College Essay X: Jessica

JESSICA PENZIAS ‘08

Sitting in a brown, leather La-Z-Boy chair, feet aloft, back reclined, and cell phone in hand, I regularly engage in what has become for me a profound activity: Tetris. Tetris consists of a simple premise: one strategically pieces together differently shaped blocks to create a solid row. Once a line is completed, it vanishes with a flourish. Despite the simplicity of the game, I enjoy the thrill of fitting puzzle pieces together. The commonplace triumph that occurs when putting together virtual puzzle pieces gains importance when I apply the simple premise of Tetris to my intellectual pursuits. I constantly pull concepts and ideas from numerous sources, piece them together, and make a whole idea.

Sitting in a hard blue chair, feet firmly planted on the ground, posture upright, and book in hand in my English class, I explore F. Scott Fitzgerald’s use of language. While my peers note Fitzgerald’s ability to create an insufferably hot atmosphere as Gatsby and Tom subtly contradict each other, I pause to contemplate a simple sentence that seems to contradict the torrid tone. “A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky” (Fitzgerald, 120). While the characters drip sweat and marvel at the heat of the sun, Fitzgerald emphasizes the moon. This seemingly irrelevant observation in the midst of a tense and palpably hostile scene exudes a feeling of calm, serenity, and beauty—contradictory characteristics that remind me of lessons I’ve learned in my Drama class.

I then recall sitting on a worn brown couch, feet folded underneath me, shoulders relaxed, script in hand, while the voice of my Drama teacher casually explains the world of opposites. Opposites, a practice in which actors portray two contrasting emotions at once applies to real-life situations as well. My teacher quotes esteemed casting director Michael Shurtleff, telling us to “find the love” in scenes that are typically played with hostility. She cites examples in which lovers abandon each other despite their desire to be together and parents spew diatribes in order to shelter their children. In these moments, my teacher clarifies, an actor must search for the love that is driving outwardly hateful actions.

My thoughts return to my English classroom and my hand shoots up in the air. Fitzgerald’s language, his use of light is, in fact, his way of telling his reader to “find the love” in his writing. Tom and Gatsby’s feud is not motivated by hatred at all. It is, in fact, a battle for Daisy’s love. He intentionally adds beauty and nobility to the scene because the fight is induced by love. Through his writing, Fitzgerald juxtaposes heated arguments with an image of the moon, displaying Fitzgerald’s concern for love. A Tetris-like satisfaction engulfs me as I explain my observations to my peers. I have made a connection; I have taken a puzzle piece and filled it in. I have “found the love” in the scene.

When I play a game of Tetris, rows of strategically placed blocks disappear. However rewarding the satisfaction of making rows vanish may be, it is more rewarding when puzzle pieces fit together outside of a Tetris screen. After all, when an idea is comprehended in life, the concept does not merely disappear with a flourish. Instead, it reshapes and becomes a puzzle piece that will fit somewhere else. I feel inclined to continue this never-ending game that can be played outside of a recliner, with any object, in any posture, in boundless locations.

Jessica will be attending the University of Pennsylvania

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College Essay IX: Jeff

JEFF HIGGINS '08

As the crisp harvest air brings an end to the sweltering heat of summer, my yard is bombarded by leaves. The vibrant foliage falls from over a dozen majestic oak and maple trees to form a vast sea of red, yellow, and orange, carpeting every inch of the lawn. My family is left with the enormous task of transporting these leaves into the woods behind our back yard.

My parents have dubbed this challenge, “Doing the leaves,” (what my dad called it when he was young). For most people, including my family, doing the leaves is a tedious and mundane task. We start with the painstaking process of removing the leaves stuck inside bushes. Holding a blower in one hand, we have to reach into a bush and physically pull them out. Then we are ready to begin the process we call, “tarping.” That involves laying a ten square foot blue tarp on the grass, blowing and raking as many leaves on to it as possible, then hauling the tarp into the woods behind our back yard and dumping it. It is often overwhelming to look at the thousands of leaves on the ground, and the thousands more still on the trees above. Yet, all we can do is work, one tarp at a time, chipping away at the giant task ahead.

