Re: Personal Statement Samples
Posted: Tue Oct 29, 2013 7:24 pm
Great work guys and gals.
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GoIggles wrote:It was just about this time last year that I began to put real effort into my personal statement. So, for those of you who find yourselves at the PS writing stage now, I hope this helps. I know this thread was a great resource for me while I was writing.
GPA: ~3.95
LSAT: ~175
Admissions Decisions: In everywhere I applied
This is a story about stories. It’s a story about my grandfather, a master storyteller, and me, his apprentice. It’s a story about the last and most important lesson he taught me—a lesson not about how to tell good stories, but about the good that telling stories can do.
My apprenticeship began just moments after I was born. As my mother tells it, my grandfather plucked me from her tired arms in the delivery room and immediately commenced my first tutorial: cradling me in his left arm, his right keeping time with the rhythm of his tale, my grandfather charmed the medical staff with the story of how I came to be named [name]. Over the years that followed, I spent hours taking mental notes as I watched similar scenes unfold. Neighbors we ran into at the grocery store, waiters taking our order at restaurants, friends who came over to play—all of them were audience members as far as my grandfather was concerned. And no one ever walked away from one of his performances disappointed, least of all me.
As I entered college nearly two decades later, I thought my apprenticeship had come to an end. I was no longer the small child sitting spellbound at the foot of my grandfather’s rocking chair, no longer the gawky teenager asking for advice as I wrote stories for my school newspaper. By then, I had grown into someone with whom my grandfather could sit on his porch and swap stories, equal-to-equal. After eighteen years of lessons from my grandfather, I thought I had become a storyteller in my own right.
So when I got to [college], I sought out a venue in which to practice my art. And I found it in collegiate mock trial—a trial advocacy competition for undergraduates. This, I told myself, was what my grandfather had trained me for; if I worked hard and put his lessons into practice, I was certain that I’d find success. And I did. But, to my dismay, racking up victories, winning individual awards, even the storytelling itself—it all left me feeling unfulfilled. My most painstakingly prepared, most passionately delivered closing arguments brought me only a shadow of the joy that my grandfather radiated while telling his stories. I couldn’t understand or explain it, but something was clearly missing.
That’s when my grandfather came through with one final lesson for his apprentice. It started with a panicked phone call from my mom. My grandfather was sick with cancer, she said, and he didn’t have much time left. From then on, I spent as many weekends as possible by my grandfather’s bedside. In all those painful visits, it was never clearer that he was slipping away than the day when his hospice nurse asked to hear one of his famous stories. Naturally, he agreed, jumping into his favorite about the hospital he’d helped build in England while in the Air Force. But he had to quit halfway through. Mid-telling, he realized he no longer had the strength to finish; he realized the disease that had stolen his health was now stealing his stories too.
As he trailed off with the heavy hurt of loss spreading across his face, I took his hand. And I did what he had spent years training me to do. I told a story—his story. For the first time in months, I told a story not because I wanted a trophy or a plaque. I picked up where my grandfather left off and finished his story because I loved him and couldn’t stand to see him hurt anymore. When I turned back to him to ask whether I’d gotten all the details right, his cheeks were shining with tears. He squeezed my hand hard, smiled, and winked as he said, “Now that's a story, [name].”
That’s when it clicked. That’s when I realized why mock trial felt so hollow—why the stories I had been telling brought me only an ounce of the satisfaction that my grandfather’s stories brought him. With no real client to fight for, with only trophies on the line, I was telling stories just because I wanted something out of them. But my grandfather told his stories because he knew they would mean something to others, to the people with whom he shared them. As I sat there holding his hand, I thought of all the times he had brightened someone’s day with a story, of all the smiles and laughs his storytelling had inspired. That, I realized, was my grandfather’s real legacy—not the stories themselves, but the good he had done with them. And in finishing his story to spare him more pain, I was finally starting to live up to that legacy.
My grandfather is gone now. But his lessons—especially the final one—remain. And ever since I helped tell his story, I’ve been striving to live those lessons. I lived them as I continued with mock trial, telling stories to help my teammates reach the goals they’d worked so hard to achieve. I lived them as I volunteered at [college town] Legal Aid, relaying my clients’ stories to win them the assistance they needed. Now, I plan to live my grandfather’s lessons as an attorney. I can imagine nothing more fulfilling than standing in front of a jury, telling the stories of those who have suffered injury and indignity, faithfully, convincingly, passionately. And when I’m done, when I’m returning to counsel table after telling the tale of someone who’s suffered, I’ll look to the back of the courtroom. I know he won’t be there, but I’ll hope to see him anyway. My friend, my mentor, my grandfather—smiling, winking, and then silently mouthing, “Now that’s a story, [name].”
This was beautiful.jimmierock wrote:GoIggles wrote:It was just about this time last year that I began to put real effort into my personal statement. So, for those of you who find yourselves at the PS writing stage now, I hope this helps. I know this thread was a great resource for me while I was writing.
GPA: ~3.95
LSAT: ~175
Admissions Decisions: In everywhere I applied
This is a story about stories. It’s a story about my grandfather, a master storyteller, and me, his apprentice. It’s a story about the last and most important lesson he taught me—a lesson not about how to tell good stories, but about the good that telling stories can do.
My apprenticeship began just moments after I was born. As my mother tells it, my grandfather plucked me from her tired arms in the delivery room and immediately commenced my first tutorial: cradling me in his left arm, his right keeping time with the rhythm of his tale, my grandfather charmed the medical staff with the story of how I came to be named [name]. Over the years that followed, I spent hours taking mental notes as I watched similar scenes unfold. Neighbors we ran into at the grocery store, waiters taking our order at restaurants, friends who came over to play—all of them were audience members as far as my grandfather was concerned. And no one ever walked away from one of his performances disappointed, least of all me.
As I entered college nearly two decades later, I thought my apprenticeship had come to an end. I was no longer the small child sitting spellbound at the foot of my grandfather’s rocking chair, no longer the gawky teenager asking for advice as I wrote stories for my school newspaper. By then, I had grown into someone with whom my grandfather could sit on his porch and swap stories, equal-to-equal. After eighteen years of lessons from my grandfather, I thought I had become a storyteller in my own right.
