几年前有个女孩也是被所有藤校录取了，她的文书和这个故事比较像，也是娓娓道来一路走来母亲的不易，自己的奋斗，如何变坚强，如何影响别人，将来要如何帮助别人 https://secondstarcass.wordpress.com/2019/09/19/i-got-into-all-8-ivy-league-schools-read-my-common-app-essay-here/ In our house, English is not English. Not in the phonetic sense, like short a is for apple, but rather in the pronunciation – in our house, snake is snack. Words do not roll off our tongues correctly – yet I, who was pulled out of class to meet with language specialists, and my mother from Malaysia, who pronounces film as flim, understand each other perfectly. In our house, there is no difference between cast and cash, which was why at a church retreat, people made fun of me for “cashing out demons.” I did not realize the glaring difference between the two Englishes until my teacher corrected my pronunciations of hammock, ladle, and siphon. Classmates laughed because I pronounce accept as except, success as sussess. I was in the Creative Writing conservatory, and yet words failed me when I needed them most. Suddenly, understanding flower is flour wasn’t enough. I rejected the English that had never seemed broken before, a language that had raised me and taught me everything I knew. Everybody else’s parents spoke with accents smarting of Ph.D.s and university teaching positions. So why couldn’t mine? My mother spread her sunbaked hands and said, “This is where I came from,” spinning a tale with the English she had taught herself. When my mother moved from her village to a town in Malaysia, she had to learn a brand new language in middle school: English. In a time when humiliation was encouraged, my mother was defenseless against the cruel words spewing from the teacher, who criticized her paper in front of the class. When she began to cry, the class president stood up and said, “That’s enough.” “Be like that class president,” my mother said with tears in her eyes. The class president took her under her wing and patiently mended my mother’s strands of language. “She stood up for the weak and used her words to fight back.” We were both crying now. My mother asked me to teach her proper English so old white ladies at Target wouldn’t laugh at her pronunciation. It has not been easy. There is a measure of guilt when I sew her letters together. Long vowels, double consonants — I am still learning myself. Sometimes I let the brokenness slide to spare her pride but perhaps I have hurt her more to spare mine. As my mother’s vocabulary began to grow, I mended my own English. Through performing poetry in front of 3000 at my school’s Season Finale event, interviewing people from all walks of life, and writing stories for the stage, I stand against ignorance and become a voice for the homeless, the refugees, the ignored. With my words I fight against jeers pelted at an old Asian street performer on a New York subway. My mother’s eyes are reflected in underprivileged ESL children who have so many stories to tell but do not know how. I fill them with words as they take needle and thread to make a tapestry. In our house, there is beauty in the way we speak to each other. In our house, language is not broken but rather bursting with emotion. We have built a house out of words. There are friendly snakes in the cupboard and snacks in the tank. It is a crooked house. It is a little messy. But this is where we have made our home.
