哈佛公布2028届优秀录取文书！

“文书怎么写才能吸引招生官的注意”

哈佛大学校报近日公布了10篇2028届优秀录取文书。

01 《Crochet into America》 Clara

 

My nightstand is home to a small menagerie of critters, each glass-eyed specimen lovingly stuffed with cotton. Don’t get the wrong idea, now – I’m not a taxidermist or anything. I crochet.

Crochet is a family tradition. My grandmother used to wield her menacing steel hook like a mage’s staff and tout it as such: an instrument that bestowed patience, decorum, and poise on its owner. During her youth in Vietnam, she spent her evenings designing patterns for ornate doilies and handkerchiefs. Then the Vietnam War turned our family into refugees. The Viet Cong imprisoned my grandfather, a colonel in the South Vietnam Air Force, in a grueling labor camp for thirteen years. Many wives would have lost hope, but my grandmother was no average woman. A literature professor in a time when women’s access to education was limited, she assumed the role of matriarch with wisdom and confidence, providing financial and emotional security. As luxuries like yarn grew scarce, she conjured up all sorts of useful household items – durable pillowcases, blankets, and winter coats – and taught my mother to do the same. Because of these bitter wartime memories, she wanted my handiwork to be of a decidedly less practical bent; among the first objects she taught me to crochet were chrysanthemums and roses. However, making flowers bloom from yarn was no easy task.

Even with its soft plastic grip and friendly rounded edges, my first crochet hook had a mind of its own, like the enchanted broom in “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” It stubbornly disobeyed my orders as I impatiently wrenched it through the yarn. My grandmother’s stern appraisal of my efforts often interrupted this perpetual tug-of-war: My stitches were uneven. The edges curled inward. I would unravel my work and start anew.

I convinced myself that cobbling together a lopsided rectangle would be the pinnacle of my crochet prowess but refused to give up. Just as a diligent wizard casts more advanced spells over time, I learned to channel the magic of the crochet hook. The animal kingdom is my main source of inspiration; the diversity and vivid pigmentation of life on Earth lend themselves perfectly to the vibrant and versatile art of crochet. Many of the animals I make embark on migratory journeys, like their real-life counterparts. Take Agnes, for example, a cornflower-blue elephant named after mathematician Maria Gaetana Agnesi who lives in my calculus teacher’s classroom, happily grazing on old pencil shavings and worksheets. As I fasten off the final stitches on every creature, I hope to weave a little whimsy and color into someone’s life.

Each piece I finish reminds me of the network of stitches that connects mother and daughter, past and present, tradition and innovation. In this vast cultural web, I am proud to be my family’s link between East and West. As I prepare for adulthood, I am eager to weave my own mark into the great patchwork quilt that is America.

文书点评

Clara的文章将她成长经历、家族传统很好地融入到她的文书写作当中。

文章让我们深入了解了她的性格。Clara不会因失败而气馁，不会因为困难而放弃。通过专注于提高钩针编织技能的努力，Clara展现了申请论文中经常缺少的成熟、毅力和自我意识。

Clara的文章真切做到了无论你过去经历了什么，你的文章都必须是关于你现在的。

02 《Family Meeting at MITES》 Francisco

 

Three days before I got on a plane to go across the country for six weeks I quit milk cold-turkey. I had gone to the chiropractor to get a general check up. I knew I had scoliosis and other problems; however, I learned that because of my excessive, to say the least, intake of milk my body had developed a hormone imbalance. I decided it would be best for my health to completely stop drinking milk and avoid dairy when possible. Little did I know, this was only the start of a summer of change; three days later I got on a plane to attend the Minority Introduction To Engineering and Science (MITES) program in Massachusetts.