But, with my family, nothing is ever tedious or mundane. Growing up in a house with three younger brothers, everything becomes an adventure. Over the years, our times doing the leaves have turned into both complete fiascos and quality family time. I can always count on a fight over the best rakes and the two leaf blowers. And often my dad, who can be a bit neurotic about yard work, gets impatient, concerned that no one is working hard enough and that we are running out of time. But, there have been so many great moments; throwing a football around, wrestling in a huge pile of leaves, seeing who can catch the most leaves as they fall, and family jokes during hot chocolate breaks. Even though it is almost always chaos, I have learned to love it.

When I was younger, the leaves were always overshadowed by other things, the homework I could be doing, the friends I could be playing with, or the football game I could be watching. I never really saw doing the leaves for what it was, irreplaceable time with my crazy family. It is often said that a New England fall is a special thing, but I’ve just never really taken the time to notice. I have been too busy with the rush of life, with homework, cross country, Hebrew school, and piano lessons. I seldom took moments to pause and take life in. Now, with a snap of my fingers, I am seventeen writing my application, wondering where my childhood went. I always saw college as some far off place, some faraway destination. But now it’s here, beckoning me. Among many memories, I will have moments like doing the leaves captured in my mind, as something to look back on and remember, to remind myself of where I’m from.
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College Essay VIII: "Today I Am Fearless"

ANONYMOUS

Today I am fearless. Today I know what is right. Today I have my own authentic voice, but this has not always been the case. I have overcome extraordinary obstacles to realize my strengths and abilities.

At age 12 I thought it was normal to meet with a court officer. I thought having to explain why I loved both my parents was ordinary, almost like a right of passage. Little did I know this was not the only court officer I would have to speak to. Eighteen court cases later, I have realized this situation is beyond common. Our family has been through the mother of all custody disputes and somehow, I grew because of it.

Five and a half years ago my dad showed up after school to give my brother and me the most devastating news of our lives. My Mom filed for sole custody of my brother and me. Together we cried all the way home from school and cried as we sat at home. When we called our Mom to explain that our dad was the best dad in the world she didn’t listen. For months that eventually turned into years, I felt threatened by the fear of being ripped away from my dad. The feelings of fear and anxiety around the clock are practically indescribable.

The pressure that came from my Mom and extended family overwhelmed all aspects of my 7th grade life. My Mom had finagled the entire neighborhood, friends, family and oddly enough his own parents to side against my dad. The mounting numbers of supporters made me question my own father, even though on some level I knew it was on false pretenses. Remarkably, these issues continued on through my 11th grade year.

While I was searching for my authentic voice the pressure became unbearable and I inappropriately ran off from my dad in my junior year. My dad responded by digging in and committing to my brother and me that we would get through this no matter what. My Dad showed unbelievable courage and determination.

During this time, I ran to a less caring environment. I was committed to testing the water and seeing if I could make decisions on my own. Over the course of the year what I realized was that no matter how many people were on one side; all I truly needed was the one person who genuinely loved and cared for me and that was my father. The courage my dad exhibited guided me to become courageous myself. I witnessed my father hold his ground while people from all over turned against him. When pressure mounted against him he kept his composure and most importantly maintained his commitment to my brother and I. My dad’s example provided an amazing learning experience. His legacy is one I am glad to follow.

I learned that doing the right thing is not always the easy thing. Sometimes doing the right thing means going against the majority. This past year, when jealous friends unfairly ganged up a friend of mine, I was able to stand up for her when no one else would because I knew she did not deserve that treatment. Additionally, my experience at Outward Bound this summer, where I faced and overcame physical and emotional obstacles, helped me to develop new courage and confidence. And finally, I recognized my dad was right and stood up to my extended family and mother.

