被美國名校認可的優(yōu)秀Essay是怎樣呢?《紐約時報》給出范本!

Essay在美國留學文書申請中的比例，想必大家十分清楚。一份好的Essay能為你增光加彩;一部分不合格的Essay也能直接拉低標化分數(shù)高的優(yōu)勢。那被美國名校認可的優(yōu)秀Essay是怎么樣的呢?美國著名的雜志《紐約時報》給出5篇范本。

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事情是這樣的：《The New York   Times》每年都向高中生征集大學申請文書，今年將近300人回復(fù)，這里挑選出5篇優(yōu)秀essay，有的關(guān)于家庭，有的啟發(fā)夢想，有的思索階級…

從下面這些優(yōu)秀的Essay中，我們都能感受到他們身上所體現(xiàn)的情感領(lǐng)悟、洞察能力、怪才腦洞，這就是被美國大學真正認可的優(yōu)秀Essay，也難怪會脫穎而出被頂尖大學錄取。

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優(yōu)秀范文Essay一：德克薩斯州 Eric Muthondu

今年秋季入讀哈佛

These are the two worlds I have inherited, and my existence in one is not   possible without the other.

My grandmother hovers over the stove flame, fanning it as she melodically   hums Kikuyu spirituals. She kneads the dough and places it on the stove, her   veins throbbing with every movement: a living masterpiece painted by a life of   poverty and motherhood. The air becomes thick with smoke and I am soon forced   out of the walls of the mud-brick house while she laughs.

As for me, I wander down to the small stream at the ridge on the farm’s edge,   remembering my father’s stories of rising up early to feed the cows and my   mother’s memories of the sweat on her brow from hours of picking coffee at a   local plantation.

Life here juxtaposes itself profoundly against the life I live in America;   the scourge of poverty and flickering prosperity that never seem to coalesce.   But these are the two worlds I have inherited, and my existence in one is not   possible without the other. At the stream, I recollect my other life beyond this   place. In America, I watch my father come home every night, beaten yet resilient   from another day of hard work on the road. He sits me and my sister down, and   though weary-eyed, he manages the soft smile I know him for and asks about our   day.

My sister is quick to oblige, speaking wildly of learning and mischief. In   that moment, I realize that she is too young to remember our original home: the   old dust of barren apartment walls and the constant roar outside of life in the   nighttime.

Soon after, I find myself lying in bed, my thoughts and the soft throb of my   head the only audible things in the room. I ponder whether my parents — dregs   floating across a diasporic sea before my time — would have imagined their   sacrifices for us would come with sharp pains in their backs and newfound   worries, tear-soaked nights and early mornings. But, it is too much to process.   Instead, I dream of them and the future I will build with the tools they have   given me.

Realizing I have mused far too long by the water’s edge, I begin to make my   way back to the house. The climb up the ridge is taxing, so I carefully grip the   soil beneath me, feeling its warmth surge between my fingers. Finally, I see my   younger cousins running around barefoot endlessly and I decide to join their   game of soccer, but they all laugh at the awkwardness of the ball between my   feet. They play, scream and chant, fully unaware of the world beyond this   village or even Nairobi, but I cannot blame them. My iPhone fascinates them and   they ask to see my braces, intently questioning how many “shillings” they cost.   I open my mouth to satisfy their curiosity, but my grandmother calls out, and we   all rush to see what she has made.

When I return, the chapatis are neatly stacked on one another, golden-brown   disks of sweet bread that are the completion of every Kenyan meal. Before my   grandmother can ridicule me in a torrent of Kikuyu, I grab a chapati and escape   to find a patch of silky grass, where I take my first bite. Each mouthful is a   reminder that my time here will not last forever, and that my success or failure   will become a defining example for my sister and relatives.

The rift between high school and college is wide, but it is one I must cross   for those who have carried me to this point. The same hope that carried my   parents over an ocean of uncertainty is now my fuel for the journey toward my   future, and I go forward with the radical idea that I, too, can make it.   Savoring each bite, I listen to the sound of neighbors calling out and children   chasing a dog ridden with fleas, letting the cool heat cling to my skin.

優(yōu)秀范文Essay二：Alison Hess

入讀芝加哥大學

While I then associated my conquests with ‘being a better boy,’ I now realize   what I was really working toward was becoming a better farmer.

I always assumed my father wished I had been born a boy.

