that to truly be a good doctor one must live in constant awe and fear. Those are emotions I possess in
abundance: awe at the beauty of life and fear at its fragility.

Sample #5
When I open the front door, the surprising aroma of crushed chili peppers, garlic, onions, and cabbage
greets me. Normally, I would go to the kitchen to find out what my mom is cooking. Instead, I go to the garage.
That combination of smells can only mean one thing: My mom is making kimchi. As I get closer to the garage, I
hear the laughter of the women from my church; they must be getting ready for a women's-association bazaar. I
open the door to be met by the glare of hundreds of empty jars waiting to be filled to the brim with kimchi.
With a kiss on the cheek, my mom hands me a knife, a peeler, and a checkal (a device that chops
vegetables into julienne pieces), and points to a pile of turnips and carrots. Since I was five, my job has been to
peel the carrots and turnips and julienne them. Now that I'm seventeen, nothing has changed.
Most young boys spend quality time with their fathers cheering at baseball games or learning how to
play football. I, however, spend time in the kitchen with my mom. I have learned how to make everything from
kimchi to rice cakes to marinated beef to traditional dumplings. Of course, I started out peeling vegetables--
mostly garlic--when I was younger. Then as I got older, my mom let me stir food that was cooking on the stove.
Now, I make whole dishes myself. (There is a running joke among the church women that I will have a hard time
finding a wife because she will be frustrated when I do the traditionally "womanly" things better than she does.)
While we cooked together, my mom would talk to me about everything you could possibly imagine, ranging from
funny childhood events to heart-aching stories. The kitchen with its familiar fragrances of steaming rice, garlic,
hot peppers, and simmering soup provides a warm environment that facilitates conversations between mother
and son.
I cherish these talks so much because living in a Korean family does not allow such talks very often. The
Korean culture encompasses hidden love and secret sacrifices. With my mom in the kitchen, it is different. She
lets go of her inhibition and, through the years, has revealed her life to me. Because my mom openly spoke to
me, I began to open up also. I started to let her know how I felt about school and all the things that plague
adolescents, namely girls. The discussions on dating, marriage, girls, and sex were never uncomfortable because
my mom always found a way to make me laugh about them. Once my mom said to me in a thick Korean accent,
"Every time you have sex, I want you to make sure and use a 'condo.'" I instantly burst into laughter and said,

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"Mom, that could get kind of expensive!" That one little mispronunciation made everything less awkward. Soon
we had developed a lasting bond.
I would never have known what an extraordinary woman my mother is if we had not started to cook
together. She tells me that I'm the only one of her children to learn the family recipes and the stories of her life.
While I will not have all the same ingredients when I am away at college, the recipes will remain a part of me
always.

Sample #6
Find X: by Vivek Ramakrishnan
Take the function 1/x. It is undefined at zero, but the term undefined is misleading, insinuating that nothing is
there. As x gets closer and closer to 0 from the positive side of the x-axis, the function becomes exponentially
larger. 1/.01 equals 100, 1/.0001 equals 10000, and so forth, until infinity. The opposite is true from the negative
side. As x gets closer to 0 from the left side of the axis, the function becomes increasingly more negative until
negative infinity. At zero, the function is negative infinity and positive infinity at the same time. The function
equals everything and nothing. At x = 0, the function is two contradictory concepts at the same time.
In the same way that mathematics and the laws of physics contain multiple truths, so do we. . There is no
monolithic version of an individual. Our facets coexist, contradict, and are often at two very different infinities
simultaneously. We are made of contradictory ideas and interests, but the identities that our contradictions
create serve to individualize us. My interests are varied, but they make me who I am.
For example, my freshman year I loved science, and science only. But it was joined by a passion for philosophy
once I was nudged by my history teacher to join the Freedom HS Philosophy club, and it was possible to find
common ground between the two subjects in Bentham and Descartes. I am interested in pursuing economics
and human rights -- two seemingly unrelated fields, linked together by a passion for Public Health.
I love old Western films and Ferris Bueller's Day Of, but that does not detract from an appreciation for my
sisters orchestral performances. I hang on every word of Gandalf and Foucault alike. I stand at the below-
average height of five feet five inches, but that doesnt stop me from being the best (and only) five foot five
hurdler at Track and Field regionals. I adore the extremely modern architecture of Mansueto library, standing in
stark contrast with the gothic architecture of the Regenstein. I am writing an essay based on math, despite math
being the subject I struggled with the most throughout high school.
Often, my positive and negative infinities conflict so intensely, I struggle to define myself. While completing my
college application, I look at a list of activities and honors that tries to give a brief overview of who I am. But
the irony is that I yearn for college precisely to redefine myself: to discover new passions and interests as I once
did with philosophy; to embrace my infinities in programs and activities that, however contradictory, genuinely
interest me.
I believe the liberal arts education provided by the core curriculum at UChicago will fulfill its implied promise
liberate me from a monolithic identity, requiring me to define and redefine myself constantly, in a variety of
different fields. Or maybe what Ill find is that who I truly am, like the function 1/x at 0, is undefined.

