The Importance of the College Essay

By the time your child is ready to fill out their college applications, two thirds of the key components are already set in stone—standardized test scores and GPA. They are a done deal. The third key component—the one that will often make or break the acceptance or rejection-- are the essays—on both the common application as well as the supplemental for individual schools. Essays serve to humanize your child. They are the only qualitative opportunity a candidate has to showcase why the school should choose them.

And fortunately for my girls they received first-rate advice from their guidance counselor as well as had a parent who studied up on how to write a winning college essay. And the simple fact is that every article or book you read on the subject essentially says the same thing—do not write about the mundane. Do not write an essay that even one other candidate may have already written. Stay away from “the big game” or “why I admire my teacher” or “how I overcame adversity.” Write about something specific to you and allow your words to reveal who you are. Good essays allow the applicant to stand out from the pack.

When Kara made her official visit to Bucknell it was primetime application reading season for their admissions councilors---February break. And after the information session both she and I hung around to speak with the admissions counselor who had just made the presentation. And in between the chit chat the Long Island admissions counselor, who had befriended my older daughter saw us standing there and came over. And I asked the two counselors how the application/essay reading was going. And the one counselor said  Oh my God if I read another essay about building houses post Katrina I am going to kill myself. And the other councilor smacked his knee, howled with laughter and said That was my day yesterday—I must have read 10 of them--so far today I only got one. I have gotten to the point that if I even see the word Katrina it’s all over.

And the most awful part of hearing that conversation was that I knew a kid that year who had applied to Bucknell and had gone with their church the summer before to build houses in New Orleans. The topic of that kid’s common essay was “My Trip to Rebuild Houses after Katrina.” I felt a little queasy. I suspected that admissions councilors all over the country felt the same way as those two Bucknell councilors did. They were bored to death reading the same essay over and over again.

And while that conversation confirmed what I had already suspected about the importance of the college essay I was still stunned with their candor. I was stunned at how easily an application got tossed from the” maybe” pile into the “it’s all over” pile. It happened that quickly—with no regret. A trite essay was the quick road to rejection.

And that student that I am referring to ended up being one of those kids who based on SAT scores and GPA should have gotten into more schools but didn’t. And no one could understand why. But I suspected why and said nothing. There was no need to rub salt into the wound. It was water under the bridge.

And my research on how to write a winning college essay was not wasted. Knowledge never is. All learned ideas can be applied to other subject areas. It’s why my blog posts have a distinct and personal style. And when I choose to write about the big game or someone I admire or how I overcame adversity I write it so my readers are interested enough to get to the last sentences—like you just did—and just like the college admissions councilors who read my daughters’ essays did too.

Telling Time

Most children do not get a good grasp on the concept of time until they around 7 or 8 years of age—right around second grade. Now is the only measurable moment little kids understand. And later is the equivalent of eternity. I remember this well when I was little. I learned very quickly that if I wanted to see the ire of my father I would repeatedly ask Are we there yet? --which would be answered with: No. In 20 minutes.

But to a little kid 20 minutes is meaningless information. A little kid will often inquire But how long is 20 minutes? So I chose a different strategy with my own children. I marked time as measured in television shows. My children understood that 15 minutes was one episode of the Nickelodeon show “Doug” and 30 minutes was an episode of “Full House.” I would say for example that it takes one episode of “Full House” and one episode of “Doug” to arrive at Uncle Mark’s house—45 minutes in adult time. And that satisfied them. It was a relatable reference.

The television set in my kitchen is on all day long. And by all day long I mean all day long even when I am not physically present in my kitchen or even physically present in my house. I leave the television on as background noise—for me and the dog. I rarely stop and watch it but for cleaning up the kitchen or cooking—and even then I am never focused on it. In fact for many years I simply had a radio with TV band for my listening pleasure.

And I turn on Eyewitness News in the morning and keep the channel fixed until I shut it off at night when Jeopardy is over. But recently, the programming on ABC-NY has changed. It first began with Oprah going off the air last June and then All My Children this past September. Regis then left me in November. And as of last week One Life to Live is gone too.

And while I only listened to those shows as I did my work, I discovered that daytime television shows were my markers of time. They informed me where I was in my day—lunchtime, coffee-time or cooking time. I feel unable to cook without Oprah and I can’t enjoy coffee time without some dialogue from Vicki Lord and Todd Manning. And I am so distracted by the different co-hosts with Kelly Ripa in the morning that I forget to put the laundry in the machine at 9 am. My body clock is confused. I no longer have my “people” referencing where I am in the time space continuum. Despite wearing a watch I cannot determine the correct time of day.