So when I got to [college], I sought out a venue in which to practice my art. And I found it in collegiate mock trial—a trial advocacy competition for undergraduates. This, I told myself, was what my grandfather had trained me for; if I worked hard and put his lessons into practice, I was certain that I’d find success. And I did. But, to my dismay, racking up victories, winning individual awards, even the storytelling itself—it all left me feeling unfulfilled. My most painstakingly prepared, most passionately delivered closing arguments brought me only a shadow of the joy that my grandfather radiated while telling his stories. I couldn’t understand or explain it, but something was clearly missing.
That’s when my grandfather came through with one final lesson for his apprentice. It started with a panicked phone call from my mom. My grandfather was sick with cancer, she said, and he didn’t have much time left. From then on, I spent as many weekends as possible by my grandfather’s bedside. In all those painful visits, it was never clearer that he was slipping away than the day when his hospice nurse asked to hear one of his famous stories. Naturally, he agreed, jumping into his favorite about the hospital he’d helped build in England while in the Air Force. But he had to quit halfway through. Mid-telling, he realized he no longer had the strength to finish; he realized the disease that had stolen his health was now stealing his stories too.
As he trailed off with the heavy hurt of loss spreading across his face, I took his hand. And I did what he had spent years training me to do. I told a story—his story. For the first time in months, I told a story not because I wanted a trophy or a plaque. I picked up where my grandfather left off and finished his story because I loved him and couldn’t stand to see him hurt anymore. When I turned back to him to ask whether I’d gotten all the details right, his cheeks were shining with tears. He squeezed my hand hard, smiled, and winked as he said, “Now that's a story, [name].”
That’s when it clicked. That’s when I realized why mock trial felt so hollow—why the stories I had been telling brought me only an ounce of the satisfaction that my grandfather’s stories brought him. With no real client to fight for, with only trophies on the line, I was telling stories just because I wanted something out of them. But my grandfather told his stories because he knew they would mean something to others, to the people with whom he shared them. As I sat there holding his hand, I thought of all the times he had brightened someone’s day with a story, of all the smiles and laughs his storytelling had inspired. That, I realized, was my grandfather’s real legacy—not the stories themselves, but the good he had done with them. And in finishing his story to spare him more pain, I was finally starting to live up to that legacy.
My grandfather is gone now. But his lessons—especially the final one—remain. And ever since I helped tell his story, I’ve been striving to live those lessons. I lived them as I continued with mock trial, telling stories to help my teammates reach the goals they’d worked so hard to achieve. I lived them as I volunteered at [college town] Legal Aid, relaying my clients’ stories to win them the assistance they needed. Now, I plan to live my grandfather’s lessons as an attorney. I can imagine nothing more fulfilling than standing in front of a jury, telling the stories of those who have suffered injury and indignity, faithfully, convincingly, passionately. And when I’m done, when I’m returning to counsel table after telling the tale of someone who’s suffered, I’ll look to the back of the courtroom. I know he won’t be there, but I’ll hope to see him anyway. My friend, my mentor, my grandfather—smiling, winking, and then silently mouthing, “Now that’s a story, [name].”
Wow, that is all I can say. You are certainly right, that IS A STORY.
Istayedhere wrote:Hey guys. I hope this helps you as much as TLS has helped me.
(FYI: Duke's Dean Hoye noted by hand on my acceptance letter in post-script: "Your personal statement was very well done!")
Accepted: Columbia, NYU, Chicago, Penn, Duke (all with some $)
WL: Harvard, UMich (withdrew), UVa (withdrew)
Rejected: Berkeley, Stanford, Yale
I wrote the following PS thinking I needed to explain the 5-6 years of work experience after grad as well as the huge drop in GPA in junior and senior years of UG. It doesn't say much of why I want to attend law school. I made that sacrifice to keep the essay on topic. Some versions for specific why-law topics had an added paragraph of me wanting to teach law and stuff. Enjoy.
------------------------------
I drop a pen on the floor and say, “This pen has not hit the floor.” Obviously it has, and my students glare at me like I am trying and failing to hypnotize them. I would have an easier time peddling a bottle of miracle-cure-for-acne to these skeptical high school and college students. But I push on: I lift the pen theatrically, letting it hover mid-air, and ask, “The pen crossed the halfway point between my hand and the floor, right?” I wait till I see a few reluctant nods and then kneel. “And halfway of the remaining distance? And halfway of that halfway? And halfway of that?” I look around as I slice the air with my pen, and I know I’ve got a few of them. I have learned to reserve the most revealing line until the end: “What happens when you keep dividing a number in half?”
That is my dramatic interpretation of Zeno of Elea’s dichotomy paradox, dating back to approximately 450 BC. I’m sure I am one in a long series of lecturers who have knelt to illustrate this paradox of motion. The seconds you took in reading this paragraph so far is about how long I wait to answer the above question, for dramatic effect, and in consideration for the slower few: “That’s right. The answer approaches zero, infinitely, but never arrives at zero. The pen never hits the floor!”
So what? That is the sobering question, usually from a bright skeptic I almost always find in every “Paradox and Infinity” workshop, thankfully. This time it is Andrew, the clever ice hockey player in Grade 11. Now he is my target, and my objective is to convince him of the mindboggling implications of the paradox. Here is my repertoire developed after about a dozen deliveries: I start with the physical, noting how I can never leave the room because I would infinitely approach the door but never arrive. Likewise, I can never eat, drink, speak, or move at all. No one can. I cannot hear because sound waves never arrive; nor do light waves, and I cannot see. I am bound in a philosophical prison, and I can only think. Or can I? Synapses never finish firing, and neurons never arrive, and I exist alone, senseless and thoughtless.
There is nothing like solipsism to depress teenagers, besides perhaps nihilism or absurdism (another workshop, another story). I would be an evil man to leave them there, so I switch the discussion to infinity. I tell them that if a thing never arrives but approaches infinitely, then it is moving infinitely, like the pen toward the floor. This can be a beautiful concept: everything is moving and happening infinitely. I am still being born, never stopped being born; still taking my first walk; still, paradoxically, learning my first English word; and falling in love, infinitely, eternally, for the first time. And, in a sense, I will never finish this sentence, and you will never finish reading it. But obviously you have, and that is the paradox.
I teach for money (let us get that out of the way.). I have been teaching for money because my family has been in debt, and a son does not stand and watch his father declare bankruptcy. His business failed in my junior year in college, and the final two years’ tuition was the log that broke his back. Those were tough times. I shelved my plan of attending law school and stopped fiddling with the idea of a Ph.D. in philosophy. Instead, I took a teaching job in ABC, where I could look after my parents and help pay off the debt.