Today I am standing on my own two feet. I have grown to make authentic decisions that are for my best interests. I have developed the character and courage to see right from wrong. Today I am fearless.
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The Heliconian: A few love poems for Valentine's Day

DAN KATZ '08 and the editors of THE HELICONIAN

Whether you hate it because of the potent odor of Hallmark and Hershey’s, or love its mushy and heartfelt messages, it is difficult to ignore the traditions of Valentine's Day. At the end of the day, everyone values the chocolate, the flowers, and the admiration. Such a day reminds us that showing love is not outdated or overdone. Cliché or not, Valentine's Day will always be etched on the calendars of hopeless romantics and cynics alike.

From a literary standpoint, Valentine's Day reminds us of the power of affection: both on the mind and the pen. We at The Heliconian always value a good love poem, and so for our first contribution to the Literary Corner, we thought we would share a few of our favorites.

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Gage Hackford’s selection:

Variations on the World Sleep
by Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

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Ms. Lipson’s selection

I Carry Your Heart with me
by EE Cummings

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

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Dan Katz’s (my) selection:

A Simile for Her Smile
by Richard Wilbur

Your smiling, or the hope, the thought of it,
Makes in my mind such pause and abrupt ease
As when the highway bridgegates fall,
Balking the hasty traffic, which must sit
On each side massed and staring, while
Deliberately the drawbridge starts to rise:

Then horns are hushed, the oilsmoke rarefies,
Above the idling motors one can tell
The packet's smooth approach, the slip,
Slip of the silken river past the sides,
The ringing of clear bells, the dip
And slow cascading of the paddle wheel.

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"A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous."
-Ingrid Bergman

More from The Heliconian soon to come!

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College Essay VII: Dan Woo

DAN WOO '08

Growing up, my parents romanticized travel and sought new adventures at every opportunity. Often, part of the adventure involved taking their only child along. At age two, my parents wrapped me in diapers, checked me in, and we embarked on my first trip: destination, Hawaii.

The journey went off without a hitch. The actual vacation was another story. My parents celebrated our arrival with a pineapple and fed me a piece. Savoring my first encounter with such a delicious flavor, I wolfed down the whole slice. When the sun set, my parents went off to sample the night life with me in their arms. As we enjoyed the sight of coconut trees, I felt my stomach churn. Before I knew it, I spewed molten lumps of pineapple on my father’s broad chest. Until our departure, I lay medicated in a pediatric hospital. That experience marked my first attempt at enjoying travel, which, from that point on, became sheer torture.

On another trip, I found myself on an island near Guam, where I went into the ocean with a Vienna sausage in my hand and naïvely hoped to feed the tropical fish. Suddenly, a school of fish surrounded my hand, nipping at my fingers. Terrified, I swam to the shore, crying “Muc-ji-ma!” (“Don’t eat me!”)

The next time, in Venice, I wandered off to an ice cream parlor. I was crying until a police officer came. Even more frightened by the thoughts of being left an orphan, I concluded that travel simply was not for me.

Against my will, I traveled to more than twenty countries. By last summer, I was determined to thwart my parent’s wanderlust and enjoy a vacation in Boston. My dream came true: I spent the summer genotyping mice tails, working as a waiter, and teaching Korean to middle-schoolers. But despite my “happy life,” I felt a strange anxiety. One morning, when I saw my aunt preparing to backpack through Europe, I realized that summertime conjures up thoughts of travel. Although a few trips created life-threatening memories, I suddenly recalled others that were stunning.

In Hawaii, I was enchanted by the smell of Japanese udons. In Guam, being surrounded by colorful creatures of every type lingered in my memory. In Venice, I remembered the gelatos, bought from the shops with signs “produzione propria” (“our own make”), absolutely delicious. As the memories of countries, embedded into my senses, came rushing back, I realized that I really love travel. Despite some challenges, my journeys were a festival of delight, an appreciation I inherited from my parents.

