Student Voices
The personal essay section of the college application is the one part where Next Generation Scholars can truly give voice to their stories. These essays reflect struggle and triumph, harsh reality and pure hope. These essays coupled with, outstanding leadership within their communities and a commitment to academic excellence, have earned Next Generation Scholars the opportunity to pursue their dreams in some this country's most prestigious colleges and universities.
The following are the first lines of personal essays written by Next Generation Scholars. Click "more", if you wish to read the essay in its entirety.
"Feel around for a ball." There I was with my hand inside a woman
about to give birth.
"Do you feel it?" I nodded. "That's the baby's
head." Guiding little Ella down the birth
canal, the big question in
my mind was, "How did I get here?" . . . more of
“Mom, why are you turning up the heat? I know it’s cold out, but damn, I wanna live
to see tomorrow,” I giggled, poking fun.
“The heat kills the high,” my mom replied, not looking at me.
Mi pasado y mi futuro
“¿Ya limpiaste aquí?”
Every Saturday, since I was little, I get up early to clean the house.
My mom, being
the house cleaner she is, has had years of experience.
Under her professional eye, my
work is never finished; she sees dust
and dirt where no one else would notice. . .
My name is Nghiêm. Translated from Vietnamese, it means “stand up.”
My name is a map of my experience. To an American tongue “Nghiêm” is a challenge,
an obstacle between my world and theirs. For me, “Nghiêm” is the name my parents
sacrificed everything to give. . . more of Nghiem's essay.
I line up ten girls in every shade of brown skin. Questions
fill the air.
"Are we dancing merengue?”
“Break dance?”
“Where are the boys?!"
I observe their curious joy. The girls start dancing hip hop
steps, hoping I'll notice
their skills.
“Choo-choo…chugga-chugga…choo-choo!”
Muffled toddler train imitations float down from above. As I climb the stairs it
seems the train is gaining speed.
“How many of you have ever done theatre?”
There was a deafening silence.
“I’ve done a little.”
This statement that changed everything was almost inaudible. . . more of Cat's
"Immigration came to take my Daddy away!"
Giselle's
whisper rips my attention away from the old, dirty crayons on the table.
At
that moment, my view of the Bahia Vista after school SNAP program
changed forever.
My mind was no longer focused on teaching Giselle 7+9.
I struggled to explain why
"I can’t eat pepperoni.”
Instantly the
“you-don’t-know-what-your-missing” look spreads around the pizza
parlor. Jews like me have grown accustomed to this reaction from goyum,
gentiles.
They are rendered speechless when confronted with foods
blacklisted by Go. . .
“Nuh moh thah suh,
puk ka wut tho ah luh hut thoh.”
Everything
is silent. The room drops to its knees. I am four years old, the only one
left standing. The monks’ chanting fills the air. This chant inspires every part of
my
Before I submit
this application, I must be honest: I’m an addict. Don’t red flag my
file; I
have no criminal record and my friends won’t be staging a tearful intervention.
Three homicides in a half hour. I’m in the “The Bloody Six.” I see the abandoned child
care center we will temporarily call home, battered down houses, a person walking by
with a shopping cart filled with his life possessions, and signs around the whole block
“Sandy, come home…right now.”
There was a shaky tone in my mother’s voice I had never heard before.
I remember the walk
home, the leaves on the trees didn’t blow the same way they
always
did. They swayed in an uncomfortable and meaningless way. . . more
Six-foot four, blonde hair, blue eyes, the number on the back of his jersey is
renowned. He wakes up to a bowl of cheerios, scrambled eggs, and the image of his
I look out the window before the sun
has awakened from its sleep. It’s dead
silent outside. For as far as I can see,
nothing is moving except two dark figures
below me, waving and blowing kisses.
These figures are my parents. . . more of
I lick my lips and squint my eyes so that all I can concentrate on is
keeping my shaky
five year old hand steady. I lean back and admire the
fruit of my arduous labor, a
piece of graph paper filled with rows and
rows of horizontal lines, vertical lines, and
At the age of eleven, I hid in the closet with my older brother. This
wasn’t a
childhood game of hide and seek. My older brother and I were
concealing a
secret. Everyday, we tried to become comfortable with the
security of the dark,
The
smell of poori frying while my grandmother tells me stories is the
foundation of my
childhood. With a sharp eye over a pot of curry, and
a quick hand to shoo flies, my
Daddi would tell me tales of the
Krishna’s mischievous ways. . . more of
“Your face is Chinese, but you don’t speak Chinese and you live in
America . . . How
are you Chinese?”
The question was posed to me by an old Chinese woman, deep in the heart
of China.
It was not the ancient riddle I expected to hear in the land of
my ancestors. . . more
One day, I walked into my house to find a man watching T.V. I figured
he was a
friend of mom’s so I went to start my homework. Later, the
guy was still there so
I asked my mom about him.
“He’s wearing jail clothes,
Angie. That’s your father. Can’t you tell?” I didn’t believe
her. My
father was serving a life sentence in San Quentin. . . more of Angie's
"Watson, you are no longer a child. You are a human being; you are our investment."
My grandmother's words echo within me. It was the
morning my father passed away.
I was seven years old and it felt as if my childhood was being taken away. . . more
"I was terrified, and I called 911."
There I was trying to decode my
father’s rushed cursive. The power of his voice
showing through his
poor English mixed with Vietnamese. He had left for work
that morning
to discover his car missing. Crime happens all the time, but when
crime
happens to you every day--two broken car windows, one stolen car
stereo,
I am
running and sweating, the gym is congested with students and cheering
parents. Even though we are losing, everything seems perfect, as if I
were in
an American movie, living and breathing the American dream.
For a moment I
forget that none of this is a part of my reality. For
in reality, I am not an American
and I do not have either of my parents
here with me in America. . . more of
It is is 3:23PM. Before I can put down my backpack, the phone rings.
“I’m looking for a Frank Ng”
“I’m sorry; I don’t know anyone by that name.” I lie.
My father owes money, so the phone never stops ringing.
more of Ben's essay.
The thing I remember the most about 2004 is
constant yelling. The sound of his anger
and my mother’s pain would
float up to my room and pierce through the door. The
bitter words that
crushed my mother’s spirit bit by bit, day by day surrounded me. . .
"Damn white girl."
I froze. The air conditioner felt as if it had
gone down to 0. My blood rushed to my
head and my heart was beating rapidly. I pictured an imaginary mirror in front of me
and saw my
thick, black hair, my brown eyes and my chocolate skin.
