Stanford Stanford Stanford

So I’m about to be lame and talk about what I’m thankful for. And I’m about to be even more lame and center my thankfulness around college. No, I haven’t been accepted to my dream school. And I probably won’t be accepted to my dream school (which is Stanford, for those of you ignorants who don’t know). I feel so cliché and emotional for posting this, but here is my story:

During spring break of my sophomore year my mother and I made the trek out to northern California to check out some colleges. We were mainly heading out to see UC Berkeley, which I had fallen in love with while reading about, but my momma suggested we tour Stanford’s campus just for kicks. So we went on my first two college visits. As only a sophomore in high school, I wasn’t very focused on college. I trudged through Berkeley’s tour, hot and uncomfortable, but found myself liking the atmosphere of the school. I decided it was a suitable place for myself; my mind was made up. So when the next day came and it was time to visit Stanford, I felt it unnecessary. I complained through the campus tour, texted through the info session, and went to find something to eat while my mother attacked one of the admissions counselors with questions. I was, to say the least, uninterested. But not because Stanford was uninteresting. Even through my 15-year-old pout, I fell in love with Stanford. I was mesmerized by the lively hum of campus, by the Spanish-style architecture. One could feel the academic prestige and brilliance just dripping off of people as they biked through campus (and I say this in a good way). But more than these tangible, observable qualities, Stanford had “it.” That little kick. The indescribable feeling that gave you peace because you knew it was the right place for you, but simultaneously made your heart drop to your bowels because it was TOO perfect for you. Yeah, that kind of feeling. Yet I didn’t devote much attention to the tour nor the information session. While I loved it, I knew even then, in my college-application-process-ignorant state that Stanford wouldn’t want a student like me. Stanford wouldn’t want a student who sometimes got Bs because she didn’t like putting effort into her work. Stanford wouldn’t want a student who rarely did her homework. Stanford wouldn’t want a student who rarely studied, and whose grades suffered for it. Stanford wouldn’t want me. So I didn’t even consider it. Why get my hopes up when it would inevitably end in disappointment and heartache? So I forgot about Stanford.

Fast forward to June, right at the end of my 11^th grade year. Not much had changed: I still procrastinated, made too many Bs, and wasn’t exactly a “model student.” But something monumental happened that day in mid-June: I got my ACT scores back. Now, I had always been a pretty good test taker, scoring 31-33 the first couple times I took the ACT. WAY above average nationally, and at the high end of average at my school. I had been satisfied with my scores then, but had to take it again with writing to apply to most of the colleges I wanted to. And this time, ohh this time. I got a 35. Maybe I was good enough. Maybe I was smart enough. Holy cow, I WAS academically and intellectually competitive with my classmates! And that day I decided to apply to Stanford.

Within a week I had begun my Stanford application. The CommonApp wasn’t open to students yet, so I just free wrote essay after essay. Horrible at first, but slowly better, I’d put in hours a day to perfect these essays. I had never enjoyed writing at all; I had never put in more than the bare minimum on any writing assignment before. But all of a sudden I found myself with a million stories to tell and more ideas than I could handle. I wrote and wrote.

It’s funny, my ACT score didn’t prove that I was smarter than anyone else, nor guarantee my acceptance at any college more than before. But it initiated an instant, severe change in me. My confidence blossomed, and this random work ethic appeared.  I wanted to prove to myself that I deserved that score. So I searched, and I struggled, and I eventually found the intellectual inside of me. And for that, I am thankful.

I am thankful that I am now here, nearly done with the college application process, and as competitive of an applicant as I could make myself out to be. Through hours of hard work I perfected essays and apps utilizing a work ethic I didn’t know existed. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by in the last three or four months where I haven’t taken a moment to realize how lucky I am that I found this drive within myself to get through the college apps.