Things improved gradually, and I moved back home to DEFG. Since then, I have been as busy as should be a man with debts and dreams. At first, the dreams were obstacles in getting things done; as hard as I worked, I could not stop myself from reserving time for my interests in philosophy, photography, poetry, and languages. In time, I have found that the act of teaching is not so different from the sharing of interests, and students respond better when I forget that I am teaching, as I often do when I roll a marked frisbee around the desk to illustrate Aristotle’s Wheel Paradox, or break a Starbucks stir stick repeatedly to imitate Zhuangzi’s infinite spear-breaking.
Now I teach mostly what I want to teach (is this what seniority and tenure must feel like?). For three years, I taught reading and writing and test preparatory courses that students asked for, but now I share with my students my readings of Jorge Luis Borges, Ted Hughes, J. M. Coetzee, Billy Collins, Thoreau, Beckett, Bukowski, and of other giants who happen to be trampling on my mind at the time. Though he has passed away before I had a chance to hear his lectures, Borges has been living with a foot on my head for a while. Many of my students share my love for his love for labyrinths, dreams, and infinity.
I try to do what I wish someone had done for me during high school, when I struggled to learn philosophy and poetry on my own. I know most students like Andrew the Hockey Player move on to study something more practical, like chemistry, economics, business, or dentistry, but I sometimes do get e-mails from former students saying they have decided to take a philosophy course (and earn a sadistic chuckle from me).
This essay signals the end of my six-year teaching career. As of late last year, I have been debt-free and started saving for school. I began this essay with my paradox workshop because I did not want to seem ungrateful by beginning with misfortune. That is not how I feel. Had I the choice to attend law school six years ago, you would have read an idealistic essay by a philosophy student eager to learn of the Truth of things for his own sake. This is and is not that essay.
AMAZING!jimmierock wrote:Istayedhere wrote:Hey guys. I hope this helps you as much as TLS has helped me.
(FYI: Duke's Dean Hoye noted by hand on my acceptance letter in post-script: "Your personal statement was very well done!")
Accepted: Columbia, NYU, Chicago, Penn, Duke (all with some $)
WL: Harvard, UMich (withdrew), UVa (withdrew)
Rejected: Berkeley, Stanford, Yale
I wrote the following PS thinking I needed to explain the 5-6 years of work experience after grad as well as the huge drop in GPA in junior and senior years of UG. It doesn't say much of why I want to attend law school. I made that sacrifice to keep the essay on topic. Some versions for specific why-law topics had an added paragraph of me wanting to teach law and stuff. Enjoy.
------------------------------
I drop a pen on the floor and say, “This pen has not hit the floor.” Obviously it has, and my students glare at me like I am trying and failing to hypnotize them. I would have an easier time peddling a bottle of miracle-cure-for-acne to these skeptical high school and college students. But I push on: I lift the pen theatrically, letting it hover mid-air, and ask, “The pen crossed the halfway point between my hand and the floor, right?” I wait till I see a few reluctant nods and then kneel. “And halfway of the remaining distance? And halfway of that halfway? And halfway of that?” I look around as I slice the air with my pen, and I know I’ve got a few of them. I have learned to reserve the most revealing line until the end: “What happens when you keep dividing a number in half?”
That is my dramatic interpretation of Zeno of Elea’s dichotomy paradox, dating back to approximately 450 BC. I’m sure I am one in a long series of lecturers who have knelt to illustrate this paradox of motion. The seconds you took in reading this paragraph so far is about how long I wait to answer the above question, for dramatic effect, and in consideration for the slower few: “That’s right. The answer approaches zero, infinitely, but never arrives at zero. The pen never hits the floor!”
So what? That is the sobering question, usually from a bright skeptic I almost always find in every “Paradox and Infinity” workshop, thankfully. This time it is Andrew, the clever ice hockey player in Grade 11. Now he is my target, and my objective is to convince him of the mindboggling implications of the paradox. Here is my repertoire developed after about a dozen deliveries: I start with the physical, noting how I can never leave the room because I would infinitely approach the door but never arrive. Likewise, I can never eat, drink, speak, or move at all. No one can. I cannot hear because sound waves never arrive; nor do light waves, and I cannot see. I am bound in a philosophical prison, and I can only think. Or can I? Synapses never finish firing, and neurons never arrive, and I exist alone, senseless and thoughtless.
There is nothing like solipsism to depress teenagers, besides perhaps nihilism or absurdism (another workshop, another story). I would be an evil man to leave them there, so I switch the discussion to infinity. I tell them that if a thing never arrives but approaches infinitely, then it is moving infinitely, like the pen toward the floor. This can be a beautiful concept: everything is moving and happening infinitely. I am still being born, never stopped being born; still taking my first walk; still, paradoxically, learning my first English word; and falling in love, infinitely, eternally, for the first time. And, in a sense, I will never finish this sentence, and you will never finish reading it. But obviously you have, and that is the paradox.
I teach for money (let us get that out of the way.). I have been teaching for money because my family has been in debt, and a son does not stand and watch his father declare bankruptcy. His business failed in my junior year in college, and the final two years’ tuition was the log that broke his back. Those were tough times. I shelved my plan of attending law school and stopped fiddling with the idea of a Ph.D. in philosophy. Instead, I took a teaching job in ABC, where I could look after my parents and help pay off the debt.
Things improved gradually, and I moved back home to DEFG. Since then, I have been as busy as should be a man with debts and dreams. At first, the dreams were obstacles in getting things done; as hard as I worked, I could not stop myself from reserving time for my interests in philosophy, photography, poetry, and languages. In time, I have found that the act of teaching is not so different from the sharing of interests, and students respond better when I forget that I am teaching, as I often do when I roll a marked frisbee around the desk to illustrate Aristotle’s Wheel Paradox, or break a Starbucks stir stick repeatedly to imitate Zhuangzi’s infinite spear-breaking.
Now I teach mostly what I want to teach (is this what seniority and tenure must feel like?). For three years, I taught reading and writing and test preparatory courses that students asked for, but now I share with my students my readings of Jorge Luis Borges, Ted Hughes, J. M. Coetzee, Billy Collins, Thoreau, Beckett, Bukowski, and of other giants who happen to be trampling on my mind at the time. Though he has passed away before I had a chance to hear his lectures, Borges has been living with a foot on my head for a while. Many of my students share my love for his love for labyrinths, dreams, and infinity.
I try to do what I wish someone had done for me during high school, when I struggled to learn philosophy and poetry on my own. I know most students like Andrew the Hockey Player move on to study something more practical, like chemistry, economics, business, or dentistry, but I sometimes do get e-mails from former students saying they have decided to take a philosophy course (and earn a sadistic chuckle from me).
