Get the best essays delivered by experienced UK. An essay has been defined in a variety of ways. One definition is a "prose composition with a focused subject of discussion" or a "long, systematic discourse". This essay on summer season structured according to the subject that "how i spent my summer vacation essay for kids". So it is made point wise. How to develop and write an analytic essay. Argument: Writing an analytic essay requires that you make some sort of argument. The core of this argument is called a.
Some Expositionfff. Until recently I was a professor at a private liberal arts university in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, a little town located at the exact point of overlap of a three- part Venn diagram.
Draw one in your mind: label circle #1 Amish country, label circle #2 coal country, label circle #3 fracking country. The towns near Lewisburg have names like Shamokin Dam, Frackville, Minersville, and Coal Township. You might have heard of a place called Centralia, a modern- day ghost town thanks to a vein of coal that has been burning beneath the ground since 1.
That vein, by the way, is expected to continue burning for another 2. So if you haven’t visited Centralia, there’s still time. Centralia is about forty miles from my old house, and people from the Buffalo Valley, where I lived, often took day trips there. So basically all you need to know about this particular region of central Pennsylvania is that we went to Centralia—a smoldering village of noxious fumes—on vacation. The Buffalo Valley smells like pig shit, puppy mills, or burning garbage, depending on which way the wind blows.
It is not uncommon, when hiking, to come across a tarry black field where old- growth forest has been recently clear- cut, the ground still soaked with diesel. This all sounds pretty bleak, and it was, even to me, a person with a high tolerance for bleakness and an affection for abused landscapes.
Living there, I can admit now that I’ve fled, corroded a part of my soul. Driving to a neighboring town for a prenatal checkup felt like driving through Capote’s In Cold Blood. During the time I lived in central Pennsylvania the adjective I used most to describe the place to faraway friends was “murdersome.”And yet the little town of Lewisburg, where this expensive private university is located, is actually quite pleasant. The houses are gingerbread Victorians and stately brick colonials, all turrets, stained glass, and sleeping porches.
The winter of my seventh grade year, my alcoholic mother entered a psychiatric unit for an attempted suicide. Mom survived, but I would never. Who can edit my paper for me? College essays by professional academic paper editors. Order your paper, have us write it, edit it, and get an "A" grade.
Market Street is lined with parks and bed and breakfasts and small local businesses from another era—a shoe repair shop, a butcher, a vacuum cleaner repairman, a chocolatier, an independent bookstore, a single- screen art deco movie theater where they put real melted butter on the popcorn. The town square boasts a Christmas tree in the winter, scarecrows in the autumn, and alfresco concerts and community theater in the summer. Every street is lit by old- fashioned globe lampposts, the proud town’s icon. It is a place, as residents often insist, that time forgot. In short, Lewisburg looks almost nothing like its neighbors in coal- Amish- fracking country, which time has remembered all too well. Obviously, this has everything to do with the university—one year spent at this college, located about three hours from New York City, costs $6. Free Essay On The Lottery By Shirley Jackson.
Generally speaking the campus can be fairly characterized by the setting of Frederick Busch’s wonderful short story “Ralph the Duck,” a “northeastern camp for the overindulged.” Money from the school, its faculty, its students and their parents props up the local economy. Simple enough. But the true relationship between the town and the university did not occur to me until one of my students, from Youngstown, Ohio, described how much her mother loved coming to Lewisburg, how each time she visited her mother would say, “Look at that adorable chocolate shop, look at those gleaming lampposts. I just love Lewisburg!” My student, sharper than we give Millennials credit for, told her mother, “Of course you love it.
It’s for you.”What she meant, I think, is that Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, is a town in coal country the way Disney’s Celebration, Florida, is a suburb of Orlando. Lewisburg, and countless other so- called college towns like it, is Bedford Falls in loco parentis. It’s a country- mouse theme park for young people wanting the illusion of distance, wanting the sense of being away on a journey and all the self- discovery that promises. It’s for them, and it’s for their parents, who will tolerate this distance and this freaky looming self- discovery, so long as it comes with the quaintness of the country, the control of a company town, and all the safety that $6. All to say that for the past four years, I lived in a landscape of pandering. What writers’ conference would be complete without it? It is the fall of 2.
I’m in the final year of my three- year MFA program. The program is hosting a reading by the writer and P. Barnum figure Stephen Elliott, who, in addition to being a novelist and memoirist, is editor in chief of the online literary magazine The Rumpus.
