“乖，宝贝。千万不要乱跑，要不然会被人贩子抓走卖掉的”也许这句话是我们很多人从小就听父母说过的，曾经也会信以为真。后来，我们懂事了……
我醒来，发现房子里静悄悄的，爸爸妈妈都不在家，只剩下了我一个人。我昏昏沉沉的坐在地板上盯着空空的屋子发呆。旧沙发上摊着一大堆书籍和磁带，可是我还是非常害怕。于是，拿起电话开始拨号码，那年我才4岁。
话筒那边传来了一阵“嘎嘎”的声音紧接着就是一个女人的声音，“有什么事情我可以帮你吗？”
我在电话这头抽泣着，半天用中文挤出了 “一个人（alone）”。因为，当时心太慌了，一时间没有想起一个词语更好的形容“被遗弃的感觉”。因为我那个时候还小，她没有办法从我模糊的表述中得知具体的家庭住址，只能通过跟踪电话号码然后发给警察局去调查。当一名警察到达我家门口的时候，我更害怕了。因为爸爸常对我说警察叔叔是专门抓坏孩子的。每当我不听话的时候，他就会生气的说，“等着吧！警察叔叔一会儿就来抓你了。他们会把你关进笼子里，就像动物园里你看到的那种笼子，然后天天给你吃很多很多的泡菜。”我最痛恨的食物就是泡菜。
我睁睁地看着警察叔叔胸前发亮的休斯敦警局徽章想象着被关进笼子里过着吃泡菜的生活。就在这时，刚下班的爸爸看见屋外的警车不知道屋内发生什么事情连忙冲进了门，上气不接下气。警察叔叔貌似对爸爸留我一人在家表示很生气。看到这一幕，虽然当时我还不能完全理解其中缘由，但是，心里却升起了丝丝的希望。好像自己不会被警察叔叔抓去关进笼子里喂泡菜，相反，要吃泡菜的将是爸爸。
当天晚上，爸爸妈妈一起为白天的事情向我道歉。他们告诉我，白天他们要去上班没有多余的钱请保姆，所以只能委屈让我一个人在家。从那以后，我就常常呆在家里，遵循着一项新的规则：不要随便接电话，当电话铃声响到第5下的时候再接，那样警察叔叔就不会把我关进笼子里了。
等我再大点儿的时候，跟着爸妈经常收拾一些不多的“财产”，租一辆最便宜的拖车，赶在夜幕降临前找到栖身之所。我记得那天我坐在车里透着车窗看到快速掠过的被白雪覆盖的草地，耳边听着那首“Yesterday”；记得因为空调坏了的缘故导致雨刮器上都结了一层厚厚的冰霜；记得在寒冷潮湿的爱达荷一家汽车旅馆里，妈妈紧张的搓着我的小脚，以防被冻坏；记得因为付不起房钱盖着毯子哆嗦的睡在车里的场景。童年生活，因为自己的幽默、乐观、天真打败了无数个“徒步旅行”中的艰辛。如今，我更加清楚爸爸正在追求梦想中的硕士学位，家里大部分的资金都用来缴学费了。在全家人眼里，一份工作就相当于一个新的机遇。
我们是第一代移民者，这段经历尤其珍贵。不管是独自一人在家还是裹着毯子睡在车里，这些都培养了我生活独立能力、做事情的责任心与决心和超出一般的幽默感。我觉得有了这些因素，我可以冷静的淡定的克服生活中与学习上遇到的困难，例如：AP课程和音乐课。更重要的是这种经历锻炼了我的勇气与迫切成功的欲望。
最后，我必须公正的看待自己。爸爸初到美国时，兜里只有$600，从一场看似死亡的赌博转变成一个追求美国梦的理想青年。我希望自己不是一个梦想家而是一个实践者，从我爸妈这辈人开始的地方站起来。靠着他们给我灌输的不屈不挠的精神与毅力，我会发挥自己最大的潜能做到最好让他们骄傲。如果这次能够收到来自哈佛大学的录取信函，那成功将不仅仅属于我个人，它属于每一个人。
分析
“移民经历”一类的ESSAY要想突破很不容易，普遍的文章描写内容都是一些陈词滥调，对于当今的大学申请者而言，各具水准。这篇特殊的ESSAY特殊在于：作者将其成长经历（中国移民美国）的困难到为什么她的童年会是如此情况做了详细的说明。为了描写这部分，作者列举了自己幼小的时候被单独留在家里也不知道是为什么。从作者的描写里，我们可以清晰的看到作者对父母做出的牺牲的体谅与感恩以及个人性格的塑造。父母为她做出的种种牺牲告诉她不管他们是否移民，这些经历让人觉得耳目一新。
早前说过的，一篇ESSAY的过人之处不是话题的选择，而是文章整个情节所呈现给读者的思想。一篇优秀的ESSAY，比如这篇，招生官可以产生很强的共鸣。作者阐述了自己的成长经历并且日复一日的累积起来，为未来做准备。这是任何一个招生官都渴望看到的。文章要紧扣主题并且要从中获取有利的结果。招生官要看到的是个人在文中描写的种种经历是如何体现在生活中以及如何塑造出了今天的你而不是简单的铺陈。
—Ashin Shah
原文参考：
(9)SHA JIN—“IN A PICKLE”
I woke up. The room was silent. To my shock, neither of my parents was home. I sat numbly on the floor staring into the empty room. I was alone. The mound of picture books and the pile of cassette tapes stacked against the worn sofa did little to comfort my fears, so I picked up the phone and began to punch in numbers. I was only four.
