When I applied to UC Davis twenty years ago, the application included two required essay prompts. Potential students had 1,000 words to allocate toward those essays in whatever way they wanted. In 2016, that set-up shifted to the present one: students submit responses to four Personal Insight Questions chosen from eight options. Each response permits a maximum of 350 words.
This weekend, I’m running the personal statements workshop Alyiah and I put together in 2020. That fall, I wrote responses to two of the prompts as preparation, but this past week I challenged myself to write responses to all eight and test out how my principles and style would translate into such tight word counts.
What follows are my eight 350-word responses to those eight PIQs. I decided to answer them as my present self, rather than as myself in high school; I also generated my subject for the eight in a single two-minute period to test my “any topic works” mantra.
Each one reads like a miniature newsletter, which amuses me but also frustrates me as several rich topics deserving of more than 350 words surfaced here. But this week and this work were about feeling out the process of responding to the Personal Insight Questions, so I’m not going to self-analyze. They are presented for your perusal.
Since you might be wondering: I will note the four I would choose for my hypothetical application at the end.
Enjoy.
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1. Describe an example of your leadership experience in which you have positively influenced others, helped resolve disputes or contributed to group efforts over time.
Claiming nine AI-generated seals holding calculators as leadership sounds like a stretch, but hear me out.
My responsibility for the next morning’s department meeting loomed small: talk about some aspect of the classes I teach. Our department heads required no minimum length nor particular focus; the captive audience, their minds already moved onto the transition between quarters, would be a reluctant one. Nothing and nobody demanded I devote an evening to this ten-minute talk, let alone decorate it with marine mammals.
The small stage still beckoned. In even a tight-knit collective like ours, opportunities to share broad insight rather than granular get-er-dones prove rare. This was a chance to inspire my colleagues to move from great to greater; this was an opportunity to induce year-four discoveries that took me seven. If I valued my colleagues as professionals, this was my window to wow them so that they might wow me later and thus elevate all of our work for students. Growth has to begin somewhere; why couldn’t that point of origin be seal-adorned slides about assessment?
So I invested real time and real thought. I developed a common structure to analyze each strategy, I added links to the samples Susan located, and I annotated everything to help frame my words the next day. By its conclusion, I had created an accessible presentation aid but also rehearsed reflective but lighthearted accompanying remarks.
Aesthetics centered my final hurdle. A utilitarian design would suit the task of talking testing, but visual flourish mattered here. I could speak with passion and hope my earnest energy conveyed consequence, but any tired teacher could mentally tune out while I talked. Bright colors, stylish fonts, quirky artwork—adding those requires time. Adding those couldn’t go unnoticed.
And so I spent my DALLE-2 tokens generating images of baby seals holding calculators. Silly though they were, I considered them an investment in my peers. I never explicitly told them these quick meeting shareouts mattered, but hopefully, those seals on my slides showed them nonetheless.
That’s just what leadership looks like sometimes.
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2. Every person has a creative side, and it can be expressed in many ways: problem solving, original and innovative thinking, and artistically, to name a few. Describe how you express your creative side.
Alone on a Wednesday night, I am trying to snap a high-resolution image of my contorted body lying on the matted carpet of my living room floor. I’m practicing my pose now, referencing my copy of Olivia Rodrigo’s album GUTS while adjusting my shoulders, but this work is procrastination: I should be brainstorming workarounds for aerial photography while solo. I can’t piece together my parody until I do.
In 2020, I taped my phone to a ceiling fan blade to record a music video scene. That worked then, but the stationary fan restricts my angles too much and my test shots lacked the intimacy of the album artwork I’m aping.
After several further failures involving a stationary bike, a roll of masking tape, and a bag of powdered sugar, I am ready to give up. Maybe Michelle could swing by and shoot a few shots of me from above? There’s no other way—
But there is. I had gone rogue from my tripod, but in one swoop I have it in my hands and am attaching my phone. I condense its legs inward until the stand becomes roughly cylindrical, and then I carefully slide those legs under the edge of my elevated television set. The TV lifts slightly from atop its stand, but it holds.
