Essays that got students in.

I stare into my bathroom mirror as I remove the mask. For the first time, I will attend high school showing my full face. I need to be beautiful, just like the girls on my TikTok feed. I examine each video, searching for the common thread. A hot pink blush gleams on each girl's cheek. Despite the stark contrast between my pale Irish skin spattered with freckles and that of the sun-kissed influencers, I race to Target to search for the infamous Revlon Insta-Blush which comes in stick form, making it foolproof. Or, so I thought.

The concept of balance guides me through life. At heart I am a figure skater. Since early childhood I've learned how to balance on and off the ice rink; to glide though skating routines and busy schedules.

"No le pongas demasiada sal!" My mom, anticipating a bitter taste from the soup, alarmed me. Yet curious like a five-year-old, I felt it was my mission to discover the secrets behind the little white container in front of me. Standing still, making noise at a shake, laid the salt. Deciding to empty half the recipient, my mom and I laughed the second I tasted our alphabet soup. Composed of primarily sodium chloride, salt is a staple for food and culture. At the same time, the element is an equal symbol for health, preservation, and connection. Seen time again in history, salt was a compensation for Roman Empire's soldiers, a source of currency for ancient China, and an exchange in the Gulf Coast from the Olmec people.

Just outlining the coastlines took a month. On the solid, 22-inch by 30-inch sheet of white paper I was working on, I couldn't just press the "undo" button if my highlighter happened to slip.

“If you had to choose one food to eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?” Having had this question asked of me many a time, I realize that such an inquiry must be considered practically. The correct answer would keep me happily sustained for the rest of my years, whereas the wrong choice could leave me tormented until I wither away from monotony. If I chose macaroni and cheese, per se, I’d be trapped consuming glutinous pasta, tacky milk-fat, yellow dye No.5, and copious amounts of sodium, forever. But if instead, I call upon my contentment understandings and assess my options accordingly, I may arrive at an indefectible conclusion. And after...

- 3 tablespoons butter - 2 eggs, whisked - 2 medium carrots - 1 small white onion - 1/2 cup frozen peas - 3 cloves garlic - salt and pepper - 4 cups cooked and chilled rice - 3-4 green onions - soy sauce (to taste) - 2 teaspoons oyster sauce (optional) - 1/2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil I bet you didn’t read those numbers.

My eyes widen. “It’s all Greek to me,” I whisper under my breath. Sure enough, The Apology by Plato is in Greek. My eyes dart across the page, looking for a word or phrase to grasp onto. Unable to find a familiar word, I take a deep breath. The Greek letters jumble into incoherent words and I am left to the mercy of an incomplete translation. I shake my head, unsure of what to do next. My eyes drag from one word to another, heavy with defeat. Upon the sixth word, however, they stop. My initial scan of the text left me negligent of a simple word meaning “number.” Passion overwhelms my senses. “Number” becomes...

The first lesson I learned as a student pilot is that left and right don’t exist. Maybe driving on a highway or in a parking lot, left and right is precise enough to describe the location and movements of slow-moving bikers, pedestrians, and cars. But at 36,000 feet in the air in a steel tube hurdling almost 200 miles an hour? Left and right just don’t cut it. During one of my first flights in a small Cessna-182, my flight instructor ordered me to scan the horizon for approaching aircrafts. To my right, I caught a glimpse of one: another Cessna with maroon stripes, the sun’s reflection glinting off its windows. Gesturing vaguely to my...

Growing up in a multicultural household, stories have largely shaped my childhood. My Jidu's (grandfather’s) tales of sweeping date fields and the old tongues of Dongola served as focal lessons of my family's Nubian history. Bedtime stories about my Great PaaPaa (grandmother), a Cantonese immigrant who raised three children in 1960s New Haven, Connecticut, introduced me to the profundity of Asian migrant identity. With age, these stories have continued to encourage a deep interest in the shared struggles and triumphs of oppressed populations—an admiration for the history and literature of families like my own. Living in a society of constant political divide and civil unrest has prompted me to expand my knowledge of human rights...