Now, please don’t assume that my father is some rampant rural sexist. The   fact is, when you live in an area and have a career where success is largely   determined by your ability to provide and maintain nearly insurmountable feats   of physical labor, you typically prefer a person with a bigger frame.

When I was younger, I liked green tractors better than red tractors because   that was what my father drove, and I preferred black and white cows over brown   ones because those were the kind he raised. I wore coveralls in the winter and   wore holes in my mud boots in weeks. With my still fragile masculinity, I   crossed my arms over my chest when I talked to new people, and I filled my toy   box exclusively with miniature farm implements. In third grade, I cut my hair   very short, and my father smiled and rubbed my head.

I never strove to roll smoother pie crusts or iron exquisitely stiff collars.   Instead, I idolized my father’s patient hands. On a cow’s neck, trying to find   the right vein to stick a needle in. In the strength of the grip it took to hold   down an injured heifer. In the finesse with which they habitually spun the   steering wheel as he backed up to the livestock trailer.

And I grew to do those things myself. When on my 10th birthday I received my   first show cow, a rite of passage in the Hess family, I named her Missy. As I   spoke to her in an unnaturally low voice, I failed to realize one thing: Missy   did not care that I was a girl. She did not think I was acting especially boyish   or notice when I adamantly refused to wear pink clothing (she was colorblind   anyway). And she did not blink an eyelash at her new caretaker’s slightly   smaller frame. All she cared about was her balanced daily feed of cottonseed and   ground corn and that she got an extra pat on the head. As I sat next to her   polishing her white leather show halter, she appreciated my meticulous diligence   and not my sex.

When Missy and I won Best of Show a few months later, my father’s heart   nearly exploded. I learned to stick my chest out whenever I felt proud. While I   then associated my conquests with “being a better boy,” I now realize what I was   really working toward was becoming a better farmer. I learned I could do   everything my father could do, and in some tasks, such as the taxing chore of   feeding newborn calves or the herculean task of halter-breaking a heifer, I   surpassed him. It has taken me four years to realize this: I proved a better   farmer than he in those moments, not despite my sex, but despite my invalid and   ignorant assumption that the best farmer was the one with the most   testosterone.

My freshman year, I left the farm for boarding school, where I was surrounded   by the better-off and the better-educated — the vast majority of whom had heard   the word ‘feminism’ before. I began to pick up just what the word meant from my   antagonizing English teacher and my incisive friends’ furrowed brows when I   described my hometown. Four years of education and weekly argumentative essays   taught me the academic jargon. I learned the Latin roots of the word “feminism,”   its cognates and its historical consequences.

But the more I read about it in books, and the more I used it in my essays,   the more I realized I already knew what it meant. I had already embodied the   reality of feminism on the farm. I had lived it. My cow had taught it to me. 

>>>擅長美國留學申請文書的中介機構(gòu)有哪些?

優(yōu)秀范文Essay三：紐約州Jeffrey Yu

將入讀耶魯大學

My family is a matriarchy in a patriarchal community.

Not all sons of doctors raise baby ducks and chickens in their kitchen. But I   do. My dad taught me.

While my childhood was spent in a deteriorating industrial town, my dad was   raised during the onset of Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution. After forgoing   university so his sister could attend, my dad worked on a commune as a farmer.   So while I grew up immersed in airy Beethoven melodies each morning, my dad grew   up amid the earthy aromas of hay and livestock. Every time that I look between   our grand piano and our baby chickens, I’m amazed by the stark differences   between our childhoods, and how in raising livestock, my dad shares a piece of   his own rural upbringing with me.

Embracing these differences, my dad has introduced me to diverse experiences,   from molding statues out of toilet paper plaster to building greenhouses from   the ground up. So you might be wondering: What does he do for a traditional   9-to-5 job? He’s already captained a research vessel that’s navigated across the   Pacific, designed three patentable wind turbines and held every position   imaginable, from sous chef to Motorola technician.

The answer? Nothing. He’s actually a stay-at-home dad right now.

My family is a matriarchy in a patriarchal community. Accordingly, I’m   greeted with astonishment whenever I try to explain my dad’s financial status.   “How lazy and unmotivated he must be!” Many try to hide their surprise, but   their furtive glances say it all. In a society that places economic value at the   forefront of worth, these assumptions might apply to other individuals, but not   to my dad.