Kneeling on the floor, I tap the button and a countdown begins. I glance at GUTS and twist my torso until I match the twenty-year-old singer’s. I place my hand across my jaw and narrow my eyes at the camera just like her. The flash goes off, but I immediately press the button once more. I pose myself identically, but this time I avert my eyes to look beyond the camera. My homage will be clear but the subtle difference will be too.
This photography and the digital recreation that will follow are in service of 3500 words about GUTS and growing up. Writing that piece engaged my creativity to be sure. But executing this parody album cover—all alone no less? That exhilarated me.
Such is the joy of creating art.
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3. What would you say is your greatest talent or skill? How have you developed and demonstrated that talent over time?
I bought a Thanos mask in 2019. My first time wearing it finally arrived last month.
I hadn’t worn a mask like that since sixth grade. The fit was snug; the plastic skin pressed against my own like Saran Wrap. Several students asked if I felt claustrophobic inside; I shook my head.
I’m used to wearing a mask.
My typical disguise hews even tighter. Each morning, I slip mine on as I pull into the staff parking lot. Aiming for the opposite of a sneering supervillain, I cosplay as a font of unwavering compassion and boundless energy. I play make-believe until 3:20, each workday Halloween as I trick-or-treat as someone who loves his job.
While achieving unblinking ruthlessness under Thanos’ face is automatic, operating my mask demands focus. I move muscles according to the lingering echoes from expired versions of me. I deploy warm smiles to elicit comfort, my false cheeks selling as fresh something rotten and grayed underneath.
On my worst days, scattered observers see through my illusion; they read the sad eyes that lend my Marvel mask humanity. Most days, though, no one notices a thing because I’m damned good at playing this role. Thanos blipped half the universe out of existence, but I routinely prop people up, even sometimes inspire them. Such is my consolation for the discomfort of masking up.
I’ll take those positive outcomes. Most people feeling dead inside burn bridges rather than build them. I’m proud that I maintain dynamic inertia while otherwise cratering. I’m proud that my phony mode does good for others.
Some days, the latex fuses with my skin and I forget that I am fake. Maybe one night I’ll reach up to remove my mask and find only flesh. Now that would be something.
But I can’t wait for that day. There’s too much good left to do for me to surrender to self-immolation. I won’t stop performing. I grab my mask, snap my fingers, and erase the half of myself that hates everything. I’m in my element again.
For a few hours at least.
*****
4. Describe how you have taken advantage of a significant educational opportunity or worked to overcome an educational barrier you have faced.
My Physics teacher called me out one morning for not joining Science Olympiad. He couldn’t believe I didn’t have the time.
My part-time job, coaching gig, and four APs rendered his assumptions toothless, but still: no one had ever invited me anyway! The man had judged me over a program I’d never heard of. I should’ve forgiven him, but I had a vindictive streak then. I wanted to stick it to him.
Soon after, my Pre-Cal teacher sent me a permission slip for a math contest. “If you’re interested” it read at the top. In revenge, I was. I became a Mathlete out of spite.
At the hosting school, younger teammates explained competition mechanics while we munched on chips and nursed Capri Suns. I sat for three rounds that day, attempting five tricky problems. The last one was alongside two junior girls; we got nowhere in ten minutes.
Our team didn’t place, but I’d had a blast. My teacher’s car buzzed with excited chatter over near misses and alternate strategies. What had been ninety minutes of problem-solving at lunch tables felt epic when recapped. My initial venom evaporated; I was all in on Mathletes.
The program became a highlight of my senior year. I attended every subsequent meet; one of those girls became my Senior Ball date. Never a top performer, I still had fun scribbling out solutions around the county with a group of earnest underclassmen.
Those drives, snacks, and camaraderie were mere appetizers, though. Twenty years later, I am in year twelve coaching Mathletes. When an intriguing problem pops up or a scoring decision runs afoul, I feel the same thrill at 37 that I did at 17. Mathletes is the one thing I look forward to doing rather than finishing.
Twelfth graders can only conjecture about the ripples induced by their high school years, but 32nd graders can actually pinpoint impact. I know the truth: no one moment has spawned more positivity across my life than receiving that Mathletes Meet permission slip.