I assumed that most of the people were going to be unhealthily competitive because of my past experiences. I thought I would keep to myself, do my work, and come back no different. Living in a building with 80 people I’ve never met in a place I’ve never been while making a significant life style change was not easy. The first few days were not kind: I got mild stomach ulcers, it was awkward, and I felt out of place. That first Thursday night however, all of that started to change. On Thursday evenings we had “Family Meetings” and on this particular Thursday part of our Machine Learning class was working together when the time came to go to the dining hall for whatever this “Family Meeting” was. Honestly we dreaded it at first, “I have work to do” was the most common phrase. We learned that “Family Meeting” was a safe space for us to talk about anything and everything. Today’s theme was, “what’s something important about your identity that makes you unique?” but the conversation quickly evolved into so much more. People spoke about losing family members, being shunned at home, not feeling comfortable in their own skin, and more. So many people opened up about incredibly personal things, I felt honored to be given that trust. The room was somber and warm with empathy as the meeting concluded. Out of my peripheral vision I saw Izzy, one of my Machine Learning classmates, rushing back to the conference room. I realized something was not right. Instinctively, I followed her back to where we were working. Izzy sat down and immediately broke down, the rest of us filed in as she started to talk about what was wrong. It felt as though an ambulance was sitting on my chest, my breaths were short and stingy. I was afraid; afraid my support wouldn’t be good enough, afraid to show that I cared, afraid they didn’t care for me. In this one moment all my insecurities, some I didn’t even know I had, came to the surface. The heavy silence of hushed sobbing was broken by an outpouring of support and a hug. We all started sharing what we’re going through and even some of our past trauma. Slowly that weight is lifted off my chest. I feel comfortable, I feel wanted, I feel safe.

This is the first time I truly felt confident, empowered, and loved. I am surrounded by people smarter than me and I don’t feel any lesser because of it. I have become the true Francisco, or Cisco as they call me. I now, at all times, am unapologetically myself. The difference is night and day. As the program progressed I only felt more comfortable and safe, enough so to even go up and speak at a family meeting. These people, this family, treated me right. I gained priceless confidence, social skills, self-worth, empathetic ability, and mental fortitude to take with me and grow on for the rest of my life. Through all of this somehow cutting out the biggest part of my diet became the least impactful part of my summer.

文书点评

Francisco的文章描述了他参与麻省理工学院的少数族裔工程与科学入门 (MITES) 项目的经历，这也展示了他的理工学术背景。

故事从一个看似微不足道的决定开始——出于健康原因放弃喝牛奶——但很快就变成了改变生活的隐喻。这篇文章巧妙地利用了这种内在的转变，从根本上改变了Francisco对自己和与他人互动的看法。

扩展MITES计划如何影响他的长期目标的描述进一步增强文章的可读性。此外，详细说明他在计划前后与同龄人的关系将更清楚地描绘出他的社交成长。这些额外的细节将创造一个更完整、更引人注目的叙述——将 Francisco 呈现为一个多面的个体。

03 Michael

 

I’ve been alone for three years now.

My freshman year, my mother had to take a job as a live-in caregiver to make enough money to pay rent and other bills after my uncle got married and moved out. I was ecstatic. I could finally have the entire house to myself. I had imagined the countless hours on the PS4, nobody telling me to go to sleep or to go do my homework. I felt free. Unexpectedly, though, this freedom came at the expense of my childhood.

To compensate for never being home, my mother called me three times a day. The first call would always be at 6:00 a.m, like clockwork. That was the call to wake me up so that I wouldn’t miss the bus and be late for school. Then there was the 4:00 p.m call where we went over anything and everything that happened in school that day. Lastly, there was the 7:00 p.m call which always seemed to last over an hour. This was the call that made me miss my mother the most. We labeled this call the “multi-purpose” call. Sometimes we would just talk about how we were both doing. Other times she would teach me things I needed to know, like how to do laundry, how to go grocery shopping, or how to cook. But one thing that she always seemed to bring up was how she wished things were different and how much she ached with the desire to be home with her son.

That last call always weighed heavily on my heart. When around friends and their families, I would often put my head down and smile because their interactions would remind me so much of when my mother was with me every day. It made me miss her insurmountably, to the point where I began to despise every aspect of this “independence.” To me, it was loneliness, isolation, and nights laying in bed wishing I had a loved one in the house that I could talk to or hug. I was forced to become a man instead of living out my days as a kid. What hurt me the most, though, was knowing that my mother hated our situation even more than I did. She hated knowing her only child was growing up without her and it hurt her more than words could explain. She would always say how I was her pride and joy, but I’ve always thought of myself to be her hope, her hope for a better life.

That is why I have worked so hard in school. My mother has dedicated and sacrificed years of her life to make sure that her son could live a great one, and all she has ever asked from me in return was to do well in school. There were numerous times when I felt discouraged and unmotivated, but the thought of letting down the woman that has broken her back for me was far stronger than any fatigue I may have felt.