This essay signals the end of my six-year teaching career. As of late last year, I have been debt-free and started saving for school. I began this essay with my paradox workshop because I did not want to seem ungrateful by beginning with misfortune. That is not how I feel. Had I the choice to attend law school six years ago, you would have read an idealistic essay by a philosophy student eager to learn of the Truth of things for his own sake. This is and is not that essay.
Lol, this was very cute and intelligent.
This is really good! Thank you for sharingStanfordHopeful wrote:With my cycle drawing to a close I thought I would post mine...
3.41/159
In: UCLA (24k), USC, Texas (33k), Fordham, Temple (36k), Howard (60k)
WL: Duke, Cornell, Georgetown
Rej: UVa, Michigan, Boalt
Have not heard from: Stanford, Harvard, Penn
Attending: NORTHWESTERN!!!!!!!
I never really paid much attention to the signs placed in front of the homeless and the less fortunate as I walked past them on the streets of New York. These were the thoughts running through my head as I considered what my own sign should read. Certainly, no one was going to read it. I had just spent the night in the ATM area of a desolate Citibank branch trying to get some sleep. I had no money, no phone and no hope of getting back to school in Boston. I think I came down with the worst case of writer’s block that morning as I tried to come up with a compelling message that would entice some level of compassion from a complete stranger. Having entertained the idea of a sign for a brief moment, I put the whole notion to rest, my pride simply would not allow for it. I used my gift for gab to convey my circumstances to the bus driver and garnered some sympathy towards my cause. I had to put my Discman up as collateral in order to get a seat on the next bus heading back to Boston which seemed like a small price to pay in exchange for a piece of my dignity as I avoided having to use a sign. The next four hours on that bus were filled with intense scrutiny and contemplation. I did not need my Discman after all. The biggest question I kept asking myself was ‘how did I get here?’
I was in my third year of undergraduate studies at Northeastern and I was barely able to make ends meet financially. Being the first member of my family to attend college was both a gift and a curse. I always excelled in the realm of academia and this was a great source of pride and joy for my parents. As a member of the schools Dean’s List and a number of different clubs and organizations, I gave my family something to cheer for. At the same time, being the first family member to attend college really called for financial resources that were beyond my parents’ modest income. Like a deep-sea diver venturing into an infinite ocean with inadequate supplies, I dove in headfirst. I knew that my acceptance into Northeastern was not something I could put aside because of money. My family shared the same sentiments and agreed that this was something that needed to happen. Completing my college education and attaining that degree was a must.
However, as each year passed it became increasingly difficult to maintain a financial foothold on my college education. No longer able to keep my head above water, I found myself completely submerged and gasping for air. By my third year, I was skipping meals or simply eating candy bars that I had shaken out of vending machines for dinner. I knew I could not last long. When I voiced my fears to a concerned listener on the other end of the phone, I thought a solution might have been reached. The plan was to go back home to NY and meet up with him. I agreed to serve as a runner, transporting drugs between a contact in New York and a contact in Boston. The money seemed justifiable and the risks seemed manageable. I was completely focused on the ends and not the means at this point. I used my last twenty dollars on a bus ticket and a dream and found myself spending the night on the floor of a Citibank branch. This cold and dirty floor, like the bed of a vast ocean, was the bottom.
Fortunately, no one showed up that night. I spent the whole night reflecting on how and why I was there to begin with. I could not believe I had even considered partaking in such activities just to generate some income. I would later find out that my real dad, whom I never met, suffered the same fate. My mom shared the story of how my father lived a life as a drug dealer only to be murdered while she was pregnant with me. It was at this point that the fire was lit inside of me and the thought of what I needed to do to make my college aspirations a reality became clearer. I realized I wanted to be a different person with clear and attainable goals for my academic and professional career. I transferred to a smaller college in New York where tuition was more affordable and I moved back home with my parents. I set my ego aside and worked full time as I put myself through school working forty-hour weeks by day and attending classes by night. No longer satisfied with my easily attainable but mediocre B’s and B+’s I studied diligently and completed my undergraduate degree with ‘A’s almost totally across the board. This afforded me a spot on a national honors society in recognition of my efforts.
There are two types of people in this world, those who take and those who make. Some people resign themselves to their fate and accept the hand which was dealt to them. That was me, nonchalant and absolutely content with any grade I received, apathetic about my lack of progress. As rough and as painful as a night in the cold and on the streets felt as it was occurring, I knew I only stood to learn from it in the long run. Now I am the protagonist in my own life instead of just being an idle spectator. My ambitions for law school have been cultivated by this vision of making things happen, not only for me but also for the sake of others. My younger sisters have both followed suite as they too have a roadmap drawn up to help them attain their college degrees. I have led by example, showing them that anything is truly possible if you want it bad enough and work hard for it. That whole experience has taught me a number of valuable lessons. I learned how to remain humble and to not let pride obscure my perception of what is important in life. I learned about resilience and about being steadfast in the face of adversity. I also became more tenacious as a result of that night. Now when I see something I want, I lock onto it like the jaws of a famished pit bull, not letting go until I devour and conquer what I set out to achieve. I know all of these qualities will help me excel in the study of law just as they have helped me arise triumphant in my turbulent undergraduate years as well as my professional career after College. This work ethic and newfound vision has transcended beyond my Bachelor’s degree and into the world of finance.
For the past year I have been working as an analyst with Morgan Stanley. My ability to make quick decisions and to think analytically is essential when dealing with a multitude of multi-million dollar trades. In order to work out various trade discrepancies I serve as a liaison between brokers, traders and various sales desks on the front end. This has allowed me to hone my communication skills. Getting my point across in a concise and comprehensible manner is crucial for the company’s financial goals. I know that these skills will help me to be a better law student and I’m excited at the prospect of sharing and learning with my future classmates and professors. Now when I look back at my undergraduate years and my professional career the question is no longer “how did I get here?” instead it is “where am I going?”
Yes, I think the key is in formulating and wording it in a beautiful way. No matter what it is. You can pick the most common thing, but if it is described in a beautiful way, it's enough to make it special and different.Kompressor wrote:See, that's where I'm stuck now too but I think there's going to be a part of it that sounds cliche no matter what. Schools want you to say certain things so there are bound to be some sections of your essay that sound like everyone else's. Just try to make sure that there's another aspect to it that sounds personal. At least, that's what I'm telling myself now. For some background, I'm white, from a middle class family, and from Maine. I haven't had any awful tragedy strike my life, so I can't write about that either. My best advice to you is to give the honest answer as to why you want to go to law school. Even if it seems cliche to you, it may not be to the reader.
