《纽约时报》大学优秀申请文书搬运

今年的优秀文书已经陆续公布，今天给大家分享5篇。

文书一，作者：Zoya Garg

New York — Bronx High School of Science

My mom fins a baffling elight from rinking from glass, hotel-grae water ispensers. Even when three-ay-ol lemon rins float in stale water, rinking from the ispenser remains luxurious. Last year for her birthay, I save enough to buy a water ispenser for our kitchen counter. However, instea of water, I fille it with hanwritten notes encouraging her to chase her reams of a career.

As I grew oler, I notice that my mom yearne to pursue her passions an to make her own money. She spent years as a stay-at-home mom an limite our househol chores as much as she coul, taking the buren upon herself so that my brothers an I coul focus on our eucation. However, I coul tell from her curiosity of an attitues towar working women that she envie their financial freeom an the self-esteem that must come with it. When I aske her about working again, she woul tell me to focus on achieving the American ream that I knew she ha once reame for herself.

For years, I watche her effortlessly light up conversations with both strangers an family. Her empathy an ability to unerstan the nees, wants an struggles of a iverse group of people empowere her to reach the hearts of every person at a inner table, even when the story itself i not apply to them at all. She coul make anyone laugh, an I wante her to be pai for it. “Mom, have you ever thought about being a stan-up comeian?”

She laughe at the iea, but then she starte wonering alou about what she woul joke about an how comey shows were booke. As she began reaming of a comey career, the reality of her current life as a stay-at-home mom sank in. She began to cry an tol me it was too late for her. I coul not bear to watch her struggle between ambition an oubt.

Her birthay was coming up. Although I ha alreay bought her a present, I realize what I actually wante to give her was the strength to finally put herself first an to take a chance. I place little notes of encouragement insie the water ispenser. I aske my family an her closest friens to o the same. These friens tol her other friens, an eventually I ha grown a network of supporters who emaile me their amiration for my mom. From these emails, I han wrote 146 notes, creiting all of these supporters that also believe in my mom. Some provie me with sentences, others with five-paragraph-long essays. Yet, each note was an iteration of the same sentiment: “You are hilarious, full of life, an reay to take on the stage.”

On the ay of her birthay, my mom unwrappe my oly shape present an saw the water ispenser I bought her. She was not surprise, as she ha hinte at it for many years. But then as she kept unwrapping, she saw that insie the ispenser there were these little notes that fille the whole thing. As she kept picking out an reaing the notes, I coul tell she was starting to believe what they sai. She starte to weep with her hans full of notes. She coul not believe the support was real, that everyone knew she ha a special gift an believe in her.

Within two months, my mom performe her first set in a New York comey club. Within a year, my mom booke a monthly healining show at the nation’s premier comey club.

I am not sure what happene to the water ispenser. But I have rea the notes with my mom countless times. They are frame an line the walls of her new office space that she rente with the profits she mae from working as a professional comeian. For many parents, their chilren’s careers are their greatest accomplishment, but for me my mom’s is mine.

文书二，作者：Arienne Coleman

Locust Valley, N.Y. — Friens Acaemy

“Pull own your mask, sweetheart, so I can see that pretty smile.”

I returne a well-practice smile with just my eyes, as the eight guys starte their sixth bottle of Brunello i Montalcino. Their carefree banter borere on heckling. Ignoring their comments, I stacke ishes heavy with half-eaten rib-eye steaks an truffle risotto. As I brought their plates to the ish pit, I warne my female co-workers about the increasingly runken rowiness at Table 44.

This was not the first time I’ felt uncomfortable at work. When I initially presente my résumé to the restaurant manager, he scanne me up an own, barely glancing at the piece of paper. “Well, you’ve got no restaurant experience, but you know, you package well. When can you start?” I felt his eyes burn through me. That’s it? No pretense of a proper interview? “Great,” I sai, thrille at the prospect of earning goo money. At the same time, reuce to the way I “package,” I felt egrae.