For three long years now, I have entered my house after school expecting nothing but silence and darkness. I lay in bed at night yearning to hear any sound at all that would signal that there was life in the house beside me. Then I wake up the next morning, get ready for school, and start the cycle all over again. I have almost gotten used to being alone. But I won’t let my story end here. The reason why I have worked myself so hard is so that things can be different for me and my mother. She always says that everything she’s doing now is for me and that when she gets old it’ll be my turn. Except when my turn comes, she will never have to be alone.

文书点评

这篇文章以清晰、引人入胜的方式，讲述了个人在无法控制的挑战性环境中成长的故事。

Michael的故事展示了他的成熟、坚韧和奉献精神，这些品质表明他会在严谨的学术环境中茁壮成长。他的动力和决心表明他不仅为上大学做好了准备，而且有潜力为社会带来积极的变化。这些都是哈佛大学在潜在学生身上寻找的标志。

04 《Sondheim’s Musicals》 Lauren

 

Lunch and recess were opportunities to ‘play’ Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd, so we murdered our friends. We’d bake the dead into meat pies and scream cacophonously, “WE ALL DESERVE TO DIE!” Nine-year-old me even teased my hair, donned my Mrs. Lovett costume for Halloween, and rambled on about Australian penal colonies and how dead fiddle players make for “stringy” meat. You cannot imagine my disappointment when everybody thought I was Frankenstein’s Bride.

Like Gypsy Rose Lee, my siblings and I spent our formative years at rehearsals and performances, where I was indoctrinated into the cult that worships Sondheim. In our household, Sondheimian theatre was a religion (I’m not sure how I feel about God, but I do believe in Sondheim.) My brother and I read Sondheim’s autobiography, Finishing the Hat, like the bible, reading the book cover to cover and returning to page one the moment we finished. At six, he introduced me to Sondheim’s West Side Story, which illustrates the harms of poverty and systematic racism. Initially, I only appreciated Jerome Robbins’ choreography (Sorry, Mr. Shakespeare). When I revisited the musical years later, I had a visceral reaction as I witnessed young adults engaging in deadly gang rivalries. Experiencing Tony’s gruesome death forced me, a middle-class suburbanite, to feel the devastating effects of inner-city violence, and my belief in the need for early intervention programs to prevent urban gun violence was born.

I began to discover political and historical undertones in all of Sondheim’s work. For example, Assassins whirlwinds from the Lincoln era up to Reagan’s Presidency. Originally, I simply thought it was hysterical to belt Lynette Fromme’s love ballad to Charles Manson. Later, I realized how much history I had unknowingly retained from this musical. The song “November 22, 1963” reflects on America’s most notorious assassination attempts, and alludes to each assassin being motivated by a desperate attempt to connect to a specific individual or culture to gain control over their life. Assassins awakened me to the flaws in some of our quintessential American ideals because the song “Everybody’s Got the Right” illustrates how the American individualism enshrined in our Constitution can be twisted to support hate, harm, and entitlement. I internalized Sondheim’s political commentary, and I see its relevance in America's most pressing issues. The misconstrued idea of limitless freedom can be detrimental to public health, worsening issues such as the climate crisis, gun violence, and the coronavirus pandemic. These existential threats largely stem from antiquated ideas that the rights of the few outweigh the rights of the majority. Ironically, a musical about individuals who tried to dismantle our American political system sparked my political interests, but this speaks to the power of Sondheim’s music and my ability to make connections and draw inspiration from unlikely sources.

Absorbing historical and political commentary set to music allows my statistical and logical brain to better empathize with the characters, giving me a deeper understanding of the conflicts portrayed on stage, almost like reading a diary. Theatremakers are influenced by both history and their life experiences. I internalize their underlying themes and values, and my mindset shifts to reflect the art that I adore. I’m an aspiring political changemaker, and Sondheim’s musicals influence my political opinions by enabling me to empathize with communities living drastically different lives from my own.

I sang Sondheim melodies before I could talk. As I grew intellectually and emotionally, Sondheim’s musicals began to carry more weight. With each viewing, I retained new historical and political information. This ritual drives me to continue studying Sondheim and enables me to confidently walk my own path because Sondheim’s work passively strengthens my ethics as I continue to extrapolate relevant life lessons from his melodies. Sondheim’s stories, with their complex, morally ambiguous characters, have solidified my ironclad set of morals which, together with my love of history, have blossomed into a passion for human rights and politics.