“May I help you?” a woman’s voice crackled through the receiver.
I sobbed into the phone, mumbling “alone” mixed with rambles of Chinese. I was too panicked to think of the proper English words for “I’ve been abandoned.” The woman, unable to get an address out of an incoherent, hysterical child, traced the phone number and sent a trooper to check on things. When a real policeman arrived at our apartment door, I was horrified. Dad always said that policemen existed to arrest bad children. “You wait. They’ll come for you,” he said grimly whenever I had been disobedient. “They’ll put you in a cage, like a zoo. They feed you pickles. Lots and lots of pickles.” I hated pickles.
I gaped at the shiny Houston Police Department badge on the policeman’s chest and imagined him outside of my cage handing me a slimy pickle for dinner. Suddenly, Dad, who had just arrived home, saw the police sirens and ran to the door, breathless. The policeman seemed angry with Dad leaving me at home alone. As I watched the two, comprehending very little, a small bit of hope rose in my heart. For a moment, just a moment, it looked as if I wasn’t going to be put in a cage and fed pickles. Dad was going to be the one eating pickles.
That night, my parents apologized and explained that they both had to work full-time, and I had to stay home alone because they couldn’t afford a babysitter. After that, I began to stay home alone, following rules like “don’t pick up the phone until the fifth ring,” so the policeman wouldn’t come back and cart me off to the “zoo.”
When I grew older, my family often collected what little possessions we had, packed them into the cheapest U-Haul trailer we could rent, and drove off toward the horizon, seeking what was hopefully a better future hiding behind the sunset. I can remember listening to “Yesterday” while miles of glittery snow-covered grassland passed through the frame of the car window. I can remember a brush with frostbite in the car because the heater broke down. I can remember moments in a cold, dank Idaho motel room while Mom anxiously rubbed my feet, hoping they weren’t frozen. I can remember snuggling under a blanket in the car because we couldn’t afford the motel. In my childhood, I was ignorant of the true reason behind those road trips because humor, optimism, and my own innocence veiled our dire situation. Now I know that Dad was working toward his master’s degree, and most of the money my parents earned went toward paying the international rate of tuition. Jobs were hard to come by, and a new place meant new opportunities.
My unforgettable experiences as a first-generation immigrant, whether it was staying home alone or sleeping in a car, have given me self-reliance, responsibility, determination, and overarching humor. I feel as if I can handle most obstacles by myself with calm tenacity, whether it’s academic obstacles like AP classes or artistic obstacles like correctly phrasing a melody. These experiences have also created driving ambition and the will to succeed.
In the end, I must judge myself like those before me. My father, after arriving in the United States with only $600 in his pocket, turned what was a suicidal gamble into the American Dream. I hope to be a doer, not a dreamer, by building on what my parents began. With the drive for greatness that they have instilled in me, I will make them proud by fulfilling my potential. If an acceptance letter arrives for me in the future, the success will not be mine; it will be ours.
COMMENTARY
The “immigrant experience” typically makes for a tough college essay, usually bordering on cliché, especially given the increasingly diverse pools of college applicants today. In this particular essay, the writer combines aspects of her Chinese-American upbringing with the experience of moving around, and only later does she come to terms with why her childhood was the way it was. In making these leaps, the writer paints a portrait of her early childhood framed around a particular narrative of being left home alone and unable to make sense of why. The critical move in this essay is the transition from this narrative to an exposition on appreciating the sacrifices her parents have made and her personal motivations to succeed, given what her parents have given up for her—an insight that most applicants can draw whether they are immigrants or not, and that undergoes a refreshing treatment in this writer’s piece.
As stated earlier, what often differentiates one college essay from the next is not the originality of the topic, but rather the novelty with which ideas are presented. The best essays, as this one proves, convey to the admissions officer some aspect of the writer’s life in a mature and engaging sense that suggests strong reflection. This writer has clearly replayed events of her own upbringing and contextualized them as being fundamental to her day-to-day dogma and in preparing her for the future—something any admissions board is eager to see. Make certain to focus your essay on the original ideas and conclusions you derived rather than getting bogged down in detailing the particulars of your experiences. The admissions board cares more about how this experience helped form you into the individual you are today rather than the specific details of this memory.
—Ashin Shah