I thought back to my impassione feminist speech that won the eighth-grae speech contest. I lingere on the moments that, as the leaer of my high school’s F-Wor Club, I ha reefine feminism for my friens who initially rejecte the wor as raical. But in these instances, I realize how my notions of equality ha been somewhat theoretical — a passion inspire by the wors of Malala an R.B.G. — but not yet live or compromise.

The restaurant has become my real-worl classroom, the pecking orer transparent an immutable. All the managers, the ecision makers, are men. They set the scheules, etermine the tip pool, hire pretty young women to serve an hostess, an brazenly berate those below them. The V.I.P. customers are overwhelmingly men, the high rollers who rop thousans of ollars on rinks, an feel entitle to palm me, a 17-year-ol, their phone numbers rolle insie a wa of cash.

Angry customers, furious they ha mistakenly receive penne instea of pane, initially rattle me. I have since learne to assuage an soothe. I’ve evelope the confience to be firm with those who won’t wear a mask or are breathtakingly rue. I take prie in controlling my tables, working 13-hour shifts an earning my own money. At the same time, I’ve struggle to navigate the bounaries of what to accept an where to raw the line. When a staff member continue to inappropriately touch me, I ha to summon the courage to aress the issue with my male supervisor. Then, it took weeks for the harasser to get fire, only to return to his job a few ays later.

When I receive my first paycheck, accompanie by a stack of cash tips, I questione the compromises I was making. In this physical an mental space, I searche for my ientity. It was simple to explore gener roles in a classroom or through complex characters in a Kate Chopin novel. My heroes, trailblazing women such as Simone e Beauvoir an Gloria Steinem, ha pave the roa for me. In my textbooks, their crusaing is history. But the intense Saturay night crucible of the restaurant, with all the unwante phone numbers, catcalls an wanering hans, jolte me into an unavoiable reckoning with feminism in a professional worl.

Often, I’ve felt shame; shame that I wasn’t as vocal as my heroes; shame that I feigne smiles an silently pockete the cash hane to me. Yet, these experiences have been a catalyst for personal an intellectual growth. I am learning how to set bounaries an to use my professional skills as a means of empowerment.

Constantly re-evaluating my efinition of feminism, I am inspire to ive eeply into gener stuies an philosophy to better pursue social justice. I want to use politics as a forum for activism. Like my female icons, I want to stop the buren of sexism from falling on young women. In this way, I will smile fully — for myself.

文书三，作者：Hoseong Nam

Hanoi, Vietnam — British Vietnamese International School

Despite the lou busking music, arcae lights an swarms of people, it was har to be istracte from the corner street stall serving steaming cupfuls of tteokbokki — a meley of rice cake an fish cake covere in a concoction of hot sweet sauce. I gulpe when I felt my frien tugging on the sleeve of my jacket, anticipating that he wante to try it. After all, I promise to treat him out if he visite me in Korea over winter break.

The cups of tteokbokki, garnishe with sesame leaves an tempura, was a high-en variant of the street foo, nothing like the kin from my chilhoo. Its price of 3,500 Korean won was also nothing like I recalle, either, simply charge more for being sol on a busy street. If I enie the purchase, I coul console my frien an brother by purchasing more substantial meals elsewhere. Or we coul spen on overprice foo now to inulge in the immeiate gratification of a convenient but ephemeral snack.

At every seemingly inconsequential expeniture, I weigh the pros an cons of possible purchases as if I hel my entire fate in my hans. To be generously hospitable, but recklessly rain the travel allowance we neee to stretch across two weeks? Or to be bugetarily shrew, but possibly risk being classifie as stingy? That is the question, an a calculus I so early etest.

Unable to secure subsequent employment an sale by alimony complications, there was no room in my a’s househol to be embarrasse by austerity or scraping for crumbs. Ever since I was taught to ilute shampoo with water, I’ve revise my formula to reuce irritation to the eye. Every visit to a fast-foo chain inclue asking for a sheet of iscount coupons — the parameters of all future menu choice — an a past receipt containing the coe of a complete survey to reeem for a free cheeseburger. Exploiting combinations of multiple promotions to maximize savings at such establishments felt as thrilling as cracking war cryptography, critical for minimizing cash casualties.