文书点评

Lauren的文章很有冲击力。从第一行开始，她就兴高采烈地在以理发师陶德为主题的课间游戏中“谋杀”朋友，你就会被吸引住。这不是一篇普通的个人文章；这是一段对桑德海姆痴迷的童年的狂野之旅。

这篇文章之所以引人注目，是因为Lauren毫不掩饰的热情。她不只是喜欢音乐剧。她还展现了一种既善于分析又富有创造力的思维，将历史歌曲与枪支暴力和疫情等现代问题联系起来。

你的文书是让你的真实声音得以表达的最佳场所。因此，一定要选择一个你真正投入的主题。这种热情会具有感染力，并会给读者留下持久的印象。

Lauren还出色地保持了一种亲切而可爱的语气（“我不确定我对上帝的看法，但我相信桑德海姆”）。她成功地将对桑德海姆作品的热情与成为政治变革者的愿望联系起来。这种热情和目标的结合令人信服，最终使她成为哈佛大学的有力候选人。

05 《I, Too, Can Dance》 Sarika

 

I was in love with the way the dainty pink mouse glided across the stage, her tutu twirling as she pirouetted and her rose-colored bow following the motion of her outstretched arms with every grand jeté.

I had always dreamed I would dance, and Angelina Ballerina made it seem so easy. There was something so freeing about the way she wove her body into the delicate threads of the Sugar Plum Fairy’s song each time she performed an arabesque. I longed for my whole being to melt into the magical melodies of music; I longed to enchant the world with my own stories; and I longed for the smile that glimmered on every dancer’s face.

At recess, my friends and I would improvise dances. But while they seemed well on their way to achieving ballerina status, my figure eights were more like zeroes and every attempt at spinning around left me feeling dizzy. Sometimes, I even ran over my friends’ toes. How could I share my stories with others if I managed to injure them with my wheelchair before the story even began?

I then tried piano, but my fingers stumbled across the keys in an uncoordinated staccato tap dance of sorts. I tried art, but the clumsiness of my brush left the canvas a colorful mess. I tried the recorder, but had Angelina existed in real life, my rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” would have frozen her in midair, with flute-like screeches tumbling through the air before ending in an awkward split and shattering the gossamer world the Sugar Plum Fairy had worked so hard to build.

For as long as I could remember, I’d also been fascinated by words, but I’d never explored writing until one day in fourth grade, the school librarian announced a poetry contest. That night, as I tried to sleep, ideas scampered through my head like Nutcracker mice awakening a sleeping Clara to a mystical new world. By morning, I had choreographed the mice to tell a winning story in verse about all the marvelous outer space factoids I knew.

Now, my pencil pirouettes perfect O’s on paper amidst sagas of doting mothers and evanescent lovers. The tip of my pen stipples the lines of my notebook with the tale of a father’s grief, like a ballerina tiptoeing en pointe; as the man finds solace in nature, the ink flows gracefully, and for a moment, it leaps off the page, as if reaching out to the heavens to embrace his daughter’s soul. Late at night, my fingers tap dance across the keys of my laptop, tap tap tapping an article about the latest breakthrough in cancer research—maybe LDCT scans or aneuploidy-targeted therapy could have saved the daughter’s life; a Spanish poem about the beauty of unspoken moments; and the story of a girl in a wheelchair who learned how to dance.

文书点评

在这篇名为《I, Too, Can Dance》的文章中，Sarika巧妙地描述了她如何从想要像虚构角色Angelina Ballerina那样跳舞，到发现深刻的满足感以及通过写作表达自己的方式。

⁤Sarika的故事仍然充满着坚韧和独创性，⁤⁤⁤她的深刻反思和成熟的认识，即艺术表达可以有多种形式，使她的文章如此感人。⁤⁤

她传达了一个强烈的信息，即接受一个人的能力，并探索艺术表达的多种途径。⁤在文章结束时，Sarika已经接受了自己的命运，甚至开始喜欢它。⁤⁤她在深夜有节奏地敲击键盘中找到了快乐，创作的故事有着经过精心编排的舞蹈般的优雅和复杂性。

来源：Google

06 《Fish out of Water》 Michelle

 

As I rode up and down the gentle slopes of the Peabody skatepark, I watched my younger brother race down from the highest point on the halfpipe and fly past me at the speed of light. I wish I could do that, I thought, eyeing the enormous curve that towered over me. But I didn’t dare make my way up to the top. Instead, I stuck with the routine I was comfortable with, avoiding the steep inclines at all costs.

