One of my main interests isn’t a specific subject, but instead how different subjects come together. Throughout high school I've taken as many interdisciplinary classes as possible, mainly through our "Modern Global Communities" program, which links English and history on a global scale. My favorite example of this was when we constructed a poem in English out of newspaper clippings we found in history about the bombings at Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
Six Words. Miles: the latchkey with snatched keys.
Should God ever smite me with a massive coronary heart attack, I would hope that I materialize in heaven with a remote in hand, and a big-screen TV adjacent to my marshmallow esque heaven-couch. Should such an opportunity find me, and should this TV have the Blu-ray DVD of my life (Director’s Cut) in the disc tray, I would hit scene select so that I could watch the three defining moments of my life; making french onion soup, crossing the street by myself, and calling Steve Stern...
The familiar churning of my stomach culminated in the expulsion of my lunch into a porcelain confidant of my secrets. Again, I threw up.Honors classes refined my resilience as a person. Mental faculties of course coincide with my ability to persevere in trying times, but I truly, like most honors students of America, depend on myself for my own success. In my darkest hour, I managed to endure when I lost the only ally I was truly allotted in life: myself. These are my confessions as a bulimic honors student...
During my summer vacation, I visited my seldom explored email inbox to find a message from the Harvard Undergraduate Minority Recruitment Program; I was like “what?” Obviously Harvard’s name alone is ubiquitous with higher learning, such that any American familiar with college is familiar with the iconic legacy of Harvard. More than the idea of such a prestigious institution contacting me, I was rattled by the origin of the contact. Minority. Minority. Minority...
I was beaten down by a sport that used to bring me up. My new-to-swimming, nine-year-old dreams had sunk to the bottom of the pool. I had wanted nothing more than to be the next Natalie Coughlin or the rising star, Michael Phelps. Now, I simply went through the motions, planned to finish the season, and be done with swimming forever...
A little girl with bursting brown eyes stumbles into the living room of the small apartment she shares with her twin brother and mother. Emphasis on stumbles; she’s wearing a pair of high heels much too big for her miniature feet. When her mother glances toward the commotion, she stops in her tracks. She hears eight soft words, “I want to be just like you, Mommy.”..
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