But this whole college obsession has given way to an even more important benefit. Through my nightly college-induced panic attacks I discovered College Confidential. Now, of course I’m going to be cliché and make everyone reading this blog want to stop reading this blog, but yes, I’m going to talk about how the friends I’ve made on CC really made a difference in my life. Through the *Official* Stanford REA 2015 Applicants' Discussion Thread I connected with a ton of people from all over the world applying early to Stanford like I was. At first, our communication was all small talk: “What do you think the strongest part of your application was? ARE YOU SO SCARED FOR DECISION DAY?!” and the like. But gradually my relationship with some of these people began to transform. I became facebook friends with several of my fellow REAers- Jason, Emma, Michelle, Min Ju, and Sarba, and began to develop an intimate friendship with some of them. I found my conversational capabilities with these people extending far beyond just Stanford stuff. I found myself talking about my life, my problems, and my dreams with these people. I skype for hours with Jason, connecting with him on a level I don’t with most of my other friends, and facebook chat with Emma (who has become my undoubted favorite) nightly like we’d been friends forever. I could imagine the next four years of my life with these people in them. I’d LOVE the next four years of my life with these people in them. So what’s a girl to do? My chances of getting into Stanford are abysmal, yet I can’t imagine myself anywhere else with any other people. It’s funny, because to apply to Stanford you had to write a “Why Stanford” essay. I was satisfied with mine, and I’ll post it below. But I can only imagine how much more passionate it’d be now…. These people have given me ten thousand reasons to want to go to Stanford even more than I already do. I can only imagine how much happier acceptance will be... or how much harsher rejection will be afterwards.

Anyways, as promised, my Why Stanford essay:

                I love anything that sparkles. My sequined dresses, Urban Decay eyeshadow, and glitter hairspray are literal examples of this love. But things don't have to glitter to have sparkle; once I've recognized the sparkle, I'm hooked. Stanford emits a sparkle brighter than any other I've encountered. More by instinct than choice, I knew Stanford was where I belonged from the moment I set foot on the campus. There, students' hard work, intelligence, and individuality make the campus gleam.

I've often heard students comparing Stanford's campus to Disneyland. I always assumed this comparison had something to do with the beauty of the school's campus, until I visited it myself. True, Stanford has a gorgeous campus: the unified Spanish-style architecture gives off an "it doesn't get any better than this" vibe.  But an intellectually vital student on Stanford's campus really is like a child at Disneyland. There, the dorm rooms with doors wide open and the community of school-spirited band members are enough to get me just as excited as an 8 year old about to ride Space Mountain.

Just like Disneyland, the students at Stanford aren't forced to attend, they don't have to attend. They choose to attend. They dream to attend. Now THAT is sparkle. I identify with this sparkle; I find it not only around the campus, but also within myself. At Stanford, my developing sparkle could shine brightly beside the similar sparkle of hundreds of others.

My Religious Experience for the Year

I excitedly prepared for my interview. Pink beaded cardigan, khaki pants, extra mascara, pearls on the ears and on the neck. I zipped down Farm Road 141 and finally arrived right on time at my destination: Cox South Hospital. The interview went well, and to my delight I was accepted into Cox's Cuddle Therapist program. As a Cuddle Therapist I'd get to hold babies in the NICU to aid their development with human contact (studies have proven that underdeveloped infants develop better with consistent human interaction).

As I walked into the main lobby of the hospital, I felt as if I were watching the storm from the Wizard of Oz. I looked out the glass doors of the hospital, and all I could see were leaves, impaled by sheets of rain, thrown about by strong gusts of wind. The rain blowing horizontally gave the atmosphere a greenish tint, the one associated with tornadoes. It appeared as if Springfield was in the middle of a cyclone. I took one look at the mess outside and called my mother- letting her know I'd wait out the storm at the hospital. I settled myself into a chair in the lobby, positioned perfectly to observe the strengthening storm.

The rain seemed to wane as the hail began to pound wrathfully. Cars were dented, windows broken. A woman coming into the hospital from the parking lot at that inopportune moment was struck repeatedly. She came inside sobbing.

A few minutes later, as the fury of the storm was beginning to subside, a queer old man approached me. He was tall, around 6 foot, with a feathery brown, unkempt mustache/beard. His  old gray t shirt rested on a protruding stomach. He was unremarkable, to say the least, but undoubtedly benign. He peered into my face for a few seconds before questioning "Are you all right?" I nodded and explained that I hadn't been out in the storm yet, but would leave in a few minutes. "Do you pray?" he inquired further. Now, in general, the answer to this question would be a resounding "no." But, as I didn't want to offend any strangers, nor did I want to pass up any opportunity for luck or karma in the future, I affably answered "Sure!"