^ lawlz. thisMr.Binks wrote:What the fuck did I just read?AndrewCraig wrote:Her rumpled rainbow socks winked at me through the window; I winked back. She smiled slyly and I waited for the castle drawbridge to lower. I was a gallant knight storming the castle walls and she a scrappy maiden awaiting rescue. Two wooden boards flopped onto the ground and I bravely stuck my toe out over the deadly moat. A small minnow stared up at me, a reminder of the dangers lurking in the deep. I collected my courage and hurried onward. Who knew what terrors lay ahead? With my cardboard sword, I fought through spider-web traps and invisible guards, I slayed a medium-sized dragon and a rather wimpy troll. I reached the stairway short a few fingers, but with high morale. I had forgotten my map, so I hoped this was the right room. I charged up the stairs and burst through the door to find her sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Persis Pennington had wild green eyes and red hair that grew like a tangled shrub from her small round head. A toothy grin lit up her face when she saw me and she motioned for me to sit down. I sheathed my sword and removed the over-sized cooking pot from my head. She gave me a serious look and said in a whisper,
“I need you to promise me something and you can’t tell anyone in the whole world.”
I nodded solemnly.
“Promise me you’ll always be a knight and that you’ll always believe in magic and dragons and evil wizards.”
I looked up into her fierce green eyes; imagination and belief lit up her features. Several strands of her fiery red hair had fallen across her face and moved a little as a breeze flew in the open tower window.
“The warlock will be here soon,” I whispered back.
“Promise me. You have to promise me.”
She lived in a world of pure imagination. In that grove of oak trees, just beyond Sander’s creek, over the tall green hedge and through the prickly thicket, anything was possible.
My rumpled rainbow socks poke out from beneath a blanket as I lay on a couch in a room far away from castles and dragons. They are worn and faded and do not wink much anymore; instead they wear a sad smile. They remember that once, many years ago a fair maiden waited for a knight who never stormed through the castle gates to save her. He had grown to old to see the castle walls and to cross the deadly moat. He packed his things into boxes and moved away. His mother cleaned out his room and threw away his sword and placed his helmet back on the shelf.
I am no longer a knight; I am not brave or dashing. Sometimes I wish I had made a promise to a fiery maiden in a cardboard castle at the top of a tower.
just stumbled across this... and now I'm crying in my cubical.Pishee77 wrote:This was beautiful.jimmierock wrote:GoIggles wrote:It was just about this time last year that I began to put real effort into my personal statement. So, for those of you who find yourselves at the PS writing stage now, I hope this helps. I know this thread was a great resource for me while I was writing.
GPA: ~3.95
LSAT: ~175
Admissions Decisions: In everywhere I applied
This is a story about stories. It’s a story about my grandfather, a master storyteller, and me, his apprentice. It’s a story about the last and most important lesson he taught me—a lesson not about how to tell good stories, but about the good that telling stories can do.
My apprenticeship began just moments after I was born. As my mother tells it, my grandfather plucked me from her tired arms in the delivery room and immediately commenced my first tutorial: cradling me in his left arm, his right keeping time with the rhythm of his tale, my grandfather charmed the medical staff with the story of how I came to be named [name]. Over the years that followed, I spent hours taking mental notes as I watched similar scenes unfold. Neighbors we ran into at the grocery store, waiters taking our order at restaurants, friends who came over to play—all of them were audience members as far as my grandfather was concerned. And no one ever walked away from one of his performances disappointed, least of all me.
As I entered college nearly two decades later, I thought my apprenticeship had come to an end. I was no longer the small child sitting spellbound at the foot of my grandfather’s rocking chair, no longer the gawky teenager asking for advice as I wrote stories for my school newspaper. By then, I had grown into someone with whom my grandfather could sit on his porch and swap stories, equal-to-equal. After eighteen years of lessons from my grandfather, I thought I had become a storyteller in my own right.
So when I got to [college], I sought out a venue in which to practice my art. And I found it in collegiate mock trial—a trial advocacy competition for undergraduates. This, I told myself, was what my grandfather had trained me for; if I worked hard and put his lessons into practice, I was certain that I’d find success. And I did. But, to my dismay, racking up victories, winning individual awards, even the storytelling itself—it all left me feeling unfulfilled. My most painstakingly prepared, most passionately delivered closing arguments brought me only a shadow of the joy that my grandfather radiated while telling his stories. I couldn’t understand or explain it, but something was clearly missing.
That’s when my grandfather came through with one final lesson for his apprentice. It started with a panicked phone call from my mom. My grandfather was sick with cancer, she said, and he didn’t have much time left. From then on, I spent as many weekends as possible by my grandfather’s bedside. In all those painful visits, it was never clearer that he was slipping away than the day when his hospice nurse asked to hear one of his famous stories. Naturally, he agreed, jumping into his favorite about the hospital he’d helped build in England while in the Air Force. But he had to quit halfway through. Mid-telling, he realized he no longer had the strength to finish; he realized the disease that had stolen his health was now stealing his stories too.
As he trailed off with the heavy hurt of loss spreading across his face, I took his hand. And I did what he had spent years training me to do. I told a story—his story. For the first time in months, I told a story not because I wanted a trophy or a plaque. I picked up where my grandfather left off and finished his story because I loved him and couldn’t stand to see him hurt anymore. When I turned back to him to ask whether I’d gotten all the details right, his cheeks were shining with tears. He squeezed my hand hard, smiled, and winked as he said, “Now that's a story, [name].”
That’s when it clicked. That’s when I realized why mock trial felt so hollow—why the stories I had been telling brought me only an ounce of the satisfaction that my grandfather’s stories brought him. With no real client to fight for, with only trophies on the line, I was telling stories just because I wanted something out of them. But my grandfather told his stories because he knew they would mean something to others, to the people with whom he shared them. As I sat there holding his hand, I thought of all the times he had brightened someone’s day with a story, of all the smiles and laughs his storytelling had inspired. That, I realized, was my grandfather’s real legacy—not the stories themselves, but the good he had done with them. And in finishing his story to spare him more pain, I was finally starting to live up to that legacy.