For Einstein the present, past, and future co-exist simultaneously. An individual’s sense of time is alterable. Time is relative—perception only. And perception is dependent on speed and distance—not a clock.  Time is a changing reference. It’s why the one Doug and one Full house episode ride to Uncle Mark’s house  always took longer in real time than the one Dog one Full House return ride home—even when there was no traffic. Time is not always measured in seconds, minutes and hours—it is relative to things like emotion and monologues and dialogues. Little kids and Einstein have it right.

Pajama Rules

The uppermost floor of one of the academic buildings at Manhattan College served as a male dormitory. A friend of mine who resided there woke up at 8:04 am for his 8:05 am class. He simply ran down the steps and attempted to attend class in his sleepwear. And while the professor acknowledged my friend’s brave attempt to arrive to class on time, he sent him back upstairs to his room to change into more appropriate school clothing.

One morning when I drove Briana to Locust school a woman got out of her car to help her son out. She was wearing fleece pajamas and bunny slippers. Her son, noticing how the other children looked oddly at his mother, yelled out Mom get back in the car!!   

When I went to Atlanta this past weekend an elderly gentleman was in the elevator with my husband and I. We were all headed down to breakfast. The gentleman was wearing a cotton pullover sweater over what appeared to be a plaid flannel shirt. But when I looked down at his feet I saw the same plaid flannel fabric peeking out from under his gray gabardine trousers. Clearly he had put yesterday’s clothing on to mask his sleepwear.

I wear old athletic clothing—comfy clothing—former platform tennis clothing--to bed at night so that when I wake up in the morning I am already dressed to drive to the train station. But for my foot wear—flip flops or Uggs---I look as if I headed for some type of morning exercise program. I am clean and not in predictable sleepwear (although technically in my pajamas.) And I feel quite stealthy in the knowledge that I am wearing double-duty clothing.

But this morning I had to drive straight from the train station to my mother’s ophthalmologist’s office so I did not have time to change into more doctor’s office-like clothing. I assumed that since I was going to the opthamalogist where the patients are elderly and by nature of the location are seeing impaired that no one would question my attire. But when the doctor entered the examining room he looked and me and said You look like you are off to go hunting. And I am pretty sure it was not a compliment. I am pretty sure it was a passive aggressive way of saying my ensemble should only be worn in the wee early morning hours in the woods where only the deer could see me.          

So I have to wonder---is it ever okay to wear your pajamas out in public?---even if it is under your trousers or carefully disguised as athletic clothing?   And if it is acceptable, at what time is it deemed a faux pas to not be in “afternoon” clothing? Because if I were making the “no pajama” rule it would be up until 9:00 am on a weekday and noon on a weekend. And if you are cleaning the house or paying the bills you get a little extra grace. No one wants to clean the bathroom after showering and getting dressed for the day--- and paying the bills often makes you sweat.

The other day as I drove down Brook Street I saw the woman who was wearing the bunny slippers to Locust School years earlier. She was dragging rubbish to the curb. She did so in pink microfleece pajamas. And when she met my gaze she smiled and waved hello. She was shameless. And there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Her son no longer lived at home to criticize her and it was only 8:00 in the morning. According to my dress code she was well within the rules.

An All-Embracing City

In order to get from the Hartfield Atlanta airport to the campus of Emory University it is necessary to pass through Freedom Park. I had no idea why Freedom Park was called Freedom Park but I surmised as I was in the State of Georgia (the South) that it had something to do with the civil rights movement. So I turned to my daughter who I would have guessed had a greater knowledge of black history and the civil rights movement than I did (except that she did attend Garden City High School) and said Why is Atlanta significant in black history? She had no idea. I said Wasn’t Martin Luther Kings’s church here? To which she responded Wasn’t it in Alabama? And then I said Was Freedom Park the Freedom bus ride thing? And she said Maybe. What was clear was we didn’t know nothin’ about black history---to the point of embarrassment.

When I first headed to Atlanta almost 3 years ago I expected to see a disproportionately large non-Caucasian population. That was not the case. I saw no difference at all from the composition of New York—specifically Roosevelt Field Mall. But what I wasn’t prepared for was how the lines of ethnic, religious and sexual orientation blur and overlap. Atlanta is an all-embracing city.  It is filled with a myriad of people---many transplanted from other regions of the country as well as different nations in the world. Southerners are not that easy to find.  It is as if all the visitors who attended the 1996 Olympics decided to stay and plant roots. And just as Manhattan is not the seedy crime ridden dwelling today that it once was, so too is Atlanta. Atlanta is a nice place to be.