Each week during the summer before my fourth grade year, my brother and I would visit that same skatepark, and I would take my mini-BMX bike to the bottom of that monstrous ramp, ready to attack the giant. I started off low reaching only a quarter of the way up at first, too scared to go any higher. But each week, I gained more confidence and kept reaching greater heights. Halfway there, two-thirds, three quarters. Until finally, I mustered up enough courage to complete my final challenge.

With my brother’s shouts of joy ringing in my ears, it seemed as though the concrete mass was calling my name, drawing me closer and closer, until I couldn’t resist its pleading any further. I walked my bike up the stairs and approached the steep drop off. My hands started to sweat and my legs began to shake as I inched toward the edge, staring in the face of doom. Finally at the lip of the ramp, I paused briefly, took a deep breath, and moved forward just enough to send myself speeding downwards. I couldn’t contain my excitement as my, “Woooo!” echoed around the park. I had finally ridden down the tallest ramp!

Throughout my life I have enjoyed having a plan and being in control. When working in a group, I make sure that everyone knows exactly which aspect of the project they will complete. I organize all my homework in a planner so that I never miss a due date. Each night, I outline my schedule for the following day so that I know what meetings, sports events, and other activities I have to attend. When I visited New York City over the summer, I prepared a detailed itinerary to follow. Rarely is there a day when I don’t have a general idea of what I’m going to do, but sometimes my plan doesn’t correlate with how the day truly plays out.

Over the years, I have learned to adapt when situations take an unexpected turn, and, similar to that time at the skatepark, I have been able to step out of my comfort zone more often. It isn’t the end of the world when things don’t go exactly as planned; often times, sudden changes and new experiences make for a more enjoyable and interesting time. As much as I enjoy a strict itinerary, some of my best nights have begun by hopping in the car with my friends, picking a direction, and going wherever the wind takes us. As hard as I try to plan out my day, an unforeseen event is almost inevitable. Although this can bring about some stress, scrambling around to figure things out is not only an essential skill, but can be a fun challenge, too.

I can’t imagine a completely organized life without a little uncertainty. Unexpected circumstances are bound to occur, and making the most of them is one of my favorite parts of life. Regardless of how much I love having a plan, my flexibility and willingness to step out of my comfort zone is something I have and will always take pride in.

文书点评

Michelle的文章为读者呈现了一段生动有趣、引人入胜的旅程，讲述了他们作为移民适应伊利诺伊州新生活的经历（Eely-noise！）。虽然有些移民经历文章可能显得平淡无奇，但Michelle巧妙地利用“鱼离开水”的习语，构建了一个延伸的隐喻，将他们对生物学和艺术的热爱与他们掌握英语的不断发展联系起来。

文章的独特之处在于坦率而幽默地描述了Michelle每天与语言斗争的经历，充分展示了Michelle对音乐、艺术、生物学等各种兴趣的热爱，但最令人印象深刻的是Michelle对适应美国生活和文化的细致入微的记录。

另外，Michelle真的很喜欢写作，喜欢用合适的词语来表达自己的想法，展现出他们的坚韧和对学习的热爱。Michelle对成长为作家和艺术家的真诚热情贯穿了整篇文章，温暖而幽默，极具感染力。

07 《The Zoo》 Marcus

 

As late afternoon sunlight danced on my shoulders, I squished my eight-year-old face against the glass of the outdoor tank, eyes wide and searching for any signs of life. There! I scrambled from where I was seated, chasing the flickering sight of my prize. The otter darted away from me, his lithe body disappearing into a crack in the stones. I slumped against the wall, disappointed. Ever the HR representative, my mother saw my face and asked me what was wrong. I explained my frustration with the otters -- they’re so fun to watch, but they refuse to be seen. My mother leaned down, brushing a long lock of hair out of my face, and told me, “Sometimes, the animals get tired of being watched. They just want to be left alone.”

I didn’t think much of the otters after that. Until I became one.

In October of my sophomore year, I was four months into my transition from female to male. I wasn’t out to my extended family, my wardrobe was a haphazard mess of cargo shorts and skirts, and my voice was still, to my distress, annoyingly high. Being transgender at Middleton High School was no small feat -- I stuck out in a sea of over 2,000 cisgender peers, and most of my teachers did not know how to deal with people “in my situation,” as one put it.