几年前有个女孩也是被所有藤校录取了，她的文书和这个故事比较像，也是娓娓道来一路走来母亲的不易，自己的奋斗，如何变坚强，如何影响别人，将来要如何帮助别人 https://secondstarcass.wordpress.com/2019/09/19/i-got-into-all-8-ivy-league-schools-read-my-common-app-essay-here/ In our house, English is not English. Not in the phonetic sense, like short a is for apple, but rather in the pronunciation – in our house, snake is snack. Words do not roll off our tongues correctly – yet I, who was pulled out of class to meet with language specialists, and my mother from Malaysia, who pronounces film as flim, understand each other perfectly. In our house, there is no difference between cast and cash, which was why at a church retreat, people made fun of me for “cashing out demons.” I did not realize the glaring difference between the two Englishes until my teacher corrected my pronunciations of hammock, ladle, and siphon. Classmates laughed because I pronounce accept as except, success as sussess. I was in the Creative Writing conservatory, and yet words failed me when I needed them most. Suddenly, understanding flower is flour wasn’t enough. I rejected the English that had never seemed broken before, a language that had raised me and taught me everything I knew. Everybody else’s parents spoke with accents smarting of Ph.D.s and university teaching positions. So why couldn’t mine? My mother spread her sunbaked hands and said, “This is where I came from,” spinning a tale with the English she had taught herself. When my mother moved from her village to a town in Malaysia, she had to learn a brand new language in middle school: English. In a time when humiliation was encouraged, my mother was defenseless against the cruel words spewing from the teacher, who criticized her paper in front of the class. When she began to cry, the class president stood up and said, “That’s enough.” “Be like that class president,” my mother said with tears in her eyes. The class president took her under her wing and patiently mended my mother’s strands of language. “She stood up for the weak and used her words to fight back.” We were both crying now. My mother asked me to teach her proper English so old white ladies at Target wouldn’t laugh at her pronunciation. It has not been easy. There is a measure of guilt when I sew her letters together. Long vowels, double consonants — I am still learning myself. Sometimes I let the brokenness slide to spare her pride but perhaps I have hurt her more to spare mine. As my mother’s vocabulary began to grow, I mended my own English. Through performing poetry in front of 3000 at my school’s Season Finale event, interviewing people from all walks of life, and writing stories for the stage, I stand against ignorance and become a voice for the homeless, the refugees, the ignored. With my words I fight against jeers pelted at an old Asian street performer on a New York subway. My mother’s eyes are reflected in underprivileged ESL children who have so many stories to tell but do not know how. I fill them with words as they take needle and thread to make a tapestry. In our house, there is beauty in the way we speak to each other. In our house, language is not broken but rather bursting with emotion. We have built a house out of words. There are friendly snakes in the cupboard and snacks in the tank. It is a crooked house. It is a little messy. But this is where we have made our home. jajabin 发表于 2021-05-12 01:01
几年前有个女孩也是被所有藤校录取了，她的文书和这个故事比较像，也是娓娓道来一路走来母亲的不易，自己的奋斗，如何变坚强，如何影响别人，将来要如何帮助别人 https://secondstarcass.wordpress.com/2019/09/19/i-got-into-all-8-ivy-league-schools-read-my-common-app-essay-here/ In our house, English is not English. Not in the phonetic sense, like short a is for apple, but rather in the pronunciation – in our house, snake is snack. Words do not roll off our tongues correctly – yet I, who was pulled out of class to meet with language specialists, and my mother from Malaysia, who pronounces film as flim, understand each other perfectly. In our house, there is no difference between cast and cash, which was why at a church retreat, people made fun of me for “cashing out demons.” I did not realize the glaring difference between the two Englishes until my teacher corrected my pronunciations of hammock, ladle, and siphon. Classmates laughed because I pronounce accept as except, success as sussess. I was in the Creative Writing conservatory, and yet words failed me when I needed them most. Suddenly, understanding flower is flour wasn’t enough. I rejected