However, while iscipline restriction of expenses may be virtuous in private, at outings, even those amongst friens, spening less — when it comes to status — paraoxically costs more. In Asian family-style eating customs, a ish orere is typically available to everyone, an the total bill, regarless of what you i or i not consume, is ivie evenly. Too ashame to ask for myself to be exclue from paying for ishes I i not orer or partake in, I’ve opte out of invitations to meals altogether. I am wary even of meals where the inviting host has offere to treat everyone, fearful that if I only attene “free meals” I woul be pinne as a parasite.

Although I can now conuct t-tests to extract correlations between multiple variables, calculate marginal propensities to import an assess whether a eveloping country elsewhere in the worl is at risk of becoming stuck in the mile-income trap, my ay-to-ay ecisions still revolve aroun elementary arithmetic. I feel haunte, curse by the compulsion to iligently subtract pennies from purchases hoping it will eventually pile up into a mere ollar, as if the slightest misjugment in a single buy woul tip my family’s balance sheet into irrecoverable poverty.

Will I ever stop stressing over overspening?

I’m not sure I ever will.

But I o know this. As I hane over 7,000 won in exchange for two cups of tteokbokki to share amongst the three of us — my frien, my brother an myself — I am remine that even if we are not swimming in splenor, we can still uphol our ignity through the generosity of sharing. Restricting one’s conscience only aroun ruminating which roas will lea to riches risks blinness towar rarer wealth: friens an family who o not measure one’s worth base on their net worth. Maybe one ay, such rigorous monitoring of financial activity won’t be necessary, but even if not, this is still enough.

文书四，作者：Neeya Hame

New York — Brooklyn Friens School

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Sitting on monobloc chairs of various colors, the Tea Laies offer healing. Henna-garnishe hans eliver four cups of tea, each selling for no more than 10 cents. You may see them as refugees who fle the conflict in western Suan, passionately working to make ens meet by selling tea. I see them as messengers bearing the secret ingreients necessary to truly welcome others.

On virtually every corner in Suan, you can fin these Tea Laies. They greet you with open hearts an colorful traitional Suanese robes while incense fills the air, singing songs of ancient ritual. Their exterous ability to touch people’s lives starts with the ingreients behin the tea stan: homegrown caramom, mint an cloves. As they skillfully prepare the best hanmae tea in the worl, I look aroun me. Meloies of spirite laughter embrace me, smiles as bright as the afternoon sun. They have a superpower. They create a naturally inviting space where bounless hospitality thrives.

These humble spaces are create by people who o not have much. Meanwhile, in America, we possess all the tangible resources. Why is it, then, that we fruitlessly struggle to connect with one another? On some corners of Mill Basin, Brooklyn, I iscovere that some people on’t lea their lives as selflessly.

I never imagine that the monobloc chair in my very own neighborhoo woul be pulle out from uner me. Behin this stan, the ingreients necessary to touch my life were none but one: a frienly encounter gone wrong. While waiting for ice cream, a neighbor offere to pay for me. This eeply offene the shop owner glaring behin the glass; he resente my neighbor’s compassion because his kinness is reserve for those who o not look like me. The encounter was potent enough to extract the resentment brewing within him an compelle him to project that onto me.

“I guess Black lives o matter then,” he snarke.

His unmistakably self-righteous smirk was enough to eny my place in my community. It was enough to turn a beautiful sentiment of kinness into a painfully retentive memory; a constant reminer of what is to come.

Six thousan three hunre an fifty-eight miles away, Suan suenly felt closer to me than the ice cream shop aroun the corner. As I walke home, completely shaken an wonering what I i to provoke him, I struggle to conceptualize the seemingly irrelevant comment. When I walk into spaces, be it my school, the boega or an ice cream shop, I am conscious of the caramom mint, an cloves that resie within me; the ingreients, traits an culmination of thoughts that make up who I am, not what I was reuce to by that man. I learne, however, that sometimes the color of my skin speaks before I can.