I sought revenge from it then. I recognize opportunity in it now.
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5. Describe the most significant challenge you have faced and the steps you have taken to overcome this challenge. How has this challenge affected your academic achievement?
I wrote this problem for a math contest once. It involved a leashed dog roaming around a circular silo. I didn’t know the answer, let alone how to solve it, but I felt like I could figure it out. I did—turned out it involved polar relations.
Routinely, I conjure math problems I cannot initially solve, but math’s inherent structure gives me confidence. No matter how contrived or complex, I have finite rules to choose from. Enlisting several, I’ll solve the problem eventually.
This is thrilling but also misleading. If I can solve any math problem, shouldn’t everything else also be surmountable?
Malicious optimism takes over. Surrounded by young people every day, potential problems engulf me. With high-achieving seniors, one looms largely: how can I ease their anxiety about college?
Some days a current of dread hangs over the classroom before we’ve seen a single integral. The future clamors for attention, the present’s transitory nature blinding under the spotlight of college admissions. Everything is about to change for them; how can they think about series convergence?
That glare disarms me too. Solving for theta feels wrong when their worries remain unaddressed. I want to teach them to cope far more than anti-differentiate. It’s me who feels tethered, not some imaginary dog.
But these problems resist solutions. They aren’t exercises; they’re the confluence of psychology and economics with the vagaries of growing up. I’m not qualified to resolve scholastic dread, yet I feel a responsibility. I owe them examples of parametric derivatives, but I crave easing their distress, a daunting task bordering on impossibility.
Faced with imminent failure, I proceed forward as I did with that silo. I chip away, gaining traction where I can: perusing personal statements, penning recommendations, reiterating the false equivalence between non-admittance and worthlessness. My actions seem so paper thin, but if I offer enough, well, I won’t have anything solved, but maybe I’ll have approximated some relief.
Calling the problem unsolvable sounds suspiciously like I suck. But maybe that self-awareness makes me just the right voice to guide them toward their futures.
*****
6. Think about an academic subject that inspires you. Describe how you have furthered this interest inside and/or outside of the classroom.
In third grade, I wrote a story called The TV Demon. Starring me and the girl I had a crush on, I hoped our fictional quest to Madagascar would inspire her to marry me. It did not, but it did inspire me.
Already a prolific reader, I sat at a word processor and mimicked my heroes. I wrote horror anthologies like R.L. Stine and dabbled in Animorphs fan fiction. None of it was good—I was eleven—but all of it whetted my appetite for authorship.
I didn’t know what to write though. For years, private journaling and recapping youth baseball games were my focus, but the former was too personal while sports journalism too narrow. I dabbled in fiction, chasing an awful surrealist book with a gentle slice-of-life novel, but those demanded greater focus than I was typically capable of. Back to the drawing board.
As years passed, the list of genres that didn’t click only grew. Movie reviews, research-laden deep dives, micro-horror on Reddit, even the occasional sonnet—none matched my wavelength. All scratched the itch, but none cured the rash.
By chance, I stumbled across an article by Will Leitch, a sportswriter I’d once followed. His bio invited me to subscribe to a newsletter. Each Saturday morning, he published a reflective piece about anything from family and movies to baseball and llamas. This diversity intrigued me.
Reprising my elementary school mimicry, I followed his lead and began writing creative non-fiction once per week. Drawing on my life, I extracted meaning from the past while purposefully and persistently practicing my craft.
Aping exclusively at first, I eventually evolved. All of my old genres and styles found their way into my work, each entry offering fertile ground to stretch myself. My newsletters grew more ambitious, and so did I. I wrote a legitimate novel; a magazine published one of my columns.
I realize that writing math problems, not newsletters, will always put food on the table; I’m not delusional. But that third grader’s appetite for authorship has returned. That’s a win in any genre.
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7. What have you done to make your school or your community a better place?
The pot on my stove had just reached a boil, so I dumped in my spaghetti before checking my voicemail.