the English that had never seemed broken before, a language that had raised me and taught me everything I knew. Everybody else’s parents spoke with accents smarting of Ph.D.s and university teaching positions. So why couldn’t mine? My mother spread her sunbaked hands and said, “This is where I came from,” spinning a tale with the English she had taught herself. When my mother moved from her village to a town in Malaysia, she had to learn a brand new language in middle school: English. In a time when humiliation was encouraged, my mother was defenseless against the cruel words spewing from the teacher, who criticized her paper in front of the class. When she began to cry, the class president stood up and said, “That’s enough.” “Be like that class president,” my mother said with tears in her eyes. The class president took her under her wing and patiently mended my mother’s strands of language. “She stood up for the weak and used her words to fight back.” We were both crying now. My mother asked me to teach her proper English so old white ladies at Target wouldn’t laugh at her pronunciation. It has not been easy. There is a measure of guilt when I sew her letters together. Long vowels, double consonants — I am still learning myself. Sometimes I let the brokenness slide to spare her pride but perhaps I have hurt her more to spare mine. As my mother’s vocabulary began to grow, I mended my own English. Through performing poetry in front of 3000 at my school’s Season Finale event, interviewing people from all walks of life, and writing stories for the stage, I stand against ignorance and become a voice for the homeless, the refugees, the ignored. With my words I fight against jeers pelted at an old Asian street performer on a New York subway. My mother’s eyes are reflected in underprivileged ESL children who have so many stories to tell but do not know how. I fill them with words as they take needle and thread to make a tapestry. In our house, there is beauty in the way we speak to each other. In our house, language is not broken but rather bursting with emotion. We have built a house out of words. There are friendly snakes in the cupboard and snacks in the tank. It is a crooked house. It is a little messy. But this is where we have made our home. jajabin 发表于 2021-05-12 01:01
几年前有个女孩也是被所有藤校录取了，她的文书和这个故事比较像，也是娓娓道来一路走来母亲的不易，自己的奋斗，如何变坚强，如何影响别人，将来要如何帮助别人 https://secondstarcass.wordpress.com/2019/09/19/i-got-into-all-8-ivy-league-schools-read-my-common-app-essay-here/ In our house, English is not English. Not in the phonetic sense, like short a is for apple, but rather in the pronunciation – in our house, snake is snack. Words do not roll off our tongues correctly – yet I, who was pulled out of class to meet with language specialists, and my mother from Malaysia, who pronounces film as flim, understand each other perfectly. In our house, there is no difference between cast and cash, which was why at a church retreat, people made fun of me for “cashing out demons.” I did not realize the glaring difference between the two Englishes until my teacher corrected my pronunciations of hammock, ladle, and siphon. Classmates laughed because I pronounce accept as except, success as sussess. I was in the Creative Writing conservatory, and yet words failed me when I needed them most. Suddenly, understanding flower is flour wasn’t enough. I rejected the English that had never seemed broken before, a language that had raised me and taught me everything I knew. Everybody else’s parents spoke with accents smarting of Ph.D.s and university teaching positions. So why couldn’t mine? My mother spread her sunbaked hands and said, “This is where I came from,” spinning a tale with the English she had taught herself. When my mother moved from her village to a town in Malaysia, she had to learn a brand new language in middle school: English. In a time when humiliation was