When I look at the media, whether it be the front cover of a newspaper or a   featured story in a website article, I often see highlights of parents who work   incredible hours and odd jobs to ensure their children receive a good   upbringing. While those stories are certainly worthy of praise, they often   overshadow the less visible, equally important actions of people like my   dad.

I realize now that my dad has sacrificed his promising career and financial   pride to ensure that his son would get all of the proper attention, care and   moral upbringing he needed. Through his quiet, selfless actions, my dad has   given me more than can be bought from a paycheck and redefined my understanding   of how we, as people, can choose to live our lives.

I'm proud to say that my dad is the richest man I know — rich not in capital,   but in character. Infused with the ingenuity to tear down complex physics and   calculus problems, electrified with the vigor of a young entrepreneur (despite   beginning his fledgling windmill start-up at the age of 50) and imbued with the   kindness to shuttle his son to practices and rehearsals. At the end of the day,   it’s those traits in people that matter more to me than who they are on   paper.

Stories like my dad’s remind me that worth can come in forms other than a   six-figure salary. He’s an inspiration, reminding me that optimism, passion and   creativity can make a difference in a life as young as mine. It’s those unspoken   virtues that define me. Whether it’s when I fold napkin lotuses for my soup   kitchen’s Christmas dinner, or bake challah bread French toast sticks for my   chemistry class, I’m aware that achievement doesn’t have to be measured   empirically. It’s that entrepreneurial, self-driven determination to bring ideas   to life that drives me. My dad lives life off the beaten path. I, too, hope to   bring that unorthodox attitude to other people and communities.

All too often I’m left with the seemingly unanswerable question: “What does   my dad do?” But the answer, all too simply, is that he does what he does best:   Inspire his son.

優(yōu)秀范文Essay四：Caroline Beit

gap year后今年入讀耶魯大學

While I have not changed the tax system (though someday I plan to), I have   changed how my clients interact with it.

“Nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

Not only do Benjamin Franklin’s words still resonate today, but, if you are   like most, filing income taxes is simply unpleasant. For me, however, preparing   taxes has been a telescopic lens with which to observe the disparate economic   realities present in our society. In looking through this lens, I have seen   firsthand how low wages and, at times, regressive public policy can adversely   impact the financially fragile, and how I can make a difference.

This coming year will be my third volunteering every Saturday during tax   season with AARP’s Tax-Aide Program. In the basement of the Morningside Heights   Library in Manhattan, we help the elderly and low-income individuals file their   taxes. During my first season, I handled organizational tasks and assisted   intake counselors with the initial interview process.

When I told the AARP manager that I wanted to return the following season and   do actual tax preparation, she was skeptical, especially since the next youngest   tax preparer at my location was 37. That, however, did not deter me: Though I   would be just 16 before the start of the season, I diligently studied the   material and passed the advanced I.R.S. qualification test.

As a volunteer, my goal is to help my clients obtain every credit they are   entitled to and place vitally needed money in their pockets. To do this, I need   much more than just technical knowledge. It is also essential to connect on a   human level. I make it a point to put each person at ease by actively listening   to his or her story.

For example, the young woman, who is a recently minted United States citizen   and barely speaks English, mentions that her disabled grandmother lives with   her. Her story allows me to determine she can claim a dependent care credit for   her grandmother and a $1,000 earned income credit. These credits represent   approximately 20 percent of her income and will go toward buying her   grandmother’s medications and other necessities.

I am saddened at times by the palpable stress of those living on the edge of   economic subsistence. Basic necessities such as sneakers and dental care, which   I had never thought twice about, are out of reach for many. I vividly remember   the single mom from Queens who works at Target and spent $400 (a week’s   paycheck) at H&R Block last year. By not having to pay for tax preparation   this year and the credits she can claim, she confided she will be able to buy   her son, who is my age, new shoes for track and hopefully see a dentist for a   tooth that has been throbbing for months.

As a volunteer, I have learned the importance of empathizing, listening and   communicating complex and technical matters simply. Making my clients feel at   ease allows them to understand my explanation of how their money is being taxed.   I have also gained insight into how tax policy affects the financial and   physical health of the working poor and elderly. While I have not changed the   tax system (though someday I plan to), I have changed how my clients interact   with it.

Beyond Benjamin Franklin’s two certainties in life of death and taxes, I   would add a third: the enduring power of the human spirit. I remember an   octogenarian man with a cane who waited two hours in line on a bone-chillingly   rainy Saturday in February. He is somehow able to survive in Manhattan on   $15,000 of Social Security earnings a year. Even though his income is below the   filing requirement, together we claim $77 of school tax and rent credits, which   translates into two weeks of groceries.

