Irish Dance
This girl was from Los Altos, CA. This essay worked for Hamilton College, and I believe would work impressively for most any Ivy League school.
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I’m 6. The sounds of hornpipe and laughter drift across the gymnasium-turned-cafeteria-turned-auditorium. Mum caught me dancing to some of her old Irish tapes — the Chieftains, Sinead O’Connor. She asked me if I wanted to do it for real. I said sure and went back to dancing. Now a freckled woman digs around in a cardboard box and pulls out a pair of dusty, worn black shoes. “Don’t worry,” she says, “you’ll learn eventually.” The shoes are too big; they sag at the toes. I approach the stage. Twenty-five pairs of eyes fix on me. In a room bustling with motion, everything stands still. It doesn’t matter that I feel like a clown in an ill-fitting costume. All that matters is the dancing.
I’m 9. I sit in the hallway of the Times Square Marriott watching girls in big wigs and sparkly dresses run around, squawking like glamorous, unhinged chickens. In my tartan skirt and simple bun, I feel like an ugly duckling. The bobby pins dutifully securing my bun in place make my scalp ache. My hands slide to my shoes. They’re too tight. Mum put them on her feet to “try and stretch them out a little.” I pass some over-enthusiastic dance moms who put the “mother” in “smother.” I reach the stage. A hundred pairs of eyes fix on me. In a hotel bustling with motion, everything stands still. It doesn’t matter that I’m out of place. All that matters is the dancing.
I’m 12. My brain won’t stop flipping through disastrous scenarios as I stand with my teammates in a hotel in Orlando, Florida. We’ve trained for months, sacrificed everything for this moment. I try to think of happy things: the pride on Dad’s face when he watches me dance, the freedom of flying across a stage on invisible wings. We recite our steps like a poem, the sequences like a song that carries us through an ocean of fiddles, pipes, and drums. My parents sacrificed a lot to send me here. I want to make them proud. I want to make myself proud. We approach the national stage. A thousand pairs of eyes fix on me. In a world bustling with motion, everything stands still. It doesn’t matter that I feel like a fraud. All that matters is the dancing.
I’m 15. An Irish accent lilts through the ballroom of the World Championships. It sounds like mashed potatoes and Sunday bests and the green hills of home that I know so well. We mutter a prayer. I’m not sure I believe in God, though I should. I look at my partner and wish we were more than friends. She smiles. I don’t think God believes in me. We ascend the stage. A million pairs of eyes fix on me. In a universe bustling with motion, everything stands still. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never be enough. All that matters is the dancing.
I’ll be 18. Murmuring voices will hover in the air of the gymnasium-turned-cafeteria-turned-auditorium. A little girl will approach me timidly, wearing a very old tartan skirt. I’ll reach out softly, adjusting her bun to soothe her aching scalp. Then, I’ll slide my hands toward her feet, toward a pair of small, dusty shoes. “You’ll learn,” I’ll say. They’ll sag at the toes, but I’ll reassure her: “Don’t worry. You’ll grow into them.” Then, she and I will look at my own beloved shoes. They’ll be worn, but I’ll tell her the creases are like a map, evidence of the places I’ve been, the heartbreaks I’ve suffered, the joy I’ve danced. My life is in these shoes. We’ll hear the music begin to play, the tide of fiddles, and pipes, and drums. I’ll take her hand and, with a deep breath, we’ll climb the stage. “Ahd mor.” It won’t matter that this is the end. All that has ever mattered is the dancing.
What Worked
This style of telling stories across time can be very effective when done well. It’s an easy way to show growth. The way she’s done it, she gets to write everything in first-person present tense. That’s also pretty nice, but you can totally write stories in past tense, if you prefer.
Notice how short these sentences are. Strong writing often isn’t conveyed through long, elaborate, flowy sentences packed full of every fancy word you can find in the thesaurus. Some of the strongest writing on the 19th and 20th centuries features short, powerful sentences. Keep that close at heart as you write your own essays. This isn’t an English school paper where you’re rewarded for writing a bunch of jargon that doesn’t make complete sense.
The repetition is nice. It’s also not necessary for every essay, but there’s a feeling to repetition that the human mind really loves, and it turns out…human minds will be reading your college essay! We love the repetitive choruses of songs; we like when things turn out as expected; we thrive on routine and predictableness. You can give a bit of that to your reader to make them feel comfortable, and then pepper in your uniqueness on top of that comforting structure.
She clearly communicates her skill in this art form without bragging in the slightest. You don’t walk away from this essay feeling like this girl is full of herself. You almost walk away forgetting all the skill that’s hinted at, but it is there.
She has great creative language, for sure. That’s always good.
Also notice that the repetition does, at the same time, grow. It’s a room bustling with motion, then a hotel, then a world, then a universe. This is a really subtle way of conveying progress, forward motion, growth. And it helps that the repetition isn’t exact repetition. It makes us feel like the words are still worth it each new time we see them.
She brings in religion, the forbidden topic! You all know that I don’t forbid topics. She handles it well. If her family is very Irish, it’s possible they are Christian or even Catholic. It makes sense for her to address that elephant in her life. And then she hands us another elephant: she’s attracted to the opposite sex. This is a rough moment in the essay. She allows the essay to take a tough turn into feelings of inadequacy and uncertainty. And then she carries us through those feelings. (She doesn’t end on them!)
The final paragraph brings us full circle to the beginning. She’s passing on her legacy, her joy, her sorrows, her everything. This is a very intense ending. Your essays do not need to be this intense. But, if you can take your readers on this epic of a journey, by all means do.
What Doesn’t Work
The only thing that worries me about this is that the ending sounds possibly a bit too negative. I don’t know what “this is the end” is supposed to mean, exactly. And I don’t think it’s ideal that “all that has ever mattered is the dancing”. You do want something else to matter in your life. However, there are usually supplemental essays to round out your story. That’s likely what this student did.