He offered his hand to me. I laid my hand in his as we bowed our heads. "Dear Lord, while we don't know what you have in store for us today, we accept it. We know that you have a plan for us and that you will not hurt us. Please protect this wonderful woman of yours, God. Amen."

This complete stranger had gone out of his way to ask for my protection. The love I felt was overwhelming. "Amen." I echoed.

I walked outside into the storm mere minutes later. As I trudged across the parking lot to my car, it was as if I couldn't feel the rain at all, as if it didn't even touch me.... The kindness of the stranger protected me.

When I walked into my house that night I found myself a little more pleasant: I laughed more, bragged less, and hugged longer. The man's kindness had permeated my soul, and found a permanent resting spot deep within.

Just Another Monday Night....

I walked into the apartment to chaos. The baby, smiling at me from her high chair, had coated her chair, herself, and the floor with her pasta’s marinara sauce. As I approached her disaster of an area, her mother intercepted me to hand over her middle child, a 3 year old boy who had soiled his pants. “Elizabeth’s sick again,” she apologized, as she hurried out the door.  With a glance at the sofa, I could immediately tell from Elizabeth’s flushed cheeks and unusually lethargic demeanor that the 4 year old wasn’t doing well. The puke basin beside her head wasn’t particularly reassuring, either. “Bring. It. On.,” I thought to myself.
I had to prioritize. First, baths. Dirty clothes and dirty babies simultaneously went into the washing machine and bath, respectively. Tonight wasn’t the night for baths (they had played for nearly an hour in the bath the night before), so tonight’s bath was all business. In less than fifteen minutes I had two rosy, squirmy, smiling, wet little kids. Diapers and pajamas were wrestled on. I painstakingly teased through each tangle in their hair, not wanting to bring pain to their tender little heads. “Go play,” I then instructed, with a little pat on their bottoms to get them going.
Turning my attention to sick little Elizabeth, my heart melted. I sat down on the couch and she crawled into my lap. Snuggled up like usual, we watched her brother and sister play on the floor. Samantha, always eager to be held, shakily stood up on unstable legs and took a few tottering steps towards us before falling backwards onto the carpet. “Elizabeth, when did you sister start walking?” Struggling to open her drowsy eyes, Elizabeth replied (without looking at her sister) “She can’t walk. She’s just a baby!” Yet once again Samantha stood up and attempted another few steps towards me. “Shoot. Not again! Not another milestone,” I thought to myself. I had been the first one to see Samantha crawl, and the recipient of her first word. Her mother, Megan, had cried when she missed these sentimental milestones. No doubt she’d cry again when she heard the news. Ugh.
Elizabeth had drifted back off into a feverish slumber in my arms. I laid her in bed, careful to avoid the bed post where I had whacked her head the first time I had attempted to put the sleeping child into bed. Whoops. I had become much more experienced than that first time, though. In the 6 months I had been nannying for them, I had become accustomed to having to move sleeping children from the living room (they were constantly falling asleep while watching movies), to their beds.
Samantha’s cries drew me back out into the living room. Gathering the almost-one-year old in my arms, I deftly prepared a bottle with my remaining hand. Settling her into her crib, I knew my night was winding down. Only one child left to put to bed.
I adjusted the pillow under his freshly-bathed, sweet-smelling head, and pressed my lips to Ryder’s cheek to wish him goodnight. He wrapped his plump arms around my neck and lisped “I love you, Courtney.” “I love you, too,” I replied. “I love this and I love you.”