When we finish, he says to me, “See you next year.” It is at that moment I   know I have made a tangible difference.

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優(yōu)秀范文Essay五：德克薩斯州Kataryna Pi?a

將入讀科爾蓋特大學

At the age of 11, I started working for the very first time as a cleaning   lady with my grandparents.

The way the light shined on her skin as she sewed the quilt emphasized the   details of every wrinkle, burn and cut. While she completed the overcast stitch,   the thimble on her index finger protected her from the needle pokes. She wore   rings on every finger of her right hand, but on her left she only wore her   wedding ring. The rings drew the attention away from her age and scars to her   cherished possessions.

My grandmother’s rings had not only been stolen by her son, my father, but   she was constantly in the state of fear that he would steal from her once again.   When my father was incarcerated, she wore her rings every day of the week;   however, when he was home, her hands were bare. As it became increasingly common   over time, she learned to hide her treasures in a jewelry box under her bed.

As a small child, I watched my grandmother’s hands move in an inward and   outward motion, noticing her rhythm. This rhythm was like the cha-cha music I   heard every Sunday when I went with her to the pulga, the flea market. Every   week, she bargained on the vendor’s products and brought home “unnecessary   necessities”; luckily, some weeks it just happened to be thread and new sewing   outlines. As my grandma sewed my outfits for school, I was always trying to   complete the outline of La Rosa de Guadalupe just so I could impress her. I   would sing along to her favorite Prince Royce songs, use the same color of   thread as her and try to go at the same cha-cha.

With my father incarcerated, the women in my family went to work. At the age   of 11, I started working for the very first time as a cleaning lady with my   grandparents. Even though I wanted to help my family, I was ashamed to be a   cleaning lady. I argued with my mother against living a life like that, a life   in which I gave up my childhood for my family’s stability. After being called   “malagradecida” — ungrateful — several times, my grandmother reacquainted me   with the idea that “todas las cosas buenas vienen a los que esperan” — all good   things come to those who wait. Sewing was no longer a hobby, but a necessity,   when it came to making my own apron, seaming together rags and pushing for a   better future for my family. My grandmother, too, had to put down her quilt and   go to work, but she never complained.

In recent years, my grandmother has become increasingly ill, so I took her   unfinished quilt to my home, planning to complete it. My grandmother did not   choose to leave this project unfinished; her age and constant contribution to   her family through work did not allow her to. Often, obstacles have not only   redesigned my course, but have changed my perspective and allowed for me to see   greater and better things present within my life. The progression of each patch   depicts the instability present within my family. However, when you put all   these patches together as one, you have a quilt with several seams and   reinforcements keeping it together to depict the obstacles we have faced and   have overcome to show resilience.

Now, when she visits our home, as she reaches for her glasses and pushes her   walker away from the table, my grandmother asks me to bring her the quilt. The   jeweled hands that were once accustomed to constant stitching are now bare, and   the scars are hidden under every wrinkle. With a strong grip on the quilt, my   grandmother signals me to get her sewing basket that sits in the corner   collecting dust. She runs her hands over the patches one last time and finds an   unfinished seam. She smiles and says, “Cerrar la costura y hacer una colcha de   su propio” — close the seam and make a quilt of your own.

留學監(jiān)理網(wǎng)TIPS：

無論你是申請哪所美國大學，選擇怎樣的題目，在essay寫作過程中都要明確的一點是，你所寫的必須是對你真正重要有意義的事情。就用你自己的方式表達真實的自我，不需要擔心你的詞藻是否不夠華麗還是語法過于簡單。

選擇那些讓你真正有感而發(fā)的故事，發(fā)自內(nèi)心地表達出來，通過故事傳遞的你的觀點或視角能讓招生官感受到一個鮮活的你，而你所表達的真實也永遠是最打動人心的。

最后，一定要注意校對，至少請兩位以上的朋友幫你校對essay是否有語法錯誤或書寫錯誤等問題。

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任何關(guān)于美國留學問題，比如去美國留學讀什么好就業(yè)?哪個美國留學中介好?或美國留學申請指南、美國留學文書申請指導(dǎo)、美國留學選校建議、美國留學一年費用開銷等問題，大家都可以在線咨詢或持續(xù)訪問該欄目的其它相關(guān)文章。

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