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Short Statement #1
With every passing day, I receive some new letter or piece of literature from some department or another of the University of Chicago; and with every passing day, I jump a little higher and yell a little louder, "THIS IS WHERE I WANNA GO!!" It started with some general thanks-for-sending-us-your-PSAT-scores letters; they sparked my interest somewhat -- just enough for me to respond requesting some more information. The more letters I was sent, the more I began to think Hey, this seems like a pretty neat school. The oversized pamphlet I received sometime in the middle of last year cemented my interest. On the cover were fragmented sentences: "When I was in high school: I was always the one asking questions in class, I had to know more, I read a lot of books that weren't assigned, I never had enough time, I wanted OUT!" I was intrigued, as most of the cover read as though it were inside my head, listening to my thoughts. I opened the cover and began to read. As I did so, I felt chills down my spine -- how do they know this about me? have I been the subject of some covert psychology study? was George Orwell more clairvoyant than we give him credit for? is Big Brother lurking outside my window reading my mind? Just recently I received a letter and a Courses and Programs of Study catalogue and I felt the same way. The letter described the emotion the writer had the first time he looked through the book -- excited and filled with desire to do it all, accompanied with the sad knowledge that there would never be enough time to do it all. How are these people I've never met who are making such broad generalizations able to describe me with such accuracy and precision? Then, as with the oversized pamphlet, it hit me -- they felt this way. People that have gone to Chicago felt this way. And then the grand epiphany: I could be going to school with a bunch of people who share my unquenchable thirst for knowledge. That's about the time I begin to jump up and down and shout out my desire to the world that I wanted to attend this school. This school that seems to have a sense of humor. Their webpage assures students that there is a social life and that fake identification can be purchased on the black market for a nominal fee, then notes to the parents that they are just joking. This school that actually has small classes. Many colleges attempt to claim that they have small classes "fifty percent of our classes have under twenty-five students." That leaves fifty percent of classes with more than twenty-five, and since when was twenty-five a "small" class? Chicago boasts twenty percent of classes with under five students, and one college representative told me that between eighty-five and eighty-seven percent of classes have fifteen or fewer students. This school that seems such a perfect match for my personality - even my friends think so. I read them the essay questions and they say, "I can see why you would want to go there." This school that is centrally located in a city that I can't wait to discover and explore. This school that for so many more unexplainable reasons, excites me a thousand times more than any other school I'm looking at.
By: Jean Pallister
Comments On Short Statement #1
Comments can be sent to uchicago2006@hotmail.com
Short Statement #2
Cobblestone streets caged in by four and five story buildings still standing after centuries of use--each with broad double doors. The motley crowd meandering through the city, like water trickling through the canals. The light striking your eyes as you unexpectedly come across a piazza after ambulating down the increasingly narrow avenues. The simple colors of the buildings and skies and roofs--the brilliant red tiled roofs unfolding before you in a multitude of shades and hues. The knowledge that Michelangelo lived there, the Medici?s lived here, and the great Galileo Galilei is buried right over there. The fact that so much of modern knowledge - in some way or another - originated right under your feet and in the very same air that you are breathing. The atmosphere that makes you forget time and wonder what stress is. The many stores selling trendy clothes. The pizzerias and gelaterias where the majority eat outside under the umbrellaed tables and the minority huddle inside. The sweet melody of the language being sung all around you by important looking businessmen in trendy sports coasts and gypsies in brightly colored yet shabby garments alike. Ah, Firenze! my favorite city and future home.
By: Jean Pallister
Comments On Short Statement #2
Comments can be sent to uchicago2006@hotmail.com
Title Unknown
"Oh, Jean?" my dad says in a voice drenched with disappointment after opening my door and surveying my room. Taking in the waterfall of clothes cascading down the dresser and across the floor, intermingling with papers, notebooks, books, shoes, and the occasional stuffed animal, he looks at me, raising an eyebrow as if to somehow guilt me into cleaning up. And both my parents make the ever so original comment: "Jean, your room looks like it was hit by tornado." Not that I don't agree with them--I do. On several occasions I've prepared drafts to the President requesting that the front right room at XXXXX Evergreen Mill Road be declared a federal disaster area. Perhaps with the national spotlight on the issue I would be more motivated to get my room into shape.
But what my parents' eyes fail to take in is the simultaneously simplistic and chaotic beauty that is my room. They fail to see how in my room the brick wall that I have erected around myself no longer exists--that the bricks transform into objects and my room becomes a bunker that is impenetrable. Everything in and about my room, mess included, is somehow symbolic of me: who I was, who I am, and who I wish to become. I joke about how everyone I meet should go on a tour of my room--a tour of me--before they are allowed to pass judgement on me. It is my comfort zone, and it is beautiful, even if idiosyncratically.
