An Application to Stanford 
 

 
The Stanford application read: 
     "Describe your extracurricular activities"
     above a space 2 inches high. 
I wrote: 
     "I participated in community service as a member of Kiwanis
     Educates Youth; started an aluminum can recycling program;
     planned a multicultural celebration to promote ethnic
     awareness; won a county writing contest; and played varsity
     tennis for two years."

     A No. 2 pencil scratched on a yellow index card: 
     "Extracurriculars average, but academics strong.
     Consider wait list."

Clarinet crashed into floor, breaking its black body.  "You're
not staying in the band."  Slippered footsteps left on rarely-
vacuumed verdant carpet. 
 
          The sterile room consisted of almost-white walls 
     and fluorescent lights.  "You're here today to see
     your work cards," the admissions officer said.
     "Anything the readers wrote about your application
     will be available for peruse."

"Describe your favorite place."
     I wrote: 
          "In this place, sometimes wild seas storm, othertimes
     calm currents succor.  Morality defines its demesne, and a
     critical viewer watches reruns of recorded life episodes.
     It's a corner of my mind, as often sun shining as acid
     raining."

     The pencil wrote: 
     "Liked personal essay.  Better than you'd expect."

Thump! of overturned coffee table.  Voices contest like duel
swords sharpened on each other's steeple, alternately emitting
high screeches and low grates.  "I'll kill you!  You bastard,
dickless horse!"  Shelled explosions, book bombs. 
 
          Nine other students sat in wooden 1930's schoolchairs 
     behind a plywood-thin table.  The woman pointed at a yellow
     card: "This section contains your academic records; this,
     your school evaluation; this, your extracurricular rating;
     this, comments on your personal essays; and this, your
     readers' criticisms. 
          Now, may I please see your I.D.'s?"

"What personal anecdote would you tell your future roommate?"
     I wrote: 
          "Waking up for kindergarten, clock reads 8:15AM.  I'm
     late!  Stuff on shoes, grab that bag!  Mom says, 'where are
     you going?'  What a stupid question, I'm late!  Out the
     door.  My brother comes to the sidewalk, in socks.  Let me
     go.  Ran to brick-walled buildings.  Peered past the dusty
     glass.
          Empty.
          Walked back home, and went inside.  'well,' my mom     
     asks, 'what did you find?'
          'nothing.'
          My brother laughs.  'of course, silly, it's only       
     7:30.'
          Examining the clock, it reads: 7:30."

     The pencil wrote: 
     "Good writing.  Somewhat enigmatic."

Triangulate muscles lifted through the 2'x2' window, landing body
in rosy bathtub.  Quickly, clean up and off to bed.  Seven o'clock 
sunrise comes as half-sleep proceeds peacefully.  Abruptly, a
female voice: "Where were you last night?"  Tensed, silent.  "I
got a call from That Boy's mother.  She caught him this morning."
Silence.  "We had a long talk.  You won't be seeing her son
anymore."   Break.  "We'll see what happens to you, later."

          The plastic-enveloped yellow workcards circulated 
     from a cardboard box.  In the bottom right corner of my     
     card, an "A" was circled.  "Accept."  Blue pen script read:
     "Glad we decided to keep this afloat.  Seems hopeful."

Ex post facto:
          My family doctor said, "What did you do to get into
Stanford?  My daughter applied.  She graduated valedictorian,
participated in two sports, and had many other activities, but
wasn't accepted."
          I replied, "I don't know.  Maybe it was something I
wrote."


--jennifer crystal chien