One day, as I walked to my bus after school, I heard snickers from behind me. I turned around and saw a rowdy group of boys. One had his phone up, recording me. Everyone was laughing, and in an instant I knew they were laughing at me. I turned and walked away, doing my best to conceal myself from their view. The laughter continued.

I was the star of a humiliating show that I never asked to be a part of. I had become the otter. Their laughs kept ringing in my ears as I sat alone on the bus. I wanted to crawl inside myself and implode rather than think about going back to face them again the next day. My phone kept buzzing, but I refused to check it. It was only when I arrived home and checked those messages that I found that the video had been posted across social media for hundreds of my peers to see. It seemed like nothing, just a video of me walking, turning, and looking away. But their laughs were clear in the background, and I still understood the point of the video -- look at the freak. Look at the new zoo exhibit.

Seeing that video, I realized that I couldn’t allow myself to turn into what they saw me as. They wanted an otter, a punching bag that wouldn’t fight back. I was not going to be their otter. The next day, I went to my first Sexuality and Gender Equality club meeting. I spoke to the administration about what had happened. I saved the video and showed people. I took control.

Maybe they'll never see me as an equal, but that is their blindness, not mine.

Those boys wanted me to believe that I was merely an exhibit to be laughed at, but now I know I live for greater things. I live for lattes, for courtroom closing arguments, for the pesto I make at work. I live for Black Lives Matter and #enough and Pride. I live for kayaking and summer camp, for the kids in SAGE and my younger sister. My classmates tried to dehumanize me, trample me, and mold me into their image of transgender people. Maybe they’ll never see me as an equal, but that is their blindness, not mine. I do not live on display. I do not live in a zoo.

文书点评

Marcus在这篇发人深省的文章中出色地创作了一个深刻、内省和成功的个人发展故事，重点关注“身份”和“克服障碍”。讨论两个主要主题可能有点冒险，但他完美地将它们交织在一起。

每一段都独具匠心，以优美的创意散文形式写成，深入Marcus的旅程——从童年的困惑（遇到水獭）到未来的自我发现和孤立（他成为水獭），再到自我接受和决心（他不会被欺负），最终到胜利（他对生活的热情和热爱）。

总的来说，这篇文章带领读者踏上一段生动、感人且结构良好的旅程，分享作者独特的经历以及这些经历为何对他的成长和成熟具有重要意义。

08 《Planned Uncertainty》 Billy

 

I was in love with the way the dainty pink mouse glided across the stage, her tutu twirling as she pirouetted and her rose-colored bow following the motion of her outstretched arms with every grand jeté.

I had always dreamed I would dance, and Angelina Ballerina made it seem so easy. There was something so freeing about the way she wove her body into the delicate threads of the Sugar Plum Fairy’s song each time she performed an arabesque. I longed for my whole being to melt into the magical melodies of music; I longed to enchant the world with my own stories; and I longed for the smile that glimmered on every dancer’s face.

At recess, my friends and I would improvise dances. But while they seemed well on their way to achieving ballerina status, my figure eights were more like zeroes and every attempt at spinning around left me feeling dizzy. Sometimes, I even ran over my friends’ toes. How could I share my stories with others if I managed to injure them with my wheelchair before the story even began?

I then tried piano, but my fingers stumbled across the keys in an uncoordinated staccato tap dance of sorts. I tried art, but the clumsiness of my brush left the canvas a colorful mess. I tried the recorder, but had Angelina existed in real life, my rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” would have frozen her in midair, with flute-like screeches tumbling through the air before ending in an awkward split and shattering the gossamer world the Sugar Plum Fairy had worked so hard to build.

For as long as I could remember, I’d also been fascinated by words, but I’d never explored writing until one day in fourth grade, the school librarian announced a poetry contest. That night, as I tried to sleep, ideas scampered through my head like Nutcracker mice awakening a sleeping Clara to a mystical new world. By morning, I had choreographed the mice to tell a winning story in verse about all the marvelous outer space factoids I knew.

Now, my pencil pirouettes perfect O’s on paper amidst sagas of doting mothers and evanescent lovers. The tip of my pen stipples the lines of my notebook with the tale of a father’s grief, like a ballerina tiptoeing en pointe; as the man finds solace in nature, the ink flows gracefully, and for a moment, it leaps off the page, as if reaching out to the heavens to embrace his daughter’s soul. Late at night, my fingers tap dance across the keys of my laptop, tap tap tapping an article about the latest breakthrough in cancer research—maybe LDCT scans or aneuploidy-targeted therapy could have saved the daughter’s life; a Spanish poem about the beauty of unspoken moments; and the story of a girl in a wheelchair who learned how to dance.