The university does not provide him accommodations so our program director passes along his request that someone put him up for the night. Kyle Minor, another writer and an alumnus of the program, fetches Stephen from the airport. Stephen, Kyle, and I have lunch, where we talk about Denis Johnson, our works in progress, and our agents.
I’d landed a hotshot agent six months earlier, am still freaked out by how, when I Google her, names like Junot D. I have a story coming out in Granta, a collection in the homestretch, and I’m eager to talk about all this with writers who’ve been there. After lunch, Stephen takes a nap at my house while I go teach.
I come back and take him to his reading, then to a bar with the other grad students, then to get donuts on our way home. Stephen flirts with me all night and back at my apartment he attempts, with what I’ll graciously term considerable persistence, to convince me to let him sleep in my bed rather than on the air mattress I’ve inflated for him in the other room. I decline several times before he relents, doing so only after I tell him I’m seeing someone.
He sleeps on the air mattress, and in the morning we have breakfast and then I drive him to the airport. Later that day, a friend forwards me the Daily Rumpus e- newsletter, which Stephen wrote in the airport and sent to his subscribers, allegedly a few thousand readers, writers, and fans of his site. Its subject line is “Overheard in Columbus.” Of the visit Stephen wrote: It was really a great time, though I can’t put my finger on exactly why. It might have been the ride from the airport with Kyle Miner .
Or it might have been Claire, the student I stayed with. Or the walk for donuts at 1. Wednesday night, which felt late in that town, especially on the strip. I tried to get in Claire’s bed. It was a big, comfortable bed. Writing An Essay Describing Yourself here.
She said no, how would she explain it to the boy she was getting to know. I said there was nothing to explain to the boy, nothing’s going to happen. It’s like sleeping with your gay friend. But she wasn’t so sure. She had been drinking and I don’t drink. I slept on the air mattress in the other room. Now, I realize I’m not a special snowflake, that every woman who writes has a handbag full of stories like this. Depression Essay Outline.
There is probably an entire teeming sub- subgenre titled “Stephen Elliott Comes to Town.” I offer this here partly because it was my very first personal run- in with overtly misogynistic behavior from a male writer, and so perhaps my most instructive. I learned a lot from that Daily Rumpus e- mail (which is a sentence that has never before been uttered). I want to stress that I’m not presenting Stephen Elliott as a rogue figure, but as utterly emblematic. I want to show you how, via his compulsive stream- of- consciousness monologue e- mailed to a few thousand readers, I was given a glass- bottom- boat tour of a certain type of male writer’s mind. I scrolled up and down, reading and rereading, and through that glass- bottom boat saw a world where Kyle Minor was Kyle Minor, a writer “with a book of stories out, a couple of kids, teaching classes up in Toledo, finishing what sounds like a fantastic novel and contemplating law school.” Whereas I was Claire, no last name, “the student,” owner of a big, comfortable bed. Until my friend forwarded that e- mail to me, I’d been under the impression that since I wrote, I was a writer, period. If I wrote bad I was a bad writer, if I wrote good I was a good writer.
I was, I knew, every bit as ambitious as Kyle Minor and Stephen Elliott. I loved books just as much as Kyle and Stephen did, read as much as they did, and worked just as hard to get the right words in the right order.
But now I was confronted with Google Groups listserv proof that, to Stephen, Kyle was a writer and I was a drunk girl. But fuck ’em, right? What did Tina Fey say about sexists in the workplace: over, under, and through. The problem with responding to sexism with Sesame Street is that if you read that e- mail as I read that e- mail, as I was being trained to read—that is, carefully and curiously, over and over—you’ll see something more than the story Stephen told himself about me as a writer or, in this case, not a writer. I saw, in the form of paragraphs and sentences, my area of expertise, how it took only a few lines to go from professional dismissal to sexual entitlement to being treated as property to gaslighting. Now, I don’t know about you, but I tend to think professional sexism via artistic infantilization is a bummer, frustrating, disappointing, but distinct and apart from those violent expressions of misogyny widely agreed upon as horrific: domestic violence, sex slavery, rape. Expository Essay About Friendship.
Stephen Elliott did not rape me, did not attempt to rape me. I am not anywhere close to implying that he did. I am saying a sexist negation, a refusal to acknowledge a female writer as a writer, as a peer, as a person, is of a piece with sexual entitlement.