encouraged, my mother was defenseless against the cruel words spewing from the teacher, who criticized her paper in front of the class. When she began to cry, the class president stood up and said, “That’s enough.” “Be like that class president,” my mother said with tears in her eyes. The class president took her under her wing and patiently mended my mother’s strands of language. “She stood up for the weak and used her words to fight back.” We were both crying now. My mother asked me to teach her proper English so old white ladies at Target wouldn’t laugh at her pronunciation. It has not been easy. There is a measure of guilt when I sew her letters together. Long vowels, double consonants — I am still learning myself. Sometimes I let the brokenness slide to spare her pride but perhaps I have hurt her more to spare mine. As my mother’s vocabulary began to grow, I mended my own English. Through performing poetry in front of 3000 at my school’s Season Finale event, interviewing people from all walks of life, and writing stories for the stage, I stand against ignorance and become a voice for the homeless, the refugees, the ignored. With my words I fight against jeers pelted at an old Asian street performer on a New York subway. My mother’s eyes are reflected in underprivileged ESL children who have so many stories to tell but do not know how. I fill them with words as they take needle and thread to make a tapestry. In our house, there is beauty in the way we speak to each other. In our house, language is not broken but rather bursting with emotion. We have built a house out of words. There are friendly snakes in the cupboard and snacks in the tank. It is a crooked house. It is a little messy. But this is where we have made our home. jajabin 发表于 2021-05-12 01:01
几年前有个女孩也是被所有藤校录取了，她的文书和这个故事比较像，也是娓娓道来一路走来母亲的不易，自己的奋斗，如何变坚强，如何影响别人，将来要如何帮助别人 https://secondstarcass.wordpress.com/2019/09/19/i-got-into-all-8-ivy-league-schools-read-my-common-app-essay-here/ In our house, English is not English. Not in the phonetic sense, like short a is for apple, but rather in the pronunciation – in our house, snake is snack. Words do not roll off our tongues correctly – yet I, who was pulled out of class to meet with language specialists, and my mother from Malaysia, who pronounces film as flim, understand each other perfectly. In our house, there is no difference between cast and cash, which was why at a church retreat, people made fun of me for “cashing out demons.” I did not realize the glaring difference between the two Englishes until my teacher corrected my pronunciations of hammock, ladle, and siphon. Classmates laughed because I pronounce accept as except, success as sussess. I was in the Creative Writing conservatory, and yet words failed me when I needed them most. Suddenly, understanding flower is flour wasn’t enough. I rejected the English that had never seemed broken before, a language that had raised me and taught me everything I knew. Everybody else’s parents spoke with accents smarting of Ph.D.s and university teaching positions. So why couldn’t mine? My mother spread her sunbaked hands and said, “This is where I came from,” spinning a tale with the English she had taught herself. When my mother moved from her village to a town in Malaysia, she had to learn a brand new language in middle school: English. In a time when humiliation was encouraged, my mother was defenseless against the cruel words spewing from the teacher, who criticized her paper in front of the class. When she began to cry, the class president stood up and said, “That’s enough.” “Be like that class president,” my mother said with tears in her eyes. The class president took her under her wing and patiently mended my mother’s strands of language. “She stood up for the weak and used her words to fight back.” We were both crying now. My mother asked me to teach her proper English so old