文书点评

Billy征服皮博迪滑板场巨大坡道的故事不仅仅是通过增加风险来拓宽自己的舒适区。

虽然没有明确说明，但Billy的文章向我们展示了他自由自在的童年夏天与他严格安排的高中时代有多大的不同。虽然感觉就像是一辈子以前的事了，但Billy并没有忘记向边缘一步步靠近、直面厄运并心甘情愿地放手是什么感觉。

文章以Biking为载体，展示了Billy直面生活中每一个意外的勇气并且十分享受接触意外后获得的自豪感。

09 《Family of Two Moms》 Orlee

 

I’m hiding behind the swing door of the dressing room when I text my mom just one word: “Traumatizing!” I’m on a bra-shopping expedition with my grandmother, and just in case it’s not abundantly clear, this trip was Not. My. Idea. Bra shopping has always been shrouded in mystery for me, and growing up in a household with two moms and two younger sisters hasn’t helped one bit: One of my moms doesn’t wear bras; the other proudly proclaims that her bras are older than me. A two-mom family without the faintest idea what a teenage girl needs—par for the course around here.

So when my 78-year-old grandmother volunteered to take me bra shopping, my moms jumped at the chance. Here I was with my frugal grandmother, outlet-shopping among the racks of intimates that aren’t sized quite right, that have too much padding or too little…You can see my predicament, and it’s no surprise that my younger self was confused by the words “wire-free,” “concealing petals,” “balconette.”

The saleswoman called to my grandmother from across the store, “What cup size is she?”

“I don’t know,” my grandmother screamed back. “Can you measure her?”

Measure me? They have got to be kidding.

*

“I just don’t want her to feel different,” I heard my grandmother say later that day. “Kids this age can be so mean.”

I love my grandmother, but she believes the world is harsh and unforgiving, and she thinks that the only path to happiness is fitting in. My grandmother had taken me bra shopping in a last-ditch attempt to make me “normal” because I was entering 9th grade at Deerfield in a few weeks, and she worried that I would stick out worse than the underwire of a bargain basement bra.

It’s true—I’m not your typical Deerfield student. I’m a day student with lesbian moms who have several fewer zeros on their bank account balance than typical Deerfield parents. I’m the kid with a congenital foot deformity, which means I literally can’t run, who will never be able to sprint across campus from classroom to classroom. I’m the kid with life-threatening food allergies to milk and tree nuts who can’t indulge in the pizza at swim team celebrations or the festive cake and ice cream during advisory meetings.

But fitting in was my grandmother’s worry, not mine. What my grandmother didn’t consider is that there’s no single way to fit in. I might be two minutes later to class than the sprinters, but I always arrive. I might have to explain to my friends what “having two moms” means, but I’ll never stop being thankful that Deerfield students are eager to lean in and understand. I may not be able to eat the food, but you can count on me to show up and celebrate.

While I can’t run, I can swim and play water polo, and I can walk the campus giving Admissions tours. My family might not look like everyone else’s, but I can embrace those differences and write articles for the school newspaper or give a talk at “School Meeting,” sharing my family and my journey. Some of my closest friendships at Deerfield have grown from a willingness on both sides to embrace difference.

On one of the first days of 9th grade, I sat down to write a “Deerfield Bucket List”—a list of experiences that I wanted to have during my four years in high school, including taking a Deerfield international trip and making the Varsity swim team. That list included thirteen items, and I’m eleven-thirteenths of the way there, not because I have the right bra, but because I’ve embraced the very thing that my grandmother was afraid of. Bra shopping is still shrouded in mystery for me, but I know that I am where I should be, I’m doing work that matters to me, and fitting in rarely crosses my mind.

文书点评

这篇文章之所以成功，是因为它告诉我们 Orlee 是谁，她是如何成长起来的，她重视朋友和队友，并将把同样的能量带给她的大学社区。她聪明、好奇、自信、善良。她设定目标，规划愿景来支持她的世界观。“她很少考虑融入。”这就是她的品牌故事！

10 《Perfecting Cookies》 Daniella

 

Each time I bake cookies, they come out differently. Butter, sugar, eggs, flour — I measure with precision, stir with vigor, then set the oven to 375°F. The recipe is routine, yet hardly redundant.

