Duke University Undergraduate College Application Essays

Throughout my entire life, I've seen myself as the quintessential Cameron Crazy. Covered in war paint from head to toe, my vehement anti-Tar Heel screams bellowing across the court. As a child, the depth of my interest stalled here - a young...

It took two hours to get home, a three mile drive that should have taken a few minutes. A drive we’d made countless times without thinking. But things were different now. Everything was different now. Dad presented his license to the National...

Three young children scrambled into the room— Amy, Sam, and Kevin. They were orphans soon to be adopted by families in Europe, so my job was to teach them English. Easy, I thought, all I have to do is make a lesson plan and give them worksheets....

This Saturday morning was unlike any other. All of us dressed in lab coats, wearing protective goggles, and holding test tubes in our gloved hands…. it was impossible not to feel like professional researchers (for me, at least). The tranquility of...

The glass doors swung open and two guards and an entourage of EMTs rushed in with the patient. I slipped between two burly EMTs and placed the blanket on the shivering old woman on the gurney. “M3 will do,” the nurse at the Triage station said...

Moving homes is never fun, but the first time I stepped into our new neighborhood, my feelings could be best described as disorienting, if you want to be nice. The small, gray houses were a stark contrast to those found in my old suburban...

When I was four years old, my newly divorced mother transplanted us into uncharted territory: a sunny locale called “Florida.” I was too young to understand the magnitude of this life-changing event. Initially, money was scarce and the...

The painting is enormous. Its carved golden frame hangs squarely in the center of a muted red wall in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I lean in and read the information plaque to the right: Breaking Home Ties by Thomas Hovenden. Stepping back, I...

In the corner of my room sits my grandfather’s diary: soft, well-worn, and cracked. The first entry, written in English, is dated “June 1st, 1970,” in the halting, elaborate script of a man accustomed to Bengali. The last entry, dated “November...

I come from a community of storytellers. My childhood is ravaged by tales of the brave and the beautiful, but rather than being told fantasies, I grew up on stories of brutality, violence, and death. While my father gave heart-wrenching recounts...

I clock my final break on a brutally hot June Thursday. Stepping outside for a phone call, I have one thing on my mind: what is Saturday’s verdict? Dave, my Eagle Project counselor, has been corresponding with Portland Parks and Recreation (PPAR)...