In his childhood, Joseph Conrad once pointed to a map of Africa and said, “I’ll be there someday.” Later, he traveled to the Congo, and through that experience his life and England’s literature were transformed. I have not yet had such an intense experience as Conrad’s, nor do I write literature. But, like him, I have been transformed by my travels. Now rather than dreading them, I look forward to the next adventure.
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College Essay VI: Peter Wilmot

PETER WILMOT '08

Stroke! Stroke! Stroke! We all yell in unison, our hands rhythmically plunging in and out of the water. The beat of a huge drum booms in our ears as our boat, one entity with twenty-two parts and a single purpose, glides through the water like a serpent. Our furious strokes propel us forward. My hand shivers as it plunges beneath the cool water again and again. And I think how did I get sucked into this?

I like trying new things. So when a woman I barely knew asked me to do this, I couldn't say no. Not only had I never seen what she was describing, I'd never heard of it either. Dragon boating, what in the world is that? In ancient China, I found out, this was similar to a war game, where boats of 22 (a steerer, a drummer, and 20 rowers give or take a few) attack other teams. Everyone would throw things or whack each other with bamboo sticks. Today, it has evolved into a far tamer sport.

It is 4:45am. I am in a deserted parking lot just outside of Boston, waiting for my ride with four older women that I've never met. A black car pulls in, and its headlights reflect off puddles on the asphalt, adding to the nervous anticipation of the moment. We arrive in Hartford, Connecticut, at 8 am and I meet the team--40 adults of all shapes and sizes, from tall thin women to short fat men. I'm clearly the youngest. They're all wearing shiny black sweat-wicking shirts with a silver roaring dragon's head on the front. This is our team jersey.

When the start time is upon us, we board the long boat, canoe paddles in hand. One of the adults says, "No worries, kid, just stay in time, pull with your back, and keep your paddle vertical." So that's what I do. I lean with my back, keep the paddle vertical, and pull straight.

STROKE! STROKE! STROKE! My arms and back burn. My legs are cramped. But I can't quit; none of us can. We just keep yelling and rowing, yelling and rowing. Only 100 meters left in the 500-meter race, and we are head to head with the lead boat. The sun is blaring; the water is flying in every direction. Just before the finish, we pull like we've never pulled before, and our boat seems to fly, not even in the water, but just above it. We launch into the lead and across the line. We win!

I am really glad I was drawn in with that simple "Wanna try?". I am always eager to try new things. When I return home, it is with a shiny new black sweat-wicking shirt with a dragon head on the front, a gold medal hanging from my neck, and an idea of what my next adventure should be. I apply for and am accepted into a program that will take me to visit the land of dragon boats. But that's a whole other story.

Peter will be attending Brown University
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College Essay V: Stephanie Elias

STEPHANIE ELIAS '08

When we walked into the restaurant, my friends’ looked confused. When I introduced my dad, they stared at me like I was psychotic. I had brought my father to my weekly Saturday night dinner with all my girlfriends, and bringing along parents was definitely not normal. He ended up being the life of the party. He offered advice on boys, and even told my friends that the secret to getting boys interested was to lead them on. Not exactly the most fatherly advice my friends had ever received.

That night turned out to be one of the most memorable of my sophomore year. After meeting my friends for the first time, my dad was engaging in in-depth discussions with them. Watching him connect with my friends made me realize the special connection I have with my father. We have very similar personalities, social skills, and interests. We share a passion for music, we make friends easily, and we are very laid back. That is why my father and I have such a close relationship despite our geographical distance.

My mom, on the other hand, is a successful business-woman, who keeps to a schedule and takes the time to efficiently think through all of her decisions. She is reserved and doesn’t express her feelings outwardly at times. She enjoys homey activities like crocheting. She doesn’t appreciate my carefree nature, and pesters me constantly about every little thing. She has to know every little detail of plans I make, and we argue about my curfew and my friends.

Based on their drastically different personalities, it is no surprise that my parents’ marriage did not last long. They divorced when I was three years old, and have had many ups and downs in their relationship since they separated. Sometimes, they’re friendly and can carry on good conversations. Other times, they cannot talk without screaming at each other. Currently, my parents no longer speak unless forced to and only correspond by e-mail. If I want to go to Arizona to visit my dad, I have to make my plans independently. The stress their relationship puts on me is completely invisible to both of them. Though I know they both love me, I wish that they could get along better.