When I got off the plane at La Guardia after my Atlanta trip I checked my new emails. One had been sent from Kara. It was a concise reading from the New Georgia Encyclopedia (God knows what the old one said) about the significance of Atlanta to the civil rights movement. I learned the following: Martin Luther King was born in Atlanta. His grandfather was a minister there, and then his father, and then he. King’s first ministry was in Birmingham Alabama (Kara was right) and then later he moved his ministry to Atlanta (I was right too). The freedom rides originated in Washington DC but its hub was Atlanta.  And Freedom Park is called Freedom Park because the Martin Luther King Center is located there as well as the Carter Center as well as other artsy type park things.

But most interestingly-- Atlanta, back in the days of segregation and the civil rights movement, called itself “the city too busy to hate.” Maybe that is why today Atlanta is so seemingly tolerant and diverse. It’s a cultural thing—just like Philadelphia is “the city of brotherly love.” Atlantans appear to be of the opinion that they have better things to do than be racist, homophobic, or religiously intolerant. I do not know for sure. But if I were to leave my Garden City bubble for the duration I think I could be happy in Atlanta. If people are too busy to hate it means they wouldn’t hate me either—a Catholic Yankee with an Italian background. Some Garden Citians are less embracing.

Cosmetic Surgery

I am of an age where it is not unusual for me to bump into a contemporary and notice that they somehow look “refreshed.” Clearly they have had “some work.” Their face has been surgically “retouched.” But it is with equal opportunity that I bump into a contemporary and think Oh my God what the hell have you done to your face? Their new look just doesn’t look so good.

When I had periodontal surgery I was allergic to the inert packing that no one is supposed to be allergic to and my tongue swelled like a knockwurst. When I came out of gastrointestinal surgery the plastic identification bracelet scratched my cornea when I raised my arms up. When I had a GI series and the consequence of consuming the barium was constipation I nearly dehydrated from diarrhea. I was also born with only 3 wisdom teeth instead of 4 and I have 2 renal arteries on my left kidney  instead of one. I am that person.  I am proof that every “body” is different.

Which is why I fear messing around with my aging looks. I am afraid that if I even inject even a bit of Botox or Restylane I may not recognize the image in the mirror looking back at me—and not in a good way either. I fear the “after” will be more displeasing than the “before.” My eyelids will droop and the filler will lump up like cottage cheese---not to mention the ever popular over-botoxed frozen face syndrome. And worse, I fear if more invasive procedures are done—like an eyelift—I will end up with that “permanently surprised” aghast expression.

I mentioned in one of my blog posts not too long ago that I lacked the skills to post photos on Facebook. My friend Betsy kindly emailed me directions. She also added that I should never post any photos on the internet without retouching them first. She boasted that Photoshop can do wonders in improving natural flaws.

And so I got to thinking—wouldn’t it be amazing if one could apply Photoshop to oneself before leaving the house in the morning? Imagine what the world would look like if every person appeared like their retouched profile picture on Facebook? There would no longer be a need for cosmetic surgery. And even things like cleft palates could be redrawn and digitalized. The world would truly be a beautiful place.

But unfortunately bottles of liquid Photoshop have not been invented yet.  So I am forced to choose between the needle (or knife) and some L’Oreal Age perfecting makeup with retinol A. And I will choose the makeup--- because it is not that I fear cosmetic surgery, it is that I fear bad cosmetic surgery. And I can always require that people remove their reading glasses so close-up  my flaws are blurred. That is how God compensates for fleeting beauty—he makes us farsighted with age.

The Giants vs. New England

If you are a Yankees fan-- even the tiniest bit of one-- you are obligated to hate the Red Sox. If you are a Yankees fan, the Red Sox are the Osama Bin Ladin to your twin towers. The Red Sox are evil predators leaching the Yankees success. The sweetest Yankees’ wins are always accompanied by miserable Red Sox’ losses.

If you are a Jets fan in even the most minimal form you are morally bound to spit on the New England Patriots. They are the evil empire. They are the recipient of all your venom. And even the most gentile of Jets fans wishes mortal doom on Tom Brady and Bill Belichek. Brady and Belichek are the Hitler and Mussolini to your allied powers.

I was raised to (predominantly) be a Yankee and Giants fan. But both my parents also believed in being loyal to all New York teams (with the exclusion of Buffalo—they were too far upstate). So I am also a Mets and Jets fan too.