Reflecting

Today was one of those days: cold on the outside, but warm on the inside. It's been a chilly 45 degrees all day, yet the sudden drop in temperature hasn't dampened my mood. Instead, it seemed that the grey skies and fallen leaves added to a certain seasonal atmosphere that I felt for the first time this year today. One of those picturesque days where something like this would happen:

The protagonist of the story, a high school senior, walks out of her gorgeous, three story, red brick, hundred-year-old school. She braves the blustery wind as she looks both ways to cross the street to her car. The burgundy of her thick, woolen sweater matches the blowing leaves almost perfectly. Between the comfort of her sweater and the warmth of her corduroys, she can enjoy the cool fall weather. She places her towering stack of textbooks on top of her car as she unlocks it and shoves her trendy, ecologically-friendly backpack into the back seat. Her car quickly warms up as she drives home, with Jack Johnson crooning in the background. Her drive home is filled with thinking, reflecting, and appreciating; she is woken from her trance when she reaches home. Hmm. That went quickly, she mused. The cold only stings her for a few second before she walks inside her welcoming home. Inside, it is bright and warm. Dinner is simmering on the stove; her puppy enthusiastically greets her; her wrinkly grandmother sits in front of the fireplace reading a newspaper. Aaahh. How nice. Her phone buzzes as she puts her books and backpack down- it's the handsome boy from school who she hasn't talked to in a while. He can wait- Jane Eyre is calling her name. She heads to the sofa, pulls a blanket over her lap, and her puppy curls up next to her. As she is reading, her attentive mother brings her a cup of hot tea. How wonderful. It was one of those days.

This may not have been exactly how my day happened, but certainly the feeling I took from it. Sure, my day was tiring (it's a Monday), but overall satisfying. So I leave for now with these, my five rules of life. This is how I get through my day:

1) Smile often- CHOOSE to smile. It sounds silly, but the longer you make yourself smile, the more you forget that you were making yourself smile in the first place. Happiness can often be a choice. So choose it.

2) Learn to laugh at yourself. One must be able to not only recognize his/her mistakes, but take them with a grain of salt. Acknowledge your mistakes and your faults, but don't be too hard on yourself. Learning to laugh at myself has saved me from countless awkward social situations.

3) Look for the beauty in others. There is something special about everyone, and I wish people would realize that. No one is boring or uninteresting, because everyone is different. There is something to learn from/about everyone. So find it. Find your passion to learn about and to get to know others. Learn to value others.

4) Do what you're good at and be confident in it. Especially this year, I've found following my passions more important than ever. I have one year of my childhood left, and I want to spend it doing what I want. Chances are, if you're not good at it, it doesn't make you happy. So stop! Do what you're good at, work hard at it, and take pride in it. Easy.

5) Love without question. Love because everyone needs someone to love them. Love because you like being needed. Love because you never know when someone will need it. Regardless, Love.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K-QKFbNU2CY

Spending Yet Another Day Wishing I Lived In England....

I followed behind my puppy as she chased the fallen leaves on this cool, blustery fall day. This is how I imagine Hogwarts most of the time. Coincidentally, when Ginger and I returned from our walk, my mom remembered to point out the package that had arrived for me earlier in the day. Finally. I greedily unwrapped my Ravenclaw robe. A little cheap looking, but it would suffice. Polyester, but the beautiful black, royal blue, and silver was undeniably elegant. Perfect. And on my left breast pocket, my very own Ravenclaw crest: Light blue, with a black raven,  with the navy embroidered letters "Ravenclaw" on a gold banner. This was the moment I had been anticipating for weeks. I flew down the stairs to my bedroom. On went my uniform: the opaque, black tights; the gray, pleated, knee-length skirt. First right, then left- my arms were shoved into my white button-up shirt. I haphazardly buttoned the shirt and tucked it into the skirt. Now the hard part. Or, it was supposed to be. I still couldn't tie a tie. But I had left it knotted from when my father had tied it whilst I was trying on my incomplete uniform the night before. So the tie was slipped over my head and adjusted underneath my collar. As I perfected the tie knot in the mirror, I couldn't help but notice the blue and silver looked good on me. I knew I was meant for this. Finally, the cardigan was buttoned, the tie tucked into the cardigan, and shoes located and put on. Now, for my final touch. I reached for my new cloak, and proudly looked in the mirror. Almost perfect. I dug through the piles of clothes in my room until I found what I was missing: my wand. I needed a new wand soon: this one wasn't quite right for me, since technically it was molded after Harry's. It would suffice, though. From head to toe, I was ready. And I left for my 6 hour wait before the Harry Potter premier.

Pursuing Peace

It was a long day. After deciding going to bed early was more important than math homework last night, I spent my school day frantically trying to fit 2 hours of math homework into my 6 classes before math. While it ended up working out, it wasn't pretty. I irked every one of my teachers for not paying attention during their classes, and ended up with poorly-done math homework. I left Central for the weekend feeling more stressed than when I walked in this morning. Oh well. I threw my backpack and purse into my car, slammed my car door, and got the heck away from there.

And ended up in the Hickory Hills Middle School gym. Granted, it wasn't the ideal way to spend my Friday afternoon, but you do what you gotta do, right? As Central's dance commissioner, I was asked to help out with the middle school's dance. While HH isn't one of Central's feeders, many students transfer to Central from Hickory Hills for the IB program, so our Cabinet sponsor decided that it'd be beneficial to get our school out there and involved. Of course, that meant sacrificing my Friday evening, not hers.

As I walked into the school's gym, I could describe it as no less than seizure inducing. The middle school's student council had set up 3 of the strobe lights Central had lent them, along with multiple other flashing lights. Needless to say, it was a bit overwhelming. Very middle school-esque. The dance, which was 80s themed, seemed to have a pretty good turnout: around 60 6th-8th graders ran, sat, clustered, hid all around the gym- anything to keep from dancing. Immediately upon walking in, we were attacked by the StuCo sponsor, apparently a huge fan of the IB program. She handed us glowsticks and encouraged us to get in the middle of the throng of awkward kids and advertise the IB program. She instructed us to approach students who looked like 8th graders and talk to them about the IB program. Woahh. Is this ethical? Are we supposed to influence students like this? I did as I was told, but I couldn't help but wonder. How would Glendale (the school these guys are supposed to go to) feel about this?

Who can really enjoy talking to middle-schoolers for an hour and a half? Not I; that's for sure. Between my  ethical dilemma and my contrived smile and attitude after approaching teen after teen, I was ready for a break pretty quickly. I felt as if I hadn't had a very satisfying day. So I did what I always do to brighten my spirits: headed for the mall.

As it was a Friday evening during holiday season in a town with little else to do, the mall was fairly packed. Parking, as always, took about 10 minutes. As I made my endless rounds through the parking lot scouring for a parking space, I came across the uplifting I needed. I turned into the next row of cars (for about the 5th time), and there they were. The most beautiful couple I've seen in my life. At least 75, small, and wrinkled, an old man and an old woman walked unhurriedly down the middle of the row. While I'm not sure if their clasped hands represented their physical or literal support for one another, they were adorable. Don't get me wrong- I normally find old people creepy. But for some reason, they struck a soft spot in me that brightened my day. I drove really slowly behind them, observing them with a smile, until I found a parking spot near them. And then I did what any person in my situation would do- I followed them and took a picture. Why not immortalize this perfect moment?

Marriage is a funny thing. As I observe my own parents' 20-year marriage crumbling, I've started to notice that, at least around here, there are more people in my situation than people who aren't. Maybe it's a Springfield thing, but I know so few of my peers' parents have healthy relationships. I am surrounded by divorce and dysfunction every day, so often, in fact, that a couple this old displaying affection like this becomes an oddity. So what is it about marriage? Are humankind meant to be polygamists? Obviously monogamy isn't working out too well for us. What makes a relationship successful? From my limited experience, I've found that the most solid relationships that last are relationships that do not contain an abundance of passion or love, but more like a platonic friendship, a partnership. It confuses me why people get married if they are just going to end up more like business partners than lovers- worn out of everyday, mundane life. Yet something inside me wants to believe... believe that true love exists, and that passion can last forever. But over and over again I reach the conclusion that it is pragmatic, platonic relationships that will last, not idealized, passionate ones. How disheartening. So what is the solution? Shall I remain single forever, waiting for that one Mr. Right? Should I commit myself to polygamy, since obviously monogamy isn't working out so well for us Americans? And what did that little old couple do that made their relationship so right? Here they are, probably 50 years after their wedding, and still holding hands and snuggling close, just like lovebirds.

Rather than envy them, I couldn't help but feel a sense of peace wash over me whilst creeping on them, as if their positive relationship was washing an influence of love over me.