I respect my father, and listen to his valuable advice because I feel like his insight prepares me for a lot of the situations I have faced and will encounter in the future. He has taught me to think about decisions with a level head, and to not give into peer pressure. Our similarities bring us closer together and I’m glad we can talk openly about almost everything. But, looking back on the dinner with my dad, I realize that he is more of a friend than a parent. This past year, my mom and I have grown closer. I respect the way my mother raised me in her household. Her stern approach taught me good values and a sense of self that no one else my age seems to possess. I value her advice and intelligence, and I think that my mother has influenced my character more than I would like to admit. As different as they are, it turns out there is one place where my parents’ special qualities can happily coexist: in my own unique personality.
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College Essay IV: Taylor - "The Mad Ones"

TAYLOR HAIGLER '08

One day about a year ago I declared, “I am definitely a spontaneous person!” My friend Sarah responded with a chuckle, “Really now?” Offended that Sarah didn’t think of me as spontaneous, I began to tick off on my fingers the reasons why I am a spur-of-the moment kind of gal. Before I could finish my reasoning she interjected with several examples of why I am the most methodical person she knows. As if someone who diligently creates to-do lists and calendars can’t be impetuous, too?

Sarah wasn’t trying to insult me, but I was quite frustrated. I admire people who are instinctively impulsive, and I think it’s intriguing to live life on the edge, experiencing everything and anything instead of living out a mundane existence in anticipation of the day you die. It wasn’t until someone pointed out that I might be heading on a straight path to the latter that I began to question whether or not I had the rash and whimsical gene embedded in my DNA.
My father, a truly unstructured person, kindled my fascination with spontaneity.
During spring break of my sophomore year, instead of visiting family or a whirlwind trip to national monuments and museums, my dad took my sisters and me on a road trip across California. We drove down the Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco all the way to Mexico, hardly ever losing sight of the ocean, and then back up to L.A. I had spent the week before laying out a very detailed itinerary, complete with online reservations, that my dad took one look at and with a laugh tore into pieces. Apparently predetermined plans take away from the “experience” and ruin the “spirit” of the trip.

At the beginning of the week I sat squirming in the back seat and refrained from asking, “What are we doing next?” or, “Do you have any idea where we are staying tonight?” After a few days of what seemed like chaotic driving I decided my father wasn’t about to change and I might as well enjoy the scenery as best as I could. And as soon as I relaxed I realized just how beautiful the view of the sunset was from the cliffs in Carmel. Though we never stayed at the charming bed & breakfast I had researched in Santa Rosa, and we missed our scheduled visit to the Monterey Aquarium, I can’t imagine a more thrilling vacation. We saw Sausalito in a dense blanket of early morning fog, the birthplace of an entire generation at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, the busy pier in Long Beach, the movie stars’ concrete hand imprints in Hollywood, the slums of Tijuana and all points in between.

This trip coincided with learning about the Beat Poets in my English class. We had just begun to read On the Road, and though my trip was much more modest than Sal Paradise’s, I could sense the connection with America that Jack Kerouac wrote about feverishly. Kerouac is an author who inspires motion. He speaks to a different part of the American spirit—the one that yearns to discover. I remember reading, “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a common place thing, but burn burn burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” I hadn’t really understood why on earth Kerouac would want to know crazy mad people that burn like yellow Roman candles -- until this trip.

Growing up, though I had the same complexion, eye color, curly brown hair and round rosy cheeks that my father had, I did not share his instinctive spontaneous nature. Yet, on this trip I became more like my dad, an honorary member of the Beat Generation. Though Sarah may never consider me a spontaneous person, I will never forget this unusual vacation. It was new and uncomfortable for me, but I threw my inhibitions to the wind and experienced everything and anything I could, and was glad that I did.

Taylor will be attending Colby College

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