I want to push the submit button tonight (Stanford)

The sight of a bird carcass on the side of pavement intercepted my soothing stroll. The rotten stench settled in my nose and the sun soaked putrid flesh was palpable in the air. Most people would avert their head in disgust; however, the scene possessed a profound gravity that I couldn't ignore. Beneath the ugliness, my eyes connected with perfectly patterned feather and exquisitely constructed hollow bones. Exposure to such naturally engineered brilliance stimulated an ethereal experience. My mind began to generate inquiries: Why do hollow bones allow birds to fly? What is the density of the bone? Is there a correlation between bone density and maximum flight speed? My thoughts consumed time, and the adrenaline of studying such a magnificent natural phenomenon numbed my squatting legs from the burning pain. All the while, my pen reconstructed the flesh upon the skeleton and restored life to its remains. Through my art, this imagined bird can forever dwell within my journal; perhaps someday I will resurrect the sparrow so it may take flight once again.

I am content when I release myself to the embrace of nature. The simplest of notions, observations, and intuitions can spark my mind to run rampant amongst my organic surroundings. My fascination stems from my appreciation of art and science. There is something beautiful about the way gravity functions, or the mannerisms of simple harmonic motion, or the way cells are structured that genuinely fascinates me.

Although, I want to extend beyond the Darwinian model of observation and theorization, because I want to create beauty. Perhaps biomedical engineering is my destined path. I can express the factual innovation of science while maintaining the spontaneous creativity of the fine arts.

I am a pack