This was a later-than-usual dinner because I’d left school later than usual. With our first post-pandemic Challenge Day set for the next morning, my student leaders stuck around to call participants and write gratitude cards. The atmosphere crackled with optimism. These teens would finally share the transformative workshop with their reeling peers.
Or not. The voicemail was unambiguous: Challenge Day’s facilitators had fallen ill. Our event was canceled.
Or was it?
I’d run an in-house version of the program, Diamond Day, twice before. I could have elected to host that initially, but I’d rebuffed that option. The stakes were high: I wanted superstars leading our first post-pandemic event. Our students deserved the best, not a math teacher’s crude approximation. Moreover: I’d been plotting a professional exit for months. I was in no inspiring mood; I’d given all I had to scrape the original event together.
But I was boxed in. The cancellation wasn’t my fault, but inaction would be. 150 people would lose an opportunity to heal. Megan and Elena, my two presidents during COVID’s long run, would lose the fruits of their patient labor.
I couldn’t let that happen.
After outlining an abbreviated program, I rose early to study the script. At school, I leveled with everyone: the event would be rough around the edges with minimal prep. They shrugged. A messy something is better than nothing.
Diamond Day aims to inspire connection and reflection. Our school had seen three suicides in eighteen months when we first conceived it, and stakeholders believed my post-program presence on campus might lengthen its impact.
I’ll never know if our emergency event prevented any tragedies. That’s the beautiful unknowability of programs like ours. But we hosted two more last year; another takes place this month. Whether each’s impact is big or small, Diamond Day’s continued influence happens only because I stepped up that day. Refusing to cancel kept something small, but good, alive.
Every little bit helps.
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8. Beyond what has already been shared in your application, what do you believe makes you a strong candidate for admissions to the University of California?
I have an odd nose. Middle school bullies relished pointing it out. With one finger press, its shape skews porcine. I heard oinks even after finishing Animal Farm.
Despite being such a prominent feature in my self-loathing, my nose only appears in the mirror. Unconscious selective attention mercifully permits my eyes to see everything else despite that beak centering my field of vision.
Although this psychological phenomenon speaks to visual disregard, it applies conceptually as well. Certain forces embed so deeply into our lives that we stop remarking upon them. It takes specific effort to un-train our inattention and acknowledge just how much they protrude.
More specifically, I’m talking about economics. We don’t call out its every appearance, but rest assured, money’s in the cast. It’s playing a role right now.
Seriously. Squint and give it a gander: even these essays ooze capitalism. As yet another avenue to convey prospective students’ values, these responses serve as a quality filter for applicants. Ensuring every campus admits a maximally impressive cohort is a financially essential pursuit for any university. Stronger students perform better, which is a boon for any school: some will work directly on lucrative grant proposals and projects that fund key programs and positions, while others will earn high-paying jobs that elevate the school’s rankings to entice even more successful students. Individuals on a campus might be motivated to educate, but dollars power the university machine, not learning.
If this thinking induces a knot of despair, you’re not alone. Cynical though I am toward capitalism’s insidiousness, I can’t deny it works in my favor. If the university system admits only the most financially viable hosts, then I am the strongest admissions bet. My resume is pristine, I already have a well-paying job, and no undergrad applicant is better poised to excel than one who already bagged a STEM degree with a 3.94 GPA at one of their campuses. I’m money in the bank, baby! It threatens the bottom line not to give me a spot.
That’s icky, I know. I wish I could unsee it too.
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The four I would choose for my hypothetical application are, in numeric order: 1 (PowerPoint), 4 (Mathletes), 6 (Writing), and 7 (Diamond Day).
For what it’s worth, I tear up reading 4 every time and 7 some of the time. 3 was very therapeutic to write, but it feels too personal to include, while 2 was my favorite to write, but its daring structure—present tense, within the creative process—renders it less accessible than the others.
Oh, and I hate number eight. Can you tell how much I loathe that uniqueness prompt? Calling the entire process a cash grab is as cynical as I get after writing seven genuine, optimistic responses. There is no circumstance under which I would submit an answer to 8.
Overall, this was definitely fun. For me, that is.
I wish this was equally fun for those who are actually applying.
I have nothing more to say and no more time even if I did.