white ladies at Target wouldn’t laugh at her pronunciation. It has not been easy. There is a measure of guilt when I sew her letters together. Long vowels, double consonants — I am still learning myself. Sometimes I let the brokenness slide to spare her pride but perhaps I have hurt her more to spare mine. As my mother’s vocabulary began to grow, I mended my own English. Through performing poetry in front of 3000 at my school’s Season Finale event, interviewing people from all walks of life, and writing stories for the stage, I stand against ignorance and become a voice for the homeless, the refugees, the ignored. With my words I fight against jeers pelted at an old Asian street performer on a New York subway. My mother’s eyes are reflected in underprivileged ESL children who have so many stories to tell but do not know how. I fill them with words as they take needle and thread to make a tapestry. In our house, there is beauty in the way we speak to each other. In our house, language is not broken but rather bursting with emotion. We have built a house out of words. There are friendly snakes in the cupboard and snacks in the tank. It is a crooked house. It is a little messy. But this is where we have made our home. jajabin 发表于 2021-05-12 01:01
My mother asked me to teach her proper English so old white ladies at Target wouldn’t laugh at her pronunciation. I stand against ignorance and become a voice for the homeless, the refugees, the ignored. With my words I fight against jeers pelted at an old Asian street performer on a New York subway. My mother’s eyes are reflected in underprivileged ESL children who have so many stories to tell but do not know how. I fill them with words as they take needle and thread to make a tapestry. 这写法就是藤校的最爱
总之，没上过什么辅导班，暑假Camp也是别人报名啥同事就跟。也没到处送兴趣班，都说after school有啥学点啥。一切靠闺女自己。督促的就是写完作业才能玩！就这一句话。高中闺女组织club，妈唯一的贡献就是开车送Pizza。考大学的文书都说闺女自己一手搞定。
然后，人家考上哈弗了！据说申请文书写的简直惊天动地，几个教授看到哭。娓娓道来一路走来母亲的不易，自己的奋斗，如何变坚强，如何影响别人，将来要如何帮助别人。继父说，我一点不奇怪哈弗喜欢她，因为她就是个saint！
八完了
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补充一下，我同事自己可不穷，前夫还是国内有背景的，小时候住四合院的，大家懂得。小姑娘就是essay写的好。着重点好像就是母亲热爱自己的事业，父亲喜欢以他为中心安逸的生活，家庭变动，心理冲击。对独立女性的看法等等。个人觉得不是卖惨
🔥 最新回帖
如果白人比你同事工资高的话，可能也就没那么多时间陪继女了 家庭关系中，总是需要一个事业一般可以给更多时间到家庭成员的人
哈佛不是need base的吗？不存在上不起的问题啊
说得非常好！思考、洞察人生的能力，家庭的变迁，人生的变换，贯穿着自己的成长主线。在蜜罐里的孩子感受不到这些。
嗯，没有饥饿感， 进取心也不强。
真实的写照，惭愧惭愧
🛋️ 沙发板凳
小小年纪有这种想法和做法很不容易啊。 感觉leadership是天生的。
也许有帮助呢。白人继父虽然工资不如我同事，人真的蛮好的。文书继父给改过哈。当然小闺女肯定原来就写得好。小闺女性格太好了，总笑眯眯的。
我也觉得，别的孩子都集邮一样攒自己的各种奖，这个孩子主动让出！
几年前有个女孩也是被所有藤校录取了，她的文书和这个故事比较像，也是娓娓道来一路走来母亲的不易，自己的奋斗，如何变坚强，如何影响别人，将来要如何帮助别人 https://secondstarcass.wordpress.com/2019/09/19/i-got-into-all-8-ivy-league-schools-read-my-common-app-essay-here/
In our house, English is not English. Not in the phonetic sense, like short a is for apple, but rather in the pronunciation – in our house, snake is snack. Words do not roll off our tongues correctly – yet I, who was pulled out of class to meet with language specialists, and my mother from Malaysia, who pronounces film as flim, understand each other perfectly. In our house, there is no difference between cast and cash, which was why at a church retreat, people made fun of me for “cashing out demons.” I did not realize the glaring difference between the two Englishes until my teacher corrected my pronunciations of hammock, ladle, and siphon. Classmates laughed because I pronounce accept as except, success as sussess. I was in the Creative Writing conservatory, and yet words failed me when I needed them most. Suddenly, understanding flower is flour wasn’t enough. I rejected the English that had never seemed broken before, a language that had raised me and taught me everything I knew. Everybody else’s parents spoke with accents smarting of Ph.D.s and university teaching positions. So why couldn’t mine? My mother spread her sunbaked hands and said, “This is where I came from,” spinning a tale with the