I realize that the connotations of ignorance in his wors weren’t what solely bothere me. My confusion stemme more from the complete lack of care towar others in his community, a notion completely etache from everything I believe in. For the Tea Laies an the Suanese people, it isn’t about whether or not people know their story. It isn’t about soliarity in uniformity, but rather seeing others for who they truly are.

Back in Khartoum, Suan, I looke at the talents of the Tea Laies in awe. They in’t necessarily transform people with their tea, they i something better. Every cup was a silent no to each person’s ignity.

To the left of me sat a husban an father, complaining about the riiculous brea prices. To the right of me sat a younger worker who spent his ays sweeping the quarters of the water company next oor. Inepenent of who you were or what you knew before you got there, their tea was briging the gap between lives an empowering true companionship, all within the setting of four chairs an a small plastic table.

Sometimes, that is all it takes.

文书五，作者：Chaya Tong

Lafayette, Calif. — Miramonte High School

I was the ultimate ay care ki — I never left.

From before I coul walk to the start of mile school, Kimmy’s ay care was my secon home. While my classmates at school went home with stay-at-home moms to swim team an Girl Scouts, I travele to the town next oor where the houses are smaller, the parche lawns crunchy uner my feet from the rought.

At school, I stuck out. I was one of the few brown kis on campus. Both of my parents worke full time. We in’t spen money on tutors when I got a poor test score. I’ never owne a pair of Lululemon leggings, an my mom was not verse in the art of Zumba, Jazzercise or goat yoga. At school, I was a blae of green grass in a California lawn, but at ay care, I blene in.

The kis range from infants to tolers. I was the olest by a long shot, but I like it that way. As an only chil, this was my winow into a sibling relationship — well, seven sibling relationships. I playe with them till we roppe, hel them when they crie, got annoye when they took my things. An the kis i the same for me. They helpe as I sat at the counter rawing, an starre in every play I put on. They watche enviously as I climbe to the top of the plum tree in the backyar.

Kimmy calle herself “the substitute mother,” but she never gave herself enough creit. She listene while I gushe about my ay, hel me when I ha a fever an came running when I fell out of the tree. From her, I learne to fee a baby a bottle, an recognize when a chil was about to walk. I saw ozens of first steps, hear hunres of first wors, celebrate countless birthays. Most importantly, I learne to let the bottle go when the baby coul fee herself.

An I collecte all the firsts, all the memories an stories of each ki, spinning elaborate tales to the parents who walke through the oor at the en of the ay. I was the memory keeper, privy to the smallest snippets that go forgotten in a lifetime.

I remember when Alyssa aske me to put plum tree flowers in her pigtails, an the time Arlo fell into the toilet. I remember the babies we bathe in the kitchen sink, an how Kimmy save Gussie’s life with the Heimlich maneuver. I remember the tears at “grauation,” when chilren left for preschool, an each time our broken family mene itself when new kis arrive.

When I got home, I wrote everything own in my pink notebook. Jackson’s first wors, the time Lolly fell off the couch belting “Let It Go.” Each page title with a chil’s name an the moments I was afrai they wouln’t remember.

I on’t go to ay care anymore. Chilren on’t hie uner the table, keeping me company while I o homework. Nursing a baby to sleep is no longer part of my everyay routine, an running feet on’t greet me when I return from school. But ay care is infuse in me. I can clean a room in five minutes, an whip up lunch for seven. I remain calm in the mist of chaos. After taming countless temper tantrums, I can work with anyone. I continue to be a storyteller.

When I look back, I remember peering own from the top of the plum tree. I see a tiny backyar with patches of ea grass. But I also see Kimmy an my seven “siblings.” I see the beginnings of lives, an a place that quietly shapes the chilren who run across the lawn below. The baby stares curiously up at me from the patio, bouncing in her seat. She will be walking soon, Kimmy says. As will I. 

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