‘Miles Walked, Miles Driven’: This Year’s College Essays About Money

The writing of a personal essay is more artistic than scientific. It's difficult to discuss money under the best of circumstances. It is more difficult if you are a teenager and a committee of grown-ups will sit in judgement on your work.

After they submit their thoughts on money, work, social class and related matters as part of their college applications, essayists are invited to forward their work to us. Even if money isn't on your mind all the time, they inspire a kind of empathy.

We are in the human resources department with a racing mind, the kitchen as a daughter observes her mother making do, the car, driving many miles for so many reasons, and the head of a young woman wondering if her soft hands are real.

Perspective is needed to write about these topics. It requires bravery to go where most people don't.

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Their hands were symbolic of their love and sacrifice. The only evidence of wasting away their hard work was my hands.

The Bronx High School of Science.

No one would be able to tell my age if my hands were perfect.

She wore rings and gloves to cover up the scars on her fingers and premature wrinkling from her time as a waitress in high school.

No amount of jewelry or hand cream could make those markings disappear. Mom's weathered hands spoke about her strength and love.

My family would gather at the dinner table and I would look at them. A life full of purpose is what eachwrinkle and scar tells you. When I looked at my hands, I wondered when I'd get the markings that told my story.

I tried to put the ridges on my skin when Dad squeezed my hand. Is it possible that they came from summers in Montenegro where the scythe was used to cut hay? I wondered if they were caused by the tiles nicking his palms during the renovations.

During summers in Pljevlja in Montenegro, I used to watch my grandma knead burek. There were burn scars from 70 years of cooking. Maybe they came from putting too many coals in the furnace or accidentally lifting pots out of the oven.

Their hands were symbolic of their sacrifice. It was only evidence that they had wasted their hard work that my hands were perfect. I tried to mimic my family's actions by gaining markings.

I tried to duplicate grandma's burek, but it hardened when I took it out of the oven. My burns were only documentation of my mediocre.

I attempted to pick up a needle and thread. Even though I took the shape of hers, the needles left me dissatisfied.

I found volleyball and my hands were no longer reading a failed venture. Volleyball seemed to be out of the family's reach. Each movement made me happy. My parents were very happy when I picked up the game quickly. I broke my thumb diving for the ball, the bone jutting out as my own talisman of greater purpose.

I was exposed to a lot of different opportunities during high school. I took photographs for my school's literary magazine and practiced for mock trial on Mondays and Saturdays. These passions and others showed me parts of my identity that I didn't know existed.

I decided to leave my club team because there was not enough time for volleyball. A failed pursuit reminded me of my crooked thumb.

My parents weren't happy. I was away from my ticket to college because they thought my activities were unfocused.

I realized that my parents were angry because they were unfamiliar. They only had one path forward and that was to commit to their roles.

I realized that the best way to take advantage of my privileges was to explore all my curiosities. I stopped emulating my family's identities and realized that I would eventually have to give up my pursuit.

My hands and markings will be mine.

My world map and ingenuity are free, even if travel costs are too much for my parents.

There is a high school in Los Angeles.

The room was too small and crowded with teens. I was about to start my career. I had to bring everything listed on the required materials list.

I gingerly opened my passport as I waited for my name to be called. There was a big smile on my face when I looked at the photo taken when I was 12. Cut hair in a bowl. There was a forced smile. When I read the date for the end of the world, I felt sad. Each page was blank. My heart didn't feel right.

I tried to stop thinking about sadness. I shouldn't have been concerned by my empty passport. However, I was. I was reminded that I had never left the country.

My mom kept asking how my job orientation went. When we got home, I held up my passport and asked her, even though my responses were merely yes or no. She looked at me and said, "We can't afford it." A family of five would have to pay for an arm and a leg. Her voice said everything. I left empty-handed. I had a passport for just in case.

I am greeted by a cabinet full of souvenirs when I visit my grandma. Her 90 years on earth are marked by different things. I used to wonder what it was like to travel the world like my grandpa did.