My grandfather is gone now. But his lessons—especially the final one—remain. And ever since I helped tell his story, I’ve been striving to live those lessons. I lived them as I continued with mock trial, telling stories to help my teammates reach the goals they’d worked so hard to achieve. I lived them as I volunteered at [college town] Legal Aid, relaying my clients’ stories to win them the assistance they needed. Now, I plan to live my grandfather’s lessons as an attorney. I can imagine nothing more fulfilling than standing in front of a jury, telling the stories of those who have suffered injury and indignity, faithfully, convincingly, passionately. And when I’m done, when I’m returning to counsel table after telling the tale of someone who’s suffered, I’ll look to the back of the courtroom. I know he won’t be there, but I’ll hope to see him anyway. My friend, my mentor, my grandfather—smiling, winking, and then silently mouthing, “Now that’s a story, [name].”
Wow, that is all I can say. You are certainly right, that IS A STORY.
Yep, I'm crying. So beautiful.tfinndogm wrote:just stumbled across this... and now I'm crying in my cubical.Pishee77 wrote:This was beautiful.jimmierock wrote:GoIggles wrote:It was just about this time last year that I began to put real effort into my personal statement. So, for those of you who find yourselves at the PS writing stage now, I hope this helps. I know this thread was a great resource for me while I was writing.
GPA: ~3.95
LSAT: ~175
Admissions Decisions: In everywhere I applied
This is a story about stories. It’s a story about my grandfather, a master storyteller, and me, his apprentice. It’s a story about the last and most important lesson he taught me—a lesson not about how to tell good stories, but about the good that telling stories can do.
My apprenticeship began just moments after I was born. As my mother tells it, my grandfather plucked me from her tired arms in the delivery room and immediately commenced my first tutorial: cradling me in his left arm, his right keeping time with the rhythm of his tale, my grandfather charmed the medical staff with the story of how I came to be named [name]. Over the years that followed, I spent hours taking mental notes as I watched similar scenes unfold. Neighbors we ran into at the grocery store, waiters taking our order at restaurants, friends who came over to play—all of them were audience members as far as my grandfather was concerned. And no one ever walked away from one of his performances disappointed, least of all me.
As I entered college nearly two decades later, I thought my apprenticeship had come to an end. I was no longer the small child sitting spellbound at the foot of my grandfather’s rocking chair, no longer the gawky teenager asking for advice as I wrote stories for my school newspaper. By then, I had grown into someone with whom my grandfather could sit on his porch and swap stories, equal-to-equal. After eighteen years of lessons from my grandfather, I thought I had become a storyteller in my own right.
So when I got to [college], I sought out a venue in which to practice my art. And I found it in collegiate mock trial—a trial advocacy competition for undergraduates. This, I told myself, was what my grandfather had trained me for; if I worked hard and put his lessons into practice, I was certain that I’d find success. And I did. But, to my dismay, racking up victories, winning individual awards, even the storytelling itself—it all left me feeling unfulfilled. My most painstakingly prepared, most passionately delivered closing arguments brought me only a shadow of the joy that my grandfather radiated while telling his stories. I couldn’t understand or explain it, but something was clearly missing.
That’s when my grandfather came through with one final lesson for his apprentice. It started with a panicked phone call from my mom. My grandfather was sick with cancer, she said, and he didn’t have much time left. From then on, I spent as many weekends as possible by my grandfather’s bedside. In all those painful visits, it was never clearer that he was slipping away than the day when his hospice nurse asked to hear one of his famous stories. Naturally, he agreed, jumping into his favorite about the hospital he’d helped build in England while in the Air Force. But he had to quit halfway through. Mid-telling, he realized he no longer had the strength to finish; he realized the disease that had stolen his health was now stealing his stories too.
As he trailed off with the heavy hurt of loss spreading across his face, I took his hand. And I did what he had spent years training me to do. I told a story—his story. For the first time in months, I told a story not because I wanted a trophy or a plaque. I picked up where my grandfather left off and finished his story because I loved him and couldn’t stand to see him hurt anymore. When I turned back to him to ask whether I’d gotten all the details right, his cheeks were shining with tears. He squeezed my hand hard, smiled, and winked as he said, “Now that's a story, [name].”
That’s when it clicked. That’s when I realized why mock trial felt so hollow—why the stories I had been telling brought me only an ounce of the satisfaction that my grandfather’s stories brought him. With no real client to fight for, with only trophies on the line, I was telling stories just because I wanted something out of them. But my grandfather told his stories because he knew they would mean something to others, to the people with whom he shared them. As I sat there holding his hand, I thought of all the times he had brightened someone’s day with a story, of all the smiles and laughs his storytelling had inspired. That, I realized, was my grandfather’s real legacy—not the stories themselves, but the good he had done with them. And in finishing his story to spare him more pain, I was finally starting to live up to that legacy.
My grandfather is gone now. But his lessons—especially the final one—remain. And ever since I helped tell his story, I’ve been striving to live those lessons. I lived them as I continued with mock trial, telling stories to help my teammates reach the goals they’d worked so hard to achieve. I lived them as I volunteered at [college town] Legal Aid, relaying my clients’ stories to win them the assistance they needed. Now, I plan to live my grandfather’s lessons as an attorney. I can imagine nothing more fulfilling than standing in front of a jury, telling the stories of those who have suffered injury and indignity, faithfully, convincingly, passionately. And when I’m done, when I’m returning to counsel table after telling the tale of someone who’s suffered, I’ll look to the back of the courtroom. I know he won’t be there, but I’ll hope to see him anyway. My friend, my mentor, my grandfather—smiling, winking, and then silently mouthing, “Now that’s a story, [name].”
Wow, that is all I can say. You are certainly right, that IS A STORY.
Beautifully written piece for any medium, let alone a ps. Best I have seen.GoIggles wrote:It was just about this time last year that I began to put real effort into my personal statement. So, for those of you who find yourselves at the PS writing stage now, I hope this helps. I know this thread was a great resource for me while I was writing.
GPA: ~3.95
LSAT: ~175
Admissions Decisions: In everywhere I applied
This is a story about stories. It’s a story about my grandfather, a master storyteller, and me, his apprentice. It’s a story about the last and most important lesson he taught me—a lesson not about how to tell good stories, but about the good that telling stories can do.
My apprenticeship began just moments after I was born. As my mother tells it, my grandfather plucked me from her tired arms in the delivery room and immediately commenced my first tutorial: cradling me in his left arm, his right keeping time with the rhythm of his tale, my grandfather charmed the medical staff with the story of how I came to be named [name]. Over the years that followed, I spent hours taking mental notes as I watched similar scenes unfold. Neighbors we ran into at the grocery store, waiters taking our order at restaurants, friends who came over to play—all of them were audience members as far as my grandfather was concerned. And no one ever walked away from one of his performances disappointed, least of all me.
