The personal essay section of the college application is the place where Next Generation Scholars can truly give voice to their stories. Their essays reflect struggle and triumph, harsh reality and pure hope. Their essays coupled with outstanding leadership within our 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.
“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.
“What high. . . read more
I reached into the cold metal mailbox and touched my future. It was a postcard labeled James Jun. White letters
boldly spelled out, “You’re In.” With these two words, my journey to becoming a social justice activist began. I
accepted the gift of a high quality, private high school education gladly. Branson offered classrooms of dedicated
students led by an engaging faculty. I accepted this amazing opportunity not knowing it came with an assigned
identity: “low-income student of color. . . read more
"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?" The answer begins over a decade ago in Vietnam. .
“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. As I opened the back door to. . . read
“No, Vincent. You are not a student here anymore.”
That day, I lost singing out the states in alphabetical order, playing the viola smoothly, and conquering long division
with Ms. Hirota. That day, I learned homelessness takes everything away. . . read more
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. . . read more
My father sleeps in the extra bedroom, where he is treated as an unwanted guest. There in the seclusion of his tiny
room, his heart has faded. His hope is gone. His inability to contribute financially has led my mother to give him the
cruel name of “in the way.”
Growing up with a father who is clinically depressed and a mother consumed by disappointment, I have struggled to
search out my own happiness and find my own path. . . read more
“Bismi Allahi alrrahmani alrraheemi.” The Suras always
soothe, center, and connect me to Allah, allowing me to
sleep peacefully. On the morning of September 11th, I
woke and watched the World Trade Center fall to rubble.
That morning I felt like the rest of the world, helpless and
terrified. . . read more
My name is Nghiêm. Translated from Vietnamese, it means “standup." My name is a map ofmy experience. To an
American tongue "Nghi êm" is a challenge, an obstacle between myworld and theirs. For me, "Nghiêm" is the name my
parents sacrificed everything to give. . . read more
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. "We are going to learn
Bachata." I smile. . . read more
Up the three flights of stairs, I listened for a voice to break the silence and reassure me. As I opened the door, my
mom’s eyes told me she was afraid. Other children fear thedark of spiders, but the families and children in my building
all live in fear of ICE. . . read more
In my sanctuary, I was immune to the screams of my
mother and father. Then, one night, everything changed.
As I sat under the table, my mother fell into view bleeding
from the back of her head. My father stood above her.
Later, he would stand in this same way as he told the
doctor she had slipped accidentally. As I watched my
mother suffer, I knew the magic . . . read more
“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. “CHOO-CHOO”. . . read more
More essay to come!