English she had taught herself. When my mother moved from her village to a town in Malaysia, she had to learn a brand new language in middle school: English. In a time when humiliation was encouraged, my mother was defenseless against the cruel words spewing from the teacher, who criticized her paper in front of the class. When she began to cry, the class president stood up and said, “That’s enough.” “Be like that class president,” my mother said with tears in her eyes. The class president took her under her wing and patiently mended my mother’s strands of language. “She stood up for the weak and used her words to fight back.” We were both crying now. My mother asked me to teach her proper English so old white ladies at Target wouldn’t laugh at her pronunciation. It has not been easy. There is a measure of guilt when I sew her letters together. Long vowels, double consonants — I am still learning myself. Sometimes I let the brokenness slide to spare her pride but perhaps I have hurt her more to spare mine. As my mother’s vocabulary began to grow, I mended my own English. Through performing poetry in front of 3000 at my school’s Season Finale event, interviewing people from all walks of life, and writing stories for the stage, I stand against ignorance and become a voice for the homeless, the refugees, the ignored. With my words I fight against jeers pelted at an old Asian street performer on a New York subway. My mother’s eyes are reflected in underprivileged ESL children who have so many stories to tell but do not know how. I fill them with words as they take needle and thread to make a tapestry. In our house, there is beauty in the way we speak to each other. In our house, language is not broken but rather bursting with emotion. We have built a house out of words. There are friendly snakes in the cupboard and snacks in the tank. It is a crooked house. It is a little messy. But this is where we have made our home.
我都看哭了！ 太感人了！ 这样的孩子才是将来！才是所有藤校应该招收的。
果然
藤校向来就是两头收生，楼里这些都是所谓的 sob story admission, 苦逼环境长大的牛蛙。
这些娃当然不容易，但是做榜样来学不实际。
因为他们的牛逼可能普通华人娃可以达到，但是他们的生长环境与人生经历是不能 duplicate 的啊。
逆境总是有的吧 不同形式而已
而反观我娃和他圈里的朋友，从小都是在泡泡里长大，快活舒适地过了那么多年。所以不管我怎么推，娃本身却感觉不需要太努力。
真是个善良的好孩子。
怪不得能当leader…太有情商了
多村儿是哪啊？
我家老大有个朋友也是比较类似。她爸爸是个凤凰男作家，来美国以后事业各种不如意，生活的重担要靠妈妈来扛。好像她爸爸二十多年就没有什么像样的收入，看起来也相当焦虑，成天想做点什么生意。
这个小姑娘学习还不错，但是在竞争激烈的高中里并不算突出。她是社会活动组织得比较好，关注癌症病人，关注LGBT。在女孩子最爱美的年龄，把一头长发剪得很短，剪下来的头发捐给帮癌症病人做假发的机构，在学校里组织活动。后来全奖去了斯坦福。她爸爸妈妈高兴死了，本来为她的大学学费发愁，这样一来她自己为自己创造了未来的道路。
我曾经辅导过这个孩子课外活动，感觉是很有想法的孩子，长大了一定会有出息。
Toronto
是这个理！推娃的同时，也要推自己。身教胜于言教！
这个真的看得太感动了。
是这样。 都知道要打苦情牌。我最近看了一个middle school小朋友写作课练习写college essay也写自己小学时候生病的情况下怎么努力学习。😄
看哭了。好感人
不知道楼上一些层主有什么好酸的。家庭困难的孩子想爬上和家庭不错的孩子的高度是比较困难的。被迫跟着父母去上班，有的干餐馆的从小在餐馆长大，还有一些穷的的15岁开始各种打工帮忙生计，更不要说没有任何条件上辅导班连兴趣班都没什么资源，特别低收入单亲，很多都是经常搬家换学校，生活各种不稳定，这样的孩子还能保持学业优秀再加一些帮助社区的经验当然是藤校选人才的首选。
不同意。有人努力是使命感而不只是改变自身的处境。
之前我家有个钟点工，自己的女儿也是在藤校。她自己本身不太懂英文，到了后面跟女儿沟通都有问题。她收集整理了女儿小时候写的一些纸片，带到我家给孩子看。我看了其中就有她女儿申请大学时的PS，也是写得非常坚定。说自己的爸爸妈妈都不太懂英文，是打餐馆和其他的零工。好不容易有了自己的餐馆，一把火又给烧了。然后她爸爸人生第一次带全家去玩了迪士尼，回来后重头再来。还有她回中国老家看到很多孩子没有医疗，生活艰苦的事情。这个小姑娘在一个小town上长大，周围的同学大部分都是高中毕业就工作或者一般的大学。
非常同意，肯定不是kumon里面那些乌央乌央的做题家
这个mark一下，学习别人是怎么包装自己的
有什么好酸的。。。为啥总说别人酸？ 单亲父母忙事业未必就是家庭条件困难。能带着孩子去办公室，可以是教授，也可以是高官。不是针对lz说的case，而是说现在确实是流行逆境分，你看那些每年选出来的最好的essay之类的几乎都是这类。
不是吧，不是自推的孩子都是生活环境差的吧，各人目标不同。
手工点赞！
同样的履历表逆境而来的当然比一路顺风顺水的好看。贫富差距下对富人的孩子要求更高才是应该的啊。富人的孩子要是成绩不错再加上利用自家资源给社区做过各种贡献推动改变社区我想各个藤校也是抢着要。藤校就应该为社会多培养愿意为社区服务的高智商有领导力的人才。单自身努力还是不够，得努力又伟大。利用出生这个短板对底层人民的处境更有切身体会，用自己的能力来更好的服务社会多么出色有大爱的孩子，谁不想着要。单单出色的孩子不一定需要上藤校吧，天才与特长生那种孩子不在评论之内。
哈哈，确实是。看到说带娃去办公室就知道这位单亲妈妈不是底层那种生活困难的了，事业肯定不错。你要说生活不易，谁生活很容易吗除了那种投胎好的。在美国，有个稳定的工作，每天努力干活，就是不易了吗。我觉得是天大的blessing呢。 申请文书这种东西，主要还是靠包装
有点像国内的那种说法
hahaha~
坚决支持底层娃给额外机会，但不支持按肤色一刀切。以前在一个office，一白一黑两老板，两人儿子正好一起考大学。两个家庭都属中高产，两孩子在一个学校，白人孩子成绩明显好还有挺好的课外活动。一次聚会，黑人孩子很兴奋地说他要去参观各大藤校他只考虑它们。白人孩子在一旁明显很失落，说他只会选其中一两个然后看些其他。当时年轻还不知道咱亚裔是食物链最底层，只觉得白人孩子蛮可怜的，他爸爸有些尴尬。
我们学区有亚裔男孩今年进了大藤，学习成绩应该不如前两天有人提到的Craig McFarland.