As I entered college nearly two decades later, I thought my apprenticeship had come to an end. I was no longer the small child sitting spellbound at the foot of my grandfather’s rocking chair, no longer the gawky teenager asking for advice as I wrote stories for my school newspaper. By then, I had grown into someone with whom my grandfather could sit on his porch and swap stories, equal-to-equal. After eighteen years of lessons from my grandfather, I thought I had become a storyteller in my own right.
So when I got to [college], I sought out a venue in which to practice my art. And I found it in collegiate mock trial—a trial advocacy competition for undergraduates. This, I told myself, was what my grandfather had trained me for; if I worked hard and put his lessons into practice, I was certain that I’d find success. And I did. But, to my dismay, racking up victories, winning individual awards, even the storytelling itself—it all left me feeling unfulfilled. My most painstakingly prepared, most passionately delivered closing arguments brought me only a shadow of the joy that my grandfather radiated while telling his stories. I couldn’t understand or explain it, but something was clearly missing.
That’s when my grandfather came through with one final lesson for his apprentice. It started with a panicked phone call from my mom. My grandfather was sick with cancer, she said, and he didn’t have much time left. From then on, I spent as many weekends as possible by my grandfather’s bedside. In all those painful visits, it was never clearer that he was slipping away than the day when his hospice nurse asked to hear one of his famous stories. Naturally, he agreed, jumping into his favorite about the hospital he’d helped build in England while in the Air Force. But he had to quit halfway through. Mid-telling, he realized he no longer had the strength to finish; he realized the disease that had stolen his health was now stealing his stories too.
As he trailed off with the heavy hurt of loss spreading across his face, I took his hand. And I did what he had spent years training me to do. I told a story—his story. For the first time in months, I told a story not because I wanted a trophy or a plaque. I picked up where my grandfather left off and finished his story because I loved him and couldn’t stand to see him hurt anymore. When I turned back to him to ask whether I’d gotten all the details right, his cheeks were shining with tears. He squeezed my hand hard, smiled, and winked as he said, “Now that's a story, [name].”
That’s when it clicked. That’s when I realized why mock trial felt so hollow—why the stories I had been telling brought me only an ounce of the satisfaction that my grandfather’s stories brought him. With no real client to fight for, with only trophies on the line, I was telling stories just because I wanted something out of them. But my grandfather told his stories because he knew they would mean something to others, to the people with whom he shared them. As I sat there holding his hand, I thought of all the times he had brightened someone’s day with a story, of all the smiles and laughs his storytelling had inspired. That, I realized, was my grandfather’s real legacy—not the stories themselves, but the good he had done with them. And in finishing his story to spare him more pain, I was finally starting to live up to that legacy.
My grandfather is gone now. But his lessons—especially the final one—remain. And ever since I helped tell his story, I’ve been striving to live those lessons. I lived them as I continued with mock trial, telling stories to help my teammates reach the goals they’d worked so hard to achieve. I lived them as I volunteered at [college town] Legal Aid, relaying my clients’ stories to win them the assistance they needed. Now, I plan to live my grandfather’s lessons as an attorney. I can imagine nothing more fulfilling than standing in front of a jury, telling the stories of those who have suffered injury and indignity, faithfully, convincingly, passionately. And when I’m done, when I’m returning to counsel table after telling the tale of someone who’s suffered, I’ll look to the back of the courtroom. I know he won’t be there, but I’ll hope to see him anyway. My friend, my mentor, my grandfather—smiling, winking, and then silently mouthing, “Now that’s a story, [name].”
Wow! My PS couldn't hold a candle to this and I thought mine was good.GoIggles wrote:It was just about this time last year that I began to put real effort into my personal statement. So, for those of you who find yourselves at the PS writing stage now, I hope this helps. I know this thread was a great resource for me while I was writing.
GPA: ~3.95
LSAT: ~175
Admissions Decisions: In everywhere I applied
This is a story about stories. It’s a story about my grandfather, a master storyteller, and me, his apprentice. It’s a story about the last and most important lesson he taught me—a lesson not about how to tell good stories, but about the good that telling stories can do.
My apprenticeship began just moments after I was born. As my mother tells it, my grandfather plucked me from her tired arms in the delivery room and immediately commenced my first tutorial: cradling me in his left arm, his right keeping time with the rhythm of his tale, my grandfather charmed the medical staff with the story of how I came to be named [name]. Over the years that followed, I spent hours taking mental notes as I watched similar scenes unfold. Neighbors we ran into at the grocery store, waiters taking our order at restaurants, friends who came over to play—all of them were audience members as far as my grandfather was concerned. And no one ever walked away from one of his performances disappointed, least of all me.
As I entered college nearly two decades later, I thought my apprenticeship had come to an end. I was no longer the small child sitting spellbound at the foot of my grandfather’s rocking chair, no longer the gawky teenager asking for advice as I wrote stories for my school newspaper. By then, I had grown into someone with whom my grandfather could sit on his porch and swap stories, equal-to-equal. After eighteen years of lessons from my grandfather, I thought I had become a storyteller in my own right.
So when I got to [college], I sought out a venue in which to practice my art. And I found it in collegiate mock trial—a trial advocacy competition for undergraduates. This, I told myself, was what my grandfather had trained me for; if I worked hard and put his lessons into practice, I was certain that I’d find success. And I did. But, to my dismay, racking up victories, winning individual awards, even the storytelling itself—it all left me feeling unfulfilled. My most painstakingly prepared, most passionately delivered closing arguments brought me only a shadow of the joy that my grandfather radiated while telling his stories. I couldn’t understand or explain it, but something was clearly missing.
That’s when my grandfather came through with one final lesson for his apprentice. It started with a panicked phone call from my mom. My grandfather was sick with cancer, she said, and he didn’t have much time left. From then on, I spent as many weekends as possible by my grandfather’s bedside. In all those painful visits, it was never clearer that he was slipping away than the day when his hospice nurse asked to hear one of his famous stories. Naturally, he agreed, jumping into his favorite about the hospital he’d helped build in England while in the Air Force. But he had to quit halfway through. Mid-telling, he realized he no longer had the strength to finish; he realized the disease that had stolen his health was now stealing his stories too.