Sample #7
As I belly-danced with her at the nightclub on our first evening in Ankara, I knew I had made the right
decision. But when my friends discovered that I would be going to Turkey with her for a week and a half, they
told me I was being ridiculous. They couldn't believe I would be spending more than a week traveling with an
older woman, even though they knew how much I liked her. I considered their warnings, but in the end ignored
them. I had really been looking forward to the trip, and nothing was going to stop me from going with her.

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As it turned out, those ten days I spent in Turkey with my grandmother last summer were some
of the most special of my life. I was able to visit the country of her birth and spend time with someone who has
meant so much to me over the years. My grandmother has been a crucial figure in my life, both as a role model
and as a friend....Though I may never be as perpetually optimistic as she, or may never have the same incredible
zest for life that she has, I at least have a wonderful role model. To me, she has the spirit of a teenager, even
though she still often confuses Michael Jordan and Michael Jackson.

Sample #8
When I was little, I dreamed I was flying. Each night I was up in the air, though never over the same
landscape. Sometimes, in the confusion of early morning, I would wake up thinking it was true, and I'd leap off
my bed, expecting to soar out of the window. Of course, I always hit the ground, but not before remembering
that I had been dreaming. I would realize that no real person could fly, and I'd collapse on the floor, crushed by
the weight of my own limitations. Eventually, my dreams of flying stopped. I think I stopped dreaming
completely.
After that, my earliest memory is of learning to count to one hundred. After baths my mother would
perch me on the sink and dry me as I tried to make it to one hundred without a mistake. Whenever I got lost,
she'd stop me and make me start all over again from the beginning. I never got bored and I never got frustrated,
though I think maybe she did. I'd just keep trying until I got it right or my mother got bored.
I had to be lifted up onto the sink. An accident with a runaway truck when I was four had mangled my
left leg, leaving scars that stood out, puckered white against my skin. Looking at the largest of my scars in the
mirror, I imagined that it was an eagle. It wasn't fair, I thought. I had an eagle on my leg but I couldn't fly. I could
hardly walk, and the crutches hurt my arms.
Years later, in Venice, I had the closest thing to a revelation I can imagine. Sitting on the rooftop of the
Cathedral of San Marco, I wasn't sure what life had in store for me. I was up on a ledge, in between the winged
horses that overlooked San Marco square. To the left, the Grand Canal snaked off into the sea, where the sun
cast long, crimson, afternoon shadows across the city. Below me, in the square, pigeons swirled away from the
children chasing them and swooped down onto a tourist who was scattering dried corn. Somewhere in the
square a band was playing Frank Sinatra. It was "Fly Me to the Moon", I think.
Up on the roof of the Cathedral, it seemed to me the pieces of my life suddenly fell together. I realized
that everybody is born with gifts, but we all run into obstacles. If we recognize our talents and make the best of
them, we've got a fighting chance to overcome our obstacles and succeed in life. I knew what my gifts were:
imagination and perseverance. And I also knew what my first obstacle had been: a runaway truck on a May
morning with no compassion for pre-schoolers on a field trip. But I knew that the obstacles weren't impossible.
They could be overcome. I was proof of that, walking.
That night, for the first time in years, I dreamed I was flying. I soared through the fields of Italy, through
the narrow winding streets of Venice and on beyond the Grand Canal, chasing the reddening sun across the sea.
I woke up sure that it was true.

Sample #9
Every time my 10-year old sister asks where our dad is, it makes me sad. At seven, I never asked
questions. I knew that I had a father who left before I was even born. I knew that my baby sister had a dad who
didnt stay with her either. I knew. No questions asked.
My entire life I have watched my single mother struggle to raise my little sister and me. I have struggled
along with her. At eight, I already had responsibilities--not just second-grade homework, but a baby to look after.
I stayed home alone with my little sister when my mom couldn't find a sitter. I picked her up after school while
my mom was working. I also translated for my mom at her jobs, at my school when we had teacher/parent
conferences, or when she didn't understand bills that she needed to pay. And I still burn with anger at the way