现在这种社会价值观和录取倾向，就是美帝走向平缓和被天朝快速追赶的主要根结之一。
天朝过去20年的快速追赶，也是七八十年代人的理工教育基础。
美帝在美苏争霸的时候也是注重理工，现在热爱理工的都被讥讽为nerd。美帝的“左派风气”都是大爱，领导力leadership，communication。
其实真正改变世界，带来人与人关爱的，反而就是技术革命推动的社会进步，nerd改变世界。
这个也是我感悟到的。
求学期间家里情况有个翻天覆地的变化才能有感动的点。可是大多数人都是家庭和睦，父母关爱，兄妹友爱，身体健康。也不能人为造个逆境吧？！
藤校本来大多也不是理工见长。理工科big 10这种大公校很强，然而华人还不是一样想推藤。至于说左右，我觉得你说反了吧。学校里面狂推体育的，那些学啥啥不行，高大壮看不起nerd的，很多都是偏保守派偏右的。
不太明白你的point，我只是想说亚裔男孩也有进大藤的。我觉得很多靠所谓逆境分数进大藤的孩子很可能deserve进大藤，但是有很多equally或者更deserve进的孩子因为没有这样的逆境故事来包装所以进不了，是不公平不合理的。我见到的这样的亚裔男孩女孩都有。我也不认为美国的大学是考进去的。
搞笑了，大十才几个诺贝尔奖？
point是，左派阵营把持的“名校”和“媒体舆论”，从大学选拔开始轻视理工，耽误国家竞争力。
这种“虚头巴脑”的社会公益和爱心奉献，以及社会活动领导力，从一个十六七岁的娃娃身上去体现判断，不是搞笑吗？！
这是我好朋友的女儿，世界真小！
这个帖子你就读出来这点？没有凄惨人生的也能去藤校。
读了，她这个情况本身并没有非常特别的地方，很多一代家庭都有类似情况，但是重要的是会写。会写的人写出来就大不一样。。。。。所以除了数学刷题，语言类的说和写要跟上。。。。。
大十只是举个例子，大公校里面UC系列STEM也很厉害。藤校排名最好的难道不是文科居多。
我们学校今年去哈佛的是个印度孩子，成绩很棒，SAT满分，高中期间做了很多STEM的项目。
印度人不推体育，主要是学习和leadership。
美国大学的选拔机制确实by design就是不公平的，是有倾向性的。但是和左派右派没有关系，是美国社会普遍的问题。personal attributes包括leadership是60年代左右就已经加到大学录取标准里去了。 不管左右都是一样吹捧leadership和soft skills，右派像Trump这种反智的只多不少吗。white boys都想当leader，然后移民来干STEM的活。
棒！ 这孩子有什么特别出色的成绩或奖项吗？ 大学AO是如何知道发现他的呢？
赞女孩年纪轻轻有想法，有领导力！懂很多人活了半辈子才能感悟到的人生道理，有的人活了一辈子也没感受到！
我们这儿小孩子的各种体育club印度孩子一样乌央乌央的。只是跟华人孩子一样，身体素质，家庭氛围，都不太拼的过推的厉害的白人黑人家庭，能进高中校队的都少，但也不是没有，我家隔壁印度人孩子就在高中棒球队，还知道几个网球成绩不错的。
说到推体育，我觉得比推学习难多了，真没什么好酸那些靠体育上大学的白人黑人家庭的。上周我们county的学区新闻发了一条消息，是说本地一个9分公立高中有十来个senior 靠体育被大学录取了，然后好像跟这些大学是要有一个类似“签约”仪式就是他们是要作为student athlete 继续代表大学打比赛的。项目涵盖游泳田径几种球类好多种。其中录取的大学最好的一个是本州旗舰大州立，还能勉强算是个一流的公立大学，然后有一两个是隔壁州的二流州立，剩下的都是些我听都没听说过的学校，估计白送给好多华人孩子都不要去的。这些孩子平时训练比赛我想一点儿也不会轻松，目的也不过是上个普通公立大学而已。哪里像华人就是要爬藤，州立都看不上。如果说华人推学习内卷，那白人黑人内部推体育也是一样内卷的。真正能靠体育成绩上大藤级别学校的孩子，也绝对不会是头脑简单的傻大壮。
有体育活动还其它方面都厉害是真厉害，体育项目每天花掉很多时间。
落土八分命，都想开点
同意，而且我觉得也不应该去让孩子搞那么多高深的research。高中孩子最多学了些基本的物理化学生物，做那些Ph.D level的课题真的不知道孩子到底有多少contribution.
My mother asked me to teach her proper English so old white ladies at Target wouldn’t laugh at her pronunciation.
I stand against ignorance and become a voice for the homeless, the refugees, the ignored. With my words I fight against jeers pelted at an old Asian street performer on a New York subway. My mother’s eyes are reflected in underprivileged ESL children who have so many stories to tell but do not know how. I fill them with words as they take needle and thread to make a tapestry.
这写法就是藤校的最爱
美国人靠体育上大学是没什么好酸的，人家出钱出力，水平高的其实大部分去了公立拿个奖学金，也不容易。但是华人是不是要复制白人黑人的路线是另一回事。推体育有个时间成本，适当的推挺好，但是大量精力放进去，势必会影响别的方面，因为时间就那么多。 印度人的不推体育，也是说不主推体育，永远以学业为主，我这方面是认同的。