No, more than of a piece, it is practically a prerequisite. Humans are wide, open vessels, capable of almost anything—if you read you know this—but you cannot beat the mother of your children, or rape your childhood friend while she’s unconscious, or walk up to a sorority outside Santa Barbara and start shooting without first convincing yourself and allowing our culture to convince you that those women are less than human.
I know that’s an intense analogy. I intend it to be.
How to Write a Winning Ivy League Essay. Scoring the winning touchdown. Volunteering for blood drives or building houses. What you learned about poverty on your $9,0. Africa. These are a few topics on independent consultant Arun Ponnusamy’s list of what not to write about in your college application essay. Straight As and stellar SAT scores won't be enough. In a year where 1.
Ivy League school (yes, that statistic is accurate), the personal essay has become a tipping point that can turn a deferral into an acceptance letter. So The Daily Beast tracked down seven college admissions essays that did work—seven essays that helped get the kids who wrote them into one of the country's top schools. The essays were slipped to us by college professors, high- school guidance counselors, independent admissions consultants, and even staffers at student newspapers.
For confidentiality reasons, admissions officers can't talk about these essays expressly, so we chose essays that demonstrate the most salient principles to abide by when writing them. Argument Essay Writing Tips. For every kid who’s hung prayer flags on a mountain summit in Tibet, there are a dozen others who’ve studied a Bantu language in Rwanda, worked with Guatemalan orphans, cooked with a celebrity chef, or been on reality TV. For Greg Roberts, the admissions dean at University of Virginia, one of the most memorable essays he read was about a single at- bat in a high- school baseball game. At California’s Pomona College, the admissions staff anticipates an influx of essays on the economy, similar to what they saw post- September 1.
But it’s a different story if you watched the towers collapse from science class at . Poch confesses even a small error or two will not necessarily kill your chances of getting in—as long as it's not on purpose. Instead, she speaks to her personal relationship with Libya, her father's homeland, and her own understanding of her Islamic faith. Instead, Roberts advises, . We will not share your email with anyone for any reason. Hallie Jordan knew not to pretend she'd had a hard- knock life with no options. If you're a white, middle- class kid, it never hurts to show that you realize how lucky you are—and that you sought out diversity.
I don't care who it is, they all have 7. The Richard Serra installation.
The baby clothes she cut up and made into a quilt. The essay that got Isabel Polon into Yale swells with appealing and insightful details that show her meticulous nature. Be as descriptive as possible about the moment you're writing—we want to see it, smell it, touch it.
And yet she chose to write her essay about giving up on ballet, rather than persevering once she'd tired of it. Expository Essay Examples 6Th Grade on this page. But when my gaze shifted to meet that of Muammar al Gadhafi behind his signature aviator sunglasses, I knew I was more than a few smoggy miles from Tinseltown. The larger- than- life portrait of the Libyan dictator sent chills down my spine, and I almost didn’t hear my older sister telling me to follow her through the customs line in her broken Arabic. Fumbling for a safety pin, I quickly converted my neck scarf into a traditional headscarf, unaware that my views on diversity would soon undergo a similar transformation as I assimilated into Libyan culture for two weeks. It was my first time entering the country my father fled thirty years before due to political upheaval involving the man staring at me from the wall, and while I had met my paternal relatives as a child, I was apprehensive about doing so in their own country now that I had matured into a very American teenage girl.
My siblings and I were raised as Muslims, but we adhere selectively to the various practices—fasting during Ramadan but not praying five times a day, attending the mosque but not covering our heads in public, and I sometimes feel guilty about wanting to handpick from both worlds—an American lifestyle but Islamic beliefs—because they are often seen as irreconcilable. From the moment we touched down on Libyan sand, I saw that others didn’t have the same luxury of separating lifestyle from beliefs if they so wished. The Mediterranean heat was oppressive under long- sleeve shirts and pants in early August, when I’m used to wearing shorts and T- shirts, but the fact that everyone else was donning the same conservative dress made me feel like I was part of something larger than myself and more important than the latest Pac- Sun fashions.