The layers of "stuff" scattered gaily across my floor reflect how my life feels messy on many occasions. My friends and I will often list our sources of stress, attempting to outdo one another--in other words, we hold a whining contest about how much we have to do. I rattle off my various commitments, and often I am not far from winning the contest. My social life is sloppy as well. Having moved into social groups formed in kindergarten, I am often a last thought--a person to be included in big groups or if everyone else is busy. I have friends, but nearly half of the ones I value as true friends live two thousand miles away. All the mess in my life is self-inflicted or there because I am not bothered by it enough to fix it. Thus, the messy room reflects not only the common sense of my motto: "if-it's-clean-enough-to-wear-again-but-not-clean-enough-to-go-back-in-the-drawer-then-it-resides
-on-the-floor," but also the mess that sometimes is my life.
What with all this talk of mess, one might get the impression that I am a messy person, which is not true in the least. In fact, I crave organization, if on a small scale. I am a detail-oriented person and I have a tendency to concentrate on the details in excess, sometimes sacrificing the big picture. After reaching the summit of the mountain in the middle of my room, surveying the terrain, and exploring around a bit, one would find my bookshelf neatly filled with books in alphabetical order according to the authors' last name. My CD's are categorized: Broadway/Musicals, soundtracks, "new stuff", and, of course, the Beatles. My movies, although somewhat more difficult to categorize, are arranged by commonalties. Even when messy, I know my room inside and out. When crossing my room to pull up my shades, I know I can step on the crumpled grey sweatpants and the big book of Monet, but I might want to avoid treading on the maroon sweater or risk cracking my favorite CD case.
Although the mess is a major component of my room's symbolism, the things I choose to fill my room with are just as important. I cherish my room's uniqueness and the striking difference between my room and the stereotypical teenager's room. In the place of 'Nsync pictures are Monet prints. Where my friends would have Chicken Soup for the Soul books, I have antique books of Edgar Allen Poe. Where my friends would have magazine rip-outs of Josh Hartnett, Justin Timberlake, and other teen-idols; I have collages of friends and a plastic bag from my old bookstore haunt (although, if you lift up a layer of clothes, there is a picture of Jimmy Fallon on my English notebook. After all, I'm only human!). Even before entering my room, one can sense my eclectic personality. The sign from the San Diego Zoo reading, "Please do not annoy, torment, pester, plague, molest, worry, badger, harry, harass, heckle, persecute, irk, bullyrag, vex, disquiet, grate, beset, bother, tease, nettle, tantalize, or ruffle Jean," hangs right above a poster of the First Amendment (my favorite of all the amendments) that I bought at the Newseum. Once inside, it becomes apparent that I am an art enthusiast, an activist of sorts, and someone who likes quirky little things, such as the "Route 66" sign I bought in Breckenridge, Colorado. My closet doors, which practically serve to protect us all from a tsunami of shoes, clothes, backpacks, and old binders, also place in juxtaposition my love of art and of political activism. On one of the sliding doors is a poster of a painting I fell in love with at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, and on the other door is a poster my dad (the amateur pilot) brought home to me, reading "SAVE MEIGS FIELD."
Another thing that makes my room beautiful is its ability to illustrate places I have been, places I have loved, places I hope to go, and places I hope to love. My inherited lust for travel is greater than most people?s I know. On my dry erase board is a list "Places to go" that grows almost exponentially. My favorite place in the entire world, as anyone who looks at my room with slightly more than a superficial eye could tell, is Italy. On my walls are posters; on my desk, Italian wine bottles and an Italian flag. On my bookshelf are volumes of books either about the country, or how to speak the language. I have also managed to bring a little bit of the great state of Colorado (my home) into my room. Old license plates, Bronco pennants, state flags, and pictures of "real mountains" flourish in my room, constantly reminding me that there are places that see real snow, and there are places that have real mountains. Outside of my room, people have no warning, but inside my room only a fool would make a comment about going to the "mountains" on the East Coast. If they were to foolishly say anything that makes Colorado sound like less than it is in my mind, they would soon hear my trademark argument, "There are no mountains east of the Mississippi. The tallest mountain east of the Mississippi is just over six thousand feet. Add a thousand to that, double it and there are over 30 peaks in Colorado alone with that elevation." Although I would never admit it, I do know there are some flaws to this argument; nonetheless, I would stubbornly defend it to the death if challenged. Unlike most rooms in our house, my room only has one heater vent, so in the winter, my room even feels like Colorado, which means I have to bundle up in my warm pea coat that emits a sophisticated aura.
There are very few things in my room that don't have emotional significance to me, be it a fifth grade art project, or a package of microwave popcorn I won at work and could never be bothered to pop. The mess is often a hindrance to me, but the prospect of having to clean it is more irksome than the mess itself. Plus, it's good to know some things never change - my room, no matter how it is arranged or where it is transplanted, will reflect me in an appropriately messy and eclectic manner. As long as my room never deviates from that basic standard, it will be my escape, my private little hole away from the rest of the world and the standards with which the world judges. As long my room is all those things - an escape, a hole, and a mirror of myself--it will be beautiful, if idiosyncratically, in my eyes, even if it only disappoints my parents.
By: Jean Pallister
Comments On Title Unknown
Comments can be sent to uchicago2006@hotmail.com
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Admission Essays