After a blizzard left me stranded indoors with nothing but a whisk and a pantry full of the fundamentals, I made my first batch: a tray of piping hot chocolate chunkers whose melt-in-the-mouth morsels comforted my snowed-in soul. Such a flawless description, however, belies my messy process. In reality, my method was haphazard and carefree, the cookies a delicious fortuity that has since been impossible to replicate.

Each subsequent batch I make is a gamble. Will the cookies flatten and come out crispy? Stay bulbous and gooey? Am I a bad baker, or are they inherently capricious? Even with a recipe book full of suggestions, I can never place a finger on my mistake. The cookies are fickle and short-tempered. Baking them is like walking on eggshells — and I have an empty egg carton to prove it. Perhaps beginner’s luck had been the secret ingredient all along.

I became engrossed in perfecting the cookies not by the mechanical satisfaction of watching ingredients combine into batter, but by the chance to wonder at simplicity. The inconsistency is captivating.

Yet, curiosity keeps me flipping to the same page in my recipe book. I became engrossed in perfecting the cookies not by the mechanical satisfaction of watching ingredients combine into batter, but by the chance to wonder at simplicity. The inconsistency is captivating. It is, after all, a strict recipe, identical ingredients combined in the same permutation. How can such orthodox steps yield such radical, unpredictable results? Even with the most formulaic tasks, I am questioning the universe.

Chemistry explains some of the anomaly. For instance, just a half-pinch extra of baking soda can have astounding ramifications on how the dough bubbles. The kitchen became my laboratory: I diaried each trial like a scientist; I bought a scale for more accurate measurements; I borrowed “On Food and Cooking: the Science and Lore of the Kitchen” from the library. But all to no avail — the variables refused to come together in any sort of equilibrium.

I then approached the problem like a pianist, taking the advice my teacher wrote in the margins of my sheet music and pouring it into the mixing bowl. There are 88 pitches on a keyboard, and there are a dozen ingredients in the recipe. To create a rhapsodic dessert, I needed to understand all of the melodic and harmonic lines and how they complemented one another. I imagined the recipe in Italian script, the chocolate chips as quick staccatos suspended in a thick adagio medium. But my fingers always stumbled at the coda of each performance, the details of the cookies turning to a hodgepodge of sound.

I whisk, I sift, I stir, I pre-heat the oven again, but each batch has its flaws, either too sweet, burnt edges, grainy, or underdone. Though the cookies were born of boredom, their erratic nature continues to fascinate me. Each time my efforts yield an imperfect result, I develop resilience to return the following week with a fresh apron, ready to try again. I am mesmerized by the quirks of each trial. It isn’t enough to just mix and eat — I must understand.

My creative outlook has kept the task engaging. Despite the repetition in my process, I find new angles that liven the recipe. In college and beyond, there will be things like baking cookies, endeavors that seem so unvaried they risk spoiling themselves to a housewife’s drudgery. But from my time in the kitchen, I have learned how to probe deeper into the mechanics of my tasks, to bring music into monotony, and to turn work into play. However the cookie crumbles in my future, I will approach my work with curiosity, creativity, and earnestness.

文书点评

Daniella的文章很可爱、有趣且有效。它真实而自然地展示了她的不同方面、她如何处理问题以及她所看重的东西。这个话题的平凡与她的结论和见解完美契合。她运用幽默，表现出坚韧、创造力、求知欲和对哲学思考的真实倾向。她的“声音”充满自信，用词富有创意，每一段的词汇都深刻地反映了她的不同方面。

几段详细描述Daniella制作饼干的过程的文字也非常有力。她用感性的细节来描述，让人产生共鸣，而不是在文章中塞满各种资历或经历。这种结构大胆而谦逊，让Daniella向读者展示，而不是直接告诉读者她是如何思考的、如何解决问题的、如何坚持不懈的。这非常有力！

从这些范文当中，我们可以看到“尽情展示真实且独一无二的自我”是以上文章都具备的亮点。所以正在头脑风暴的同学就要花点时间挖一挖自己的与众不同了！

而目前哈佛大学的额外文书题目暂未更新，但是2025的Common App已经更新。

另外，目前正值暑假，除了文书和课外活动以外，同学们也要检查自己的成绩单，根据梦校的要求及时查漏补缺！