However, as I constantly adjusted my head cover, I seriously questioned the rationale behind some of the cultural and religious practices I witnessed. I deeply admired the connection to their religion that my relatives showed, stopping to prostrate in prayer even at the beach, but also wondered whether the internal belief of five million Libyans could possibly be as parallel as their outward expressions of it. Being in Libya impressed upon me that it is often such circumstantial, unchosen factors as place of birth that largely determine the paradigms by which we live our lives. As much as I enjoyed the exotic experience of being in North Africa and the not- so- exotic experience of reconnecting with my family, my time in Libya paradoxically strengthened the latter half of my Arab- American identity. I had taken for granted the fact that we are free to practice Islam the way we want here in the U. S. We all shared frustration and eyes peeled for our suitcases, but fortunately, not much else. As I pursue my passions of philosophy and theology as an undergraduate, I will approach with a more open mind the vast array of angles from which people view the world now that I have experienced life in a country so different from the one I call home, yet one that has inevitably shaped my own perspectives as I’ve grown up.
Hallie Jordan Rice University Class of 2. Standing on the second floor hall of my high school, I watch my fellow students swarm into the campus as the bell rings for the passing period. Leaning against the railing, observing, I reflect on how my life might be different had I chosen to attend a different high school.
The scene below me feels like a little slice of the real world. A couple walks by and my ear quickly notices that they speak in Korean. I spot my Ethiopian friend Ike, almost dancing, as he moves through the crowd on the floor below me; his real name is so long no one can pronounce it. Later, my best friend will present me with some homemade Mexican Christmas ponche full of sugarcane to chew on. I reluctantly stop people watching and proceed to class.
It always nice to stop and imagine all the different cultures and backgrounds can be found at my small school of barely 2,0. Everyone, I have realized, has their own distinct way of life defined by various situations from trying to succeed as a first generation immigrant to working to help their family make ends meet each month. There is nothing sheltered about Spring Woods High School. Unlike many of my friends, I am a “privileged child.” I was born an American citizen.
My parents have steady jobs. I live in a neighborhood zoned, if only barely, to a school called Memorial High School—the shiny, rich abundant school of the district. From my early childhood my parents had planned on me attending this high school, as supposedly it provides one of the best public school educations in Houston.
At the end of 8th grade, a pivotal moment presented itself: I had to decide between the touted Memorial High School with all its benefits and clout or the “ghetto” Spring Woods where most of my closest friends were going. After much debate I finally settled on Spring Woods. Coming from a very small charter middle school, high school was rather shocking.
I did not like it, and I blamed my unhappiness on my school—I thought I had made the “wrong decision.” At the beginning of the second semester, I choose to switch to the school I was supposed to go to—feeling that I would receive a “better” education. On my first day I was astounded by the other kids. They all looked and acted alike. Quotes On Asthma there. Almost all had the same clothing, hair styles, necklaces, flip- flops and backpacks with their names monographed on them. Nearly all of them also had i. Pods, this was almost four years ago when it was not so common to see i.
Pods everywhere. I was amazed at how they treated their i. Pods so carelessly, when I have a friend who carefully saved her lunch money for months just to be able to buy one. Needless to say, she is very protective of it. Sitting in the cafeteria, I felt like I was back in fifth grade. Everyone brought nice neat little lunches, packet perfectly in expensive lunch boxes.
Mothers stood at the lunch line selling cookies to raise money for various organizations, as stay at home moms they had nothing else to do with their time. Buying a school lunch, I found, was something only the “reject” kids did. I lasted only a week at this place. Suddenly I missed everything from Spring Woods, even its “ghetto” identity. I missed the teachers who taught about ideas instead of forcing us to merely memorize.
I missed the general accepting feeling that comes from such a heterogeneous mixture of people. There are no “reject” kids at Spring Woods. I could now see that though. Isabel Polon Yale Class of 2. In kindergarten, I was the only kid who knew milk didn’t originate in the supermarket. At Emandal, if there’s extra milk we drink hot chocolate.
With fresh bread at every meal, heirloom tomatoes the size of my head, hand- cranked ice cream over pie made from Emandal’s wild blackberries, no one refrains from unbuttoning their pants after dinner. B to the back, b to the back. Next, it’s that French thing.
They chop that l off, so b- eau- ti- ful.”I’ve just spent 3. English language and a good part of that time trying to remember how to write the letter b.
That sequence is partially a flash back to a fourth grade spelling test, but honestly, it’s a thought process I will have to go through about a hundred times this year with equally basic words because I am, and always will be, dyslexic.
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