And thus it was with total angst that I watched the NFC and AFC championship games this past weekend. I am exhausted from the mental strain. In the first game I spent every second cursing the Patriots. I despise Tom Brady. I hate that he left his first baby-mama to knock up Giselle-- his second baby-mama. And Bill Belichek is a conniving cheater who is such a poor sport he often does not shake the hand of the opposing team’s coach. I would spit on him if I could. And I nearly vomited when the Raven’s field goal missed the uprights thus ending the game. The Patriots escaped punishment—again.

And the Giants game was so stressful I had to alternate between watching  it and watching happy stupid David Tutera and Oprah’s station. Because I just love Eli Manning. I love him because I imagine that he is the lanky more talented younger brother who was always overshadowed by his older d-bag brother Peyton. Eli looks like the smart nice quasi- nerdy guy who was too timid to talk to girls. He is the brother that I would have dated. And Eli and the Giants did not disappoint on Sunday. The Giants’ game was a war of wills—not so much a who was going to win type game but more of a who refused to lose or choke type game.

So the Superbowl is set between the most evil of empires—the New England Patriots--against Eli Manning—the Luke Skywalker/grandmaster of the New Order of Jedi. It is a rematch of good versus evil. The last Superbowl they played against each other I piddled in my pants---and by that I mean I actually piddled in my pants when Plaxico Buress caught Eli’s pass to take the lead and win the game. It was a symbolic gesture—I pissed on my opponent. So this time I will be prepared. I will fed-ex Eli a new Jedi sword and I will wear a pair of Depends. This is war. And nothing would please me more than to see Brady and Belichek vaporize from Eli’s supernatural touch—because after all—the force is with him.

Faith--and the Catholic Church Getting it Wrong

In the year 325 AD all the Christian theologians of the day met in Nicaea to put doctrine down on paper. And after a great deal of gives and takes it was at this first ecumenical council that the group agreed upon the Nicaean Creed--a profession of faith—the Apostles Creed. It is the core of what all Christians believe. Catholics recite it weekly in mass as the “I believe in one God the father almighty  creator of heaven and earth…” prayer.

I am totally on board with the Nicaean creed in its original form. But dogma after the year 325 AD is where I begin to get into trouble with being a “good Catholic.” Because after that first council, the churchmen began interpreting scripture and making up the rules which became catechism.  Once you get past Jesus’ love your God with all your heart and love your neighbor as yourself—the highest commandment—the synthesis of the original 10---I start doubting. Especially when the churchmen (never churchwomen) make their ruling on things like souls—who has them, what type, and how and when they leave and enter the body. I have a problem with churchmen being so conceited as to believe that they can impose human rules on God and his perfect creation. Because if God really is all-knowing and all-love, he is capable of much more than that which is written in a catechism. God is much more infinite than the finite thoughts of a bunch of men with pointy hats.

And my issue (one of many) with Catholic doctrine was brought to light this past weekend when I had the task of putting my beloved Jasper down. The Catholic church does not support the belief that dogs have souls like humans. According to the church dogs have what is called a “vegetative soul”---which in essence means that as a creature of God a dog has a soul (perhaps) here on earth, but once they die, that is it—no doggie heaven.

I have a hard time with that concept. In my world dogs have the purest of souls. Dogs teach humans how to be better humans—being more doglike allows humans to be more Godlike. And my God—the God of all enlightenment-- knows that. With my God all things are possible. And in my God’s heaven, all the souls that have aided the learned lessons of my own soul will be there waiting for me—human or not.  In my God’s heaven, there are animals—lots of them.

As my body lay across Jaspers during his euthanasia—I sobbed pathetically as the injected serum traveled to his heart. And on the crest of a sob, inexplicably, all of the air refilled my lungs. I felt overwhelming calmness. I believe I was feeling Jasper’s peace as his soul left his body. And as dramatic and incredulous as it sounds, I know it was at that moment that his soul rose up to heaven. I felt it. And no one will ever be able to convince me otherwise. And I do not care what the Catholic churchmen say---all of God’s creatures—especially the animals--- roam free in heaven. To think otherwise contradicts the infinite wisdom and love of their creator. And I have the Nicean creed to back me up: I believe in one God, the father almighty, creator of heaven and earth and of all that is seen and unseen. Maybe the churchmen need to profess a little more faith. Maybe they need to remember to believe in that which they have not seen. Maybe they need to leave the creating to God and not to themselves.