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people treat my mom sometimes, like she doesn't count, because she doesn't speak English very well and she's
"just a housekeeper."
I have had to be strong to help my family survive--but it hasn't been that hard because I have my
mother's daily example. Every day, I see my mom get up at 6 a.m. to get ready for work. And when I get home
from my part-time job at 9 p.m., she's still working, cleaning the house, cooking dinner or doing laundry.
My mom and I have so many hopes for me. That's what I think about when I get up at 5:30 a.m. to take
the bus to a better school in a better neighborhood. And I try to keep it in mind as I open my books to study on
the bus on the way home from work. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to work part-time in a shoe store, but my
mom really needs help with the bills and with my school expenses. I do get tired, but whenever I feel like giving
up, I read the short note that my mom gave me on the 17th birthday: Gracias por todo su esfuerzo en superarse
para su futuro. Es el mejor regalo que yo recibo dia con dia Quiero verla como profesional y siendo responsable
para con usted misma. La quiere, su mom . (Thank you for all your efforts to succeed in your future. It is the best
gift I receive day by day. I want to see you as a professional who is responsible for her own self. I love you, Mom.)
As I get closer to making my college dream a reality, my mom and I have been on edge--we both want
this so much. I'll be studying late, and she'll get mad at me for leaving my desk messy. I'll snap at her for getting
on my case about petty matters or when Im simply stressed out from school. Whenever I try to talk to her about
financial aid, she just changes the subject. It's scary to be so close, and yet so far. I know my grades are a little
shaky, especially in math and science. But Im still trying hard to make up for those classes, especially since not
one day goes by without my mom emphasizing the importance of education. For this reason, I am applying to
the Educational Opportunity Program offered at UCLA, I want to be the first person in my family to graduate from
college.
But I also know that no matter what happens, I will always achieve the goals I set for myself. My mom
may have been shut out by society, but she's made sure that I haven't been. All the things I've done -- taking
honors and AP classes, interviewing the head of the school district, taking summer journalism classes at USC,
editing my school newspaper -- have helped my family believe that if you work hard, uno se supera" (one can
succeed). Im even going to be editor-in-chief of my school paper next semester. I was nationally selected to be
part of the Teen People News Team--only 36 out of more than 400 applicants from all over the country were
chosen. I was nationally selected by the LA Times to attend the inaugural Al Neuharth Free Spirit Journalism
Conference--only two students per state were selected. I am extremely proud of myself for having achieved a lot
in so little time. All of these honors that Ive earned with my hard work and dedication is shaping a path for a
career that I am passionately pursuing.
I'm beginning to learn how the world works, and I'm finding out that success is not based on who your
dad is, or if your mom went to high school, or the color of your skin, or where you were born. Success is just
setting goals and building a path to make them happen. And I am on my way to success.

Sample #10
The license plate of New Hampshire reads Live Free or Die. Undoubtedly, this refers to the revolutionary
cry for liberation from repressive outside forces. A more befitting interpretation for me, though, would imply a
deliverance from the abusively restrictive nature of myself.
The downward spiral was fast and fierce. It was the spring of my eighth grade year and with each passing
day I drew increasingly within. My peers were waging a battle for sameness, and I stood confused, an all-too-
conscientious objector. My intrinsic, subconscious need to fit in actively conflicted with my disgust of the "ideal"
person I seemingly had to become to do that. Analytically, I was far advanced; emotionally, I was the runt. My
world felt out of my control and I groped for something that was not. Jarring months passed, my parents dragged
me to the doctor, and the words were finally spoken aloud: anorexia nervosa.
In the midst of one of the most rapid growth periods of my life, I was shutting my body down. My
parents were terrified but were determined to help me trounce the disorder. In a plea for magic, my mother and
I trekked down to rural, central Mexico where, for three months, we lived with a family and taught daily classes

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of English to local children. The hope was that the sudden and succulent change of scenery would snap me out
of it. The scheme faltered and I returned not as a healthy, actualized young man, but a wasted, frantically weak
sack of bones whose emotional fragility embarrassed even the little bit of himself that remained. My body had
surrendered a third of its original (and never excessive) weight, and my psyche had relinquished even more.
Without fear of over-exaggeration, my state was horrific -- I could not even cognize what it would be like to be
better. Doctors insisted I be hospitalized ("... or else he might not wake up some morning ..."), and there I stayed
for over a month.
With parachutes open and uplifting drafts finally blowing through, the real journey began. The hospital
gave me a calm reflection period, and in time, rational thought became less fleeting. Upon my release, I returned
to my freshman year of high school, just over four months tardy. To say that the following period was plagued
with failures is an understatement. I do not know if I will ever engage in a more difficult or perverted battle in my
life. To actively fight oneself is insidious business. At all times I betrayed part of myself, causing emotional
endurance to be nearly impossible to regain. I had to quadruple any willpower I had used in starving myself to
now replenish my "masterpiece".
From where did this willpower come? Having seen the grueling depths, the splendor of the crisp air
above began to sink in. This world is full of harmony and I realized that I could be a player of it. I began to
develop my worldly, aesthetic values. I found peace in everything from the sparkle of one's eye to the hue in a
stretching sunset to the innocence in a kitten's face. In essence, these became my religion. I now live for that
beauty. I strive to create that beauty.
I am that beauty.
I am Maya Angelou, spinning tragedy into harmony. I am Roberto Benigni, leaping across seat tops. I am
the invincible boy who dreams to go to Mars. I am the wise and weathered grandma who cherishes her loved
ones. I frolic in the gales, like the resplendent autumn leaves. I soften sharp edges, like the buoyant, babbling
creeks. My compassion is thrilling, my creativity transcending. I love unabashedly, sing uncontrollably. I am far
too enthralled by the euphony of the world to experience anything less than adulation and a fierce desire to
explore and help better it. Yes, I will be shot down, time and time again, but wounds heal stronger than before.
Darkness is an essential step in true enlightenment.