As he trailed off with the heavy hurt of loss spreading across his face, I took his hand. And I did what he had spent years training me to do. I told a story—his story. For the first time in months, I told a story not because I wanted a trophy or a plaque. I picked up where my grandfather left off and finished his story because I loved him and couldn’t stand to see him hurt anymore. When I turned back to him to ask whether I’d gotten all the details right, his cheeks were shining with tears. He squeezed my hand hard, smiled, and winked as he said, “Now that's a story, [name].”
That’s when it clicked. That’s when I realized why mock trial felt so hollow—why the stories I had been telling brought me only an ounce of the satisfaction that my grandfather’s stories brought him. With no real client to fight for, with only trophies on the line, I was telling stories just because I wanted something out of them. But my grandfather told his stories because he knew they would mean something to others, to the people with whom he shared them. As I sat there holding his hand, I thought of all the times he had brightened someone’s day with a story, of all the smiles and laughs his storytelling had inspired. That, I realized, was my grandfather’s real legacy—not the stories themselves, but the good he had done with them. And in finishing his story to spare him more pain, I was finally starting to live up to that legacy.
My grandfather is gone now. But his lessons—especially the final one—remain. And ever since I helped tell his story, I’ve been striving to live those lessons. I lived them as I continued with mock trial, telling stories to help my teammates reach the goals they’d worked so hard to achieve. I lived them as I volunteered at [college town] Legal Aid, relaying my clients’ stories to win them the assistance they needed. Now, I plan to live my grandfather’s lessons as an attorney. I can imagine nothing more fulfilling than standing in front of a jury, telling the stories of those who have suffered injury and indignity, faithfully, convincingly, passionately. And when I’m done, when I’m returning to counsel table after telling the tale of someone who’s suffered, I’ll look to the back of the courtroom. I know he won’t be there, but I’ll hope to see him anyway. My friend, my mentor, my grandfather—smiling, winking, and then silently mouthing, “Now that’s a story, [name].”
GoIggles wrote:It was just about this time last year that I began to put real effort into my personal statement. So, for those of you who find yourselves at the PS writing stage now, I hope this helps. I know this thread was a great resource for me while I was writing.
GPA: ~3.95
LSAT: ~175
Admissions Decisions: In everywhere I applied
This is a story about stories. It’s a story about my grandfather, a master storyteller, and me, his apprentice. It’s a story about the last and most important lesson he taught me—a lesson not about how to tell good stories, but about the good that telling stories can do.
My apprenticeship began just moments after I was born. As my mother tells it, my grandfather plucked me from her tired arms in the delivery room and immediately commenced my first tutorial: cradling me in his left arm, his right keeping time with the rhythm of his tale, my grandfather charmed the medical staff with the story of how I came to be named [name]. Over the years that followed, I spent hours taking mental notes as I watched similar scenes unfold. Neighbors we ran into at the grocery store, waiters taking our order at restaurants, friends who came over to play—all of them were audience members as far as my grandfather was concerned. And no one ever walked away from one of his performances disappointed, least of all me.
As I entered college nearly two decades later, I thought my apprenticeship had come to an end. I was no longer the small child sitting spellbound at the foot of my grandfather’s rocking chair, no longer the gawky teenager asking for advice as I wrote stories for my school newspaper. By then, I had grown into someone with whom my grandfather could sit on his porch and swap stories, equal-to-equal. After eighteen years of lessons from my grandfather, I thought I had become a storyteller in my own right.
So when I got to [college], I sought out a venue in which to practice my art. And I found it in collegiate mock trial—a trial advocacy competition for undergraduates. This, I told myself, was what my grandfather had trained me for; if I worked hard and put his lessons into practice, I was certain that I’d find success. And I did. But, to my dismay, racking up victories, winning individual awards, even the storytelling itself—it all left me feeling unfulfilled. My most painstakingly prepared, most passionately delivered closing arguments brought me only a shadow of the joy that my grandfather radiated while telling his stories. I couldn’t understand or explain it, but something was clearly missing.
That’s when my grandfather came through with one final lesson for his apprentice. It started with a panicked phone call from my mom. My grandfather was sick with cancer, she said, and he didn’t have much time left. From then on, I spent as many weekends as possible by my grandfather’s bedside. In all those painful visits, it was never clearer that he was slipping away than the day when his hospice nurse asked to hear one of his famous stories. Naturally, he agreed, jumping into his favorite about the hospital he’d helped build in England while in the Air Force. But he had to quit halfway through. Mid-telling, he realized he no longer had the strength to finish; he realized the disease that had stolen his health was now stealing his stories too.
As he trailed off with the heavy hurt of loss spreading across his face, I took his hand. And I did what he had spent years training me to do. I told a story—his story. For the first time in months, I told a story not because I wanted a trophy or a plaque. I picked up where my grandfather left off and finished his story because I loved him and couldn’t stand to see him hurt anymore. When I turned back to him to ask whether I’d gotten all the details right, his cheeks were shining with tears. He squeezed my hand hard, smiled, and winked as he said, “Now that's a story, [name].”
That’s when it clicked. That’s when I realized why mock trial felt so hollow—why the stories I had been telling brought me only an ounce of the satisfaction that my grandfather’s stories brought him. With no real client to fight for, with only trophies on the line, I was telling stories just because I wanted something out of them. But my grandfather told his stories because he knew they would mean something to others, to the people with whom he shared them. As I sat there holding his hand, I thought of all the times he had brightened someone’s day with a story, of all the smiles and laughs his storytelling had inspired. That, I realized, was my grandfather’s real legacy—not the stories themselves, but the good he had done with them. And in finishing his story to spare him more pain, I was finally starting to live up to that legacy.
My grandfather is gone now. But his lessons—especially the final one—remain. And ever since I helped tell his story, I’ve been striving to live those lessons. I lived them as I continued with mock trial, telling stories to help my teammates reach the goals they’d worked so hard to achieve. I lived them as I volunteered at [college town] Legal Aid, relaying my clients’ stories to win them the assistance they needed. Now, I plan to live my grandfather’s lessons as an attorney. I can imagine nothing more fulfilling than standing in front of a jury, telling the stories of those who have suffered injury and indignity, faithfully, convincingly, passionately. And when I’m done, when I’m returning to counsel table after telling the tale of someone who’s suffered, I’ll look to the back of the courtroom. I know he won’t be there, but I’ll hope to see him anyway. My friend, my mentor, my grandfather—smiling, winking, and then silently mouthing, “Now that’s a story, [name].”