I realized today that I don't need to leave my beloved city of Los Angeles to experience the world because of the visits I made to grandma's. I like to eat global cuisines in my neighborhood. The couscous is from North Africa. Vindaloo came from India. The ice cream comes from Italy. Each is a small representation of my city and its people.

My world map from Ikea is the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up. Since I was a small child, this map has been my primary travel companion. This map began with Dad's stories about his business travels early in his career and has taken me to the countries he toured and befriended.

I can take myself to any far flung place without leaving my bedroom. My mother was born in the Philippines. The change from L.A.'s dry, sunny summers to the tropics fascinated me when I was a child. She was thrilled when I showed her the schools she attended, the church where she and her family worshiped, and the empty land where her house once stood. I was as well.

I don't need to go to an airport to know what's going on. I have learned that not traveling outside my country of birth will not define who I am. I follow the virtual tour of the Louvre's Petite Galerie exhibition of founding myths or wander my neighborhood to find what I need. There are many UNESCO sites still to be seen.

I travel around the world. My world map and ingenuity are free, even though travel costs can be too much for my parents. Even though my passport pages are empty, my adventures are still vivid in my mind.

I was occupied with my treasure. There was chaos around me.

Flowing Wells high school is in Tucson, Arizona.

I was young at that time.

I didn't have a place to dance. I can't convince anyone that it is hardwood. The ground was covered with clothes and toys. Every time I entered the room, there were mountains of free stuff. There was a lot of chaos.

The mountains became mountain ranges on a daily basis. I believed that this would make me better. More things, more money and more friends. It means a better life if you have more.

I waved to my dad at the screen door while I was yawning, which was authentic from Vietnam. As my mom cared for me, my brother and the house, he hopped into the only car he could find to drive south.

My mom would drop me off at school on the electric scooter. My dad used to pick me up and head to the doctor before he fell asleep. My parents worked hard for me.

My father retired when I was 10 years old. My mom joined the work force and started gaining clients. Every time a letter came in, we were happy.

All the stuff was enjoyed by us. We are the richest people on the planet. When she was in Vietnam, my mom told me stories. She never received a gift. She would get hand-me-down from time to time.

I kept everything as if it were a pirate's gold. I thought I won the lottery by having all this stuff.

I researched how-tos for my parents because I knew English well. My mother told me to research how to get a cleaner house. I expected nothing helpful when I typed it in. I was weaving from grease, storage containers, and more.

I found a word called minimalist.

People are happier if the number of things in possession is simplified. The jabberwocky words were arranged in this order. Is this the solution to my chaos?

I believed more meant better. I was occupied with my treasure. There was a lot of chaos around me.

The social pressure is something. If I didn't have many things, what would my friends think? Is it possible that they would think I was poorer than I am? I don't know if I would lose everything in life.

You're aware of what? Just do it, let's do it. There needs to be an end to the chaotic situation.

The car trunk is slowly being loaded by me. At first, I lost a part of myself. I felt a weight of possession leaving my chest and freeing me from the strings that were tying me down.

I used to help my mom with dishes, but now I look at things like TED Talks and self-love. Experience, knowledge and gratefulness fill the void.

My hands are moving as I try to remember everything that comes from my mind. I feel content after observing my sleeping and work space plateaus. I wrote "I appreciate myself" with one of my utensils.

I don't need to depend on things to be content. The opinions of others are not important to me. I don't have to worry about these items glueing me down. The internet made a correct decision. I have the opportunity to experience life for the first time.

It is possible for our family to function even thrive because of the miles that I drive and others that I walk.

Delone Catholic high school is in New Windsor, Md.

There are things called "digits." Time is displayed on a clock. There is a neon clock face. I drove 25 miles to swim practice and 45 more to school. A man is rushing to work. 9:30 p.m. is the last time. Shift over to the other side of the country.

95 miles in 17 hours. A typical Tuesday adds up to over 600 miles. I add in school, work, swimming, and commitments as a brother, as well as my son.

It's unavoidable. Everything is far away when you live in a farming community.

I know what my parents have sacrificed to provide a loving and stable life for us because I am the oldest of five children. My dad works weekends and misses vacations to provide for us. My mother gave up her career to raise us.

The foundation of who I am can be traced back to their sacrifice. It is possible for our family to function and thrive because of the miles that I drive and others that I walk.

I'm lulled into thinking by the long drives. For the next decade or so, goals and ambitions.

I think about what I have and the people who have sacrificed for me. There is sacrifice that isn't giving up. A person will become extraordinary if they make the hard choices.

My choices today will shape me into my future self. A big, loving, supportive family is one of the cornerstones of my foundation.

I got my first wheelbarrow when I was 2 years old. I used it to help with yard work. It's a sacrifice of time and a strain on my body to plant and maintain the gardens on weekends.

I enjoy watching the produce grow and reaping the bounty of my work when I start with seeds in the greenhouse. We get a lot of food from these gardens. The role I play in helping sustain my family is what makes my wheelbarrow full-sized.

One type of support is offered by the miles I walk. I work as a restaurant dishwasher and get another 20 to 25 hours a week when I drive to and from those places.

The promise of financial independence and my ability to save are offered by these hours. I want a stable future for myself. I would like to help pay for college, buy a home on the water, and have a boat.

It feels different when I drive to swim practice. These are not for anyone else.

I am able to set goals and work to achieve them. My decision to sacrifice sleep and free time motivates me to push through the morning workouts. Through college, my career, and my personal life, I can take these lessons.

Hundreds of people walked and thousands drove to take me to the farmhouse we call home. Each new cornerstone marks the sacrifice made to get to that point, as we have expanded it several times.

I will add cornerstones to my foundation that are unique to me. The expansion will be in stages, but I know how I'll mark them. Miles sacrificed a lot to walk and drive. I'm building something extraordinary with each one.

The duty of our generation is to make it simpler for the next generation.

The high school is in Charlotte, N.C.

There are pieces of me in the kitchen.

There is an easel next to the stained paintbrushes and mugs. Clouds ambling against a sun-streaked sky are revealed by the curtains drawing back.

There are boxes of tea in the cupboard above the sink. I used to suck on the honeycombs next to the peaches at the counter. You think Monet is very Monet. A beautiful impressionist.

If you looked beyond the bowl of bananas and the stereo, you would find a drawer of utensils. There is rusting. There is a brown thing. It's cheap. I didn't realize I was poor until I looked at the silverware. Paint and plaster over the cracks and holes to make them look better. The truth will hold up.

My mother was in the kitchen and she was smiling. She said to look. She gave me a fork and spoon that was shiny and cold to the touch. There were more than one pair on the counter. The whole drawer had been replaced.

It was three hundred dollars. Graveyard shifts.

My mother is employed by two different companies. I use coupons to shop for school supplies. Why didn't I notice right away? I might have wanted to see myself as a different person. A brown person who lives under the umbrella term of low-income, first- generation. My mother might have been embarrassed to be another brown person who couldn't afford a good set of utensils.

I didn't have to think about it because she kept the kitchen beautiful and I didn't mention the bags under her eyes. We kept it a secret from our friends and family. Nobody should know.

It has always been a bad word to call someone poor. There is a quiet murmur that says "this is your fault" inside all of us. Escape poverty is not a symptom of a monstrous society. When we escape, we don't look back.

I have always wanted more. I told people I was named after the blue jay, but they didn't know. The small bird inside me was trying to fly. I forgot to want more for everyone else because I wanted more for myself.

I saw my mom for the first time. I could see the pride in her purchase, her sunken face, and her hair graying. I was able to rest one day because she worked so hard. She was enjoying honeycombs on a Saturday. She wanted my future so much that she gave up her present.

Birds fly in flocks but cages aren't really cages. The duty of our generation is to make the next generation's life easier. There is no shame in weighing that much. There is something about being proud.

Our children can enjoy the flowers if we plant seeds. Our children need to continue our story with the addition of parentheses.

I work to change my community. During the holidays, I and my classmates wrote hundreds of letters to nursing home residents who were in a state of isolation. I taught computer science and business to students who couldn't afford it. I helped the underclassmen get used to the ocean. I drink tea and paint murals for animals.

I hope to give my mother a new set of utensils soon. I've been learning how to fly for a long time.