Describe a place that has special meaning to you and explain why it is important.
At four I was sure the platform would eat me. I gripped my mother's hand and worked out the plan: if the crowd shoved me off the edge, I'd grab the rubber lip of the concrete, swing my leg up, roll away from the third rail before the headlights got big. I rehearsed it every single time we waited. Then the train came and I got on and forgot all of it, because the man across from me was reading the paper folded into a tiny square, and the woman next to him kept checking her lipstick in a spoon, and I could not stop looking at them. The tracks were terrifying. The people were better.
The subway was Chiclets from the little machines, and the ride to buy winter coats when the wind came, and the R going up to the Central Park Zoo. It was how my mother got to work. Then my parents split, and my brother and I turned into experts on the West Side line, riding it to my father's three times a week, counting stops without looking up. Everything at home was coming apart into two apartments and two sets of keys. The train stayed the train. Same tokens, same doors, same recorded voice saying to stand clear.
Somewhere in there I started asking a question I couldn't shake: which one of these people is Poseidon? I'd just read the Odyssey and I wanted to catch the sea god riding uptown, so I studied faces. Hard. A huge man with a gray beard and wet-looking boots, maybe. Later, after Othello, I saw a tall man in a good coat standing very still by the doors and decided he was carrying something he couldn't put down. One Wednesday half the car had gray smudges on their foreheads and I panicked a little, thinking they were all hurt in the same place, hurt the same exact way, which seemed worse somehow. Nobody in my family believed in anything, so I couldn't ask at home. I asked a librarian instead. Ash Wednesday, she said, like it was obvious. I rode around for a week after that reading foreheads.
The worst ride was from Sloan-Kettering. I'd seen a girl my age up there, thin in a way I didn't have words for, and I got on the downtown train and could barely see. But there was a man asking for change in a paper cup, and a woman in a suit doing something on her BlackBerry, and a kid asleep against his father with his mouth open. None of them knew where I'd been. The ordinary noise of all those people not asking me anything, not even glancing at me, was the only thing that held. By the time the doors opened at my stop I could breathe again, and I hated that it was that easy, and I was grateful it was.
I got off at 49th Street once when they'd just retiled it. All white, clean, bright. The kind of clean that erases things. It made me want to go back and find the old mosaics, the ones caked with decades of dirt in the grout, the letters chipped at the corners. Those tiles had watched the beggars and the executives ride past each other for years without a word. I felt protective of them, the way you feel about something that has kept a secret for you. Clean tile knows nothing. The dirty ones knew where I'd been on all those Wednesdays and all those trips uptown and all those three-times-a-week rides to a father who lived somewhere else now.
I still look for the old stations. I press my thumb against a chipped mosaic letter, dirt packed into its grout, and let the next train's wind push my hair back.
The story this essay was written from
These are the applicant's own notes — the raw experience they started with, before any draft existed. Compare it with the essay above to see which details were kept, cut, and turned into a scene.
Facts:
- At age 4 I was convinced I'd fall onto the subway tracks and get hit by a train.
- I held my mother's hand on the platform and planned escape routes.
- I decided my mother probably wouldn't save me, she was better at reading stories.
- I thought I could hide in the shallow cavity under the platform until the train passed.
- I imagined coming out afterward looking brave, like a Hero, and getting rewarded with Chiclets.
- I got a penny, put it in a Chiclet machine, and picked Tutti-Frutti, getting a small pink box with two Chiclets.
- I was scared of the gap between platform and train and almost didn't board.
- Once on the train I got distracted watching other passengers: a lady in purple shoes and a fake leopard vest, a woman with a fruit hat, a snoring man, a man picking his nose.
- I counted red shoes in the car until I got bored, then watched the tracks out the back window.
- I associated subways as a kid with Chiclets, buying winter coats, the Central Park Zoo, and my mom's job.
- I wanted a job like being a zookeeper when I grew up.
- School and the dentist were bus trips for me, not subway trips.
- Later I started taking the subway to dance class.
- My parents split up and my brother and I became experts on the West Side line, riding to my father's house three times a week.
- I noticed the old subway mosaics caked with dirt and felt sad about it.
- I got good at reading newspapers over strangers' shoulders on the train.
- I figured out the numbers next to graffiti names were the streets where the artists lived.
- My fear of falling between the platform and train lessened as I got older, but I still respected the yellow line.
- I'd heard peeing on the third rail would electrocute you.
- I took the Lexington Ave line to Worth Street to visit a friend in Chinatown, and saw a Romanesque building I couldn't read the numerals on until I realized X was the numeral ten.
- Sometimes I pretend to be someone else while riding the subway.
- I rode the subway home from Sloan-Kettering after seeing a girl my age dying of cancer.
- My ass has been pinched on the subway and it makes my blood boil.
- I get off at the retiled 49th Street station on the way to Schirmer's for flute music and feel protective of the old dirty mosaics elsewhere.
- I look around the subway car for people who resemble characters from Odysseus or Othello.
- I decided to become an organ donor after seeing a subway poster.
- A KOOL cigarette ad with a waterfall reminded me of the sea and Cape Cod beaches in October.
- I once jumped into the ocean fully clothed at Cape Cod, remembering the taste of salt water.
- I tried to compute the total hours I'd spent on the subway but gave up before finishing.
- My background is European Catholic and Jewish ancestors plus New England stepparents, with no religious believers in the family.
- I learned about Ash Wednesday from seeing smudged foreheads on subway riders.
- I want to leave New York for a while before possibly coming back.
The experience:
- As a young kid on the subway platform I obsessively planned how I'd survive falling onto the tracks.
- I bought Chiclets from a platform machine while waiting.
- I hesitated at the gap boarding the train but got on to stay with my mother.
- On the train I got absorbed watching other passengers instead of worrying about the tracks.
- As I grew older I rode the subway regularly for dance class, then for visits to my father after my parents split.
- I started noticing the decay of the mosaics and the mix of people, beggars and executives, on the trains.
- I began crossing the platform gaps alone as I got older.
- I took the subway to Chinatown, to Sloan-Kettering, to Schirmer's for flute music, all over the years.
- I started projecting literary characters like Odysseus and Othello onto subway riders.
- A poster convinced me to become an organ donor, and a cigarette ad triggered a memory of swimming at Cape Cod.
Anecdotes:
- I cocked my mary-janed foot and appraised whether my mother would save me from the train, deciding she was better at reading stories.
- I planned to hide in the shallow cavity under the platform until the train passed, then emerge looking like a Hero who'd be rewarded with Chiclets eaten one box at a time.
- I bought a Tutti-Frutti Chiclets box for a penny and got two Chiclets inside.
- On the train I catalogued a lady in a fake leopard vest and purple shoes, a woman with a fruit hat, a snoring man, and a man picking his nose.
- I counted red shoes in the car until I got bored.
- I wondered how zookeepers get in cages without lions escaping and how many baby aspirins a sick walrus eats.
- I heard that peeing on the third rail would electrocute you and wondered what I'd do if I found a hundred dollar bill on the tracks.
- I couldn't read the Roman numerals on the Worth Street station building until I realized X is also the numeral ten, like in 'lox.'
- I rode home from Sloan-Kettering after seeing a girl my age dying of cancer, and the ordinary subway crowd soothed me.
- My ass got pinched on the subway once and it made my blood boil.
- I felt protective of the dirty old mosaics after getting off at the newly retiled 49th Street station.
- I looked for people resembling Poseidon after reading about Odysseus, and once saw someone who reminded me of Othello.
- A subway poster made me decide to donate my organs to medicine.
- A KOOL cigarette ad with a waterfall reminded me of the sea, and I remembered jumping fully clothed into the ocean at Cape Cod in October.
- I learned about Ash Wednesday from seeing smudged foreheads on subway riders, despite having no religious believers in my family.
My thought:
- I believe growing up riding the subway exposed me to more different kinds of people and situations than I would have encountered otherwise.
- I value the feeling of uniqueness and the power to choose how I live, which my environment nurtured in me.
- I've realized there are many different ways to live and many 'Answers,' not just one right lifestyle or profession.
- I'm curious about how things work and why, and that curiosity is part of why I seek an education.
- I'm glad I grew up in New York but I think it's time for me to leave for a while and live somewhere else before maybe coming back.
Why this college essay works
Why this works structurally: The essay uses a single thesis—people over tracks, presence over fear—demonstrated at escalating scales: childhood fear, family divorce, imaginative play, mortal grief, and finally a physical relic that holds it all. Each paragraph raises the emotional stakes while returning to the same place, so the meaning accrues rather than repeats. The final tile image gives the abstract claim a concrete anchor the reader can hold. The prompt asked for a place and why it matters; this delivers both with unusual depth and control. How the requested traits show up: Trait "Curiosity" is shown here: "which one of these people is Poseidon?... I studied faces. Hard." — the compulsive study of strangers and the trip to ask a librarian show a mind that must know. Trait "Creativity" is shown here: "a tall man in a good coat standing very still by the doors and decided he was carrying something he couldn't put down." — the imaginative reframing of ordinary commuters into mythic and literary figures. Trait "Empathy" is shown here: "thinking they were all hurt in the same place, hurt the same exact way, which seemed worse somehow." — the instinctive projection of shared pain onto strangers reveals a feeling attentiveness to others.
Paragraph-by-paragraph breakdown
- four-year-old on the platform Establishes the place vividly and introduces the central tension—the danger of the tracks versus the fascination of the people—that will carry the essay. "if the crowd shoved me off the edge, I'd grab the rubber lip of the concrete, swing my leg up, roll away from the third rail." It does its job immediately: place and emotional stakes in one scene.
- the subway as family life Explains why the place matters over time, tying it to the parents' divorce and the train's role as the one thing that stayed stable. "Everything at home was coming apart into two apartments and two sets of keys. The train stayed the train." This is the explicit importance the prompt demands.
- Poseidon / Ash Wednesday Shows the writer's imaginative reading of the strangers, deepening why the place holds meaning—it's a theater of faces that fed a searching mind. "which one of these people is Poseidon?" It earns its place by turning observation into character.
- the ride from Sloan-Kettering The emotional peak—the place is important precisely because the strangers' indifference is a form of mercy after seeing the sick girl. "The ordinary noise of all those people not asking me anything... was the only thing that held." This paragraph proves the thesis at its highest stakes.
- retiled 49th Street Converts the abstract meaning into a physical symbol—the dirty old mosaics as keepers of memory versus sterile new tile. "Clean tile knows nothing. The dirty ones knew where I'd been." It crystallizes why the place matters into a tangible image.
- present-tense return A short landing that shows the attachment persisting into now. "I press my thumb against a chipped mosaic letter... and let the next train's wind push my hair back." It closes the loop cleanly without over-explaining.
Essay analysis
Prompt asks: Describe a place that has special meaning to you and explain why it is important. Essay answer: "The tracks were terrifying. The people were better." — The essay claims the New York subway as a place of meaning, arguing it is the constant that held the writer together through family rupture and grief by offering the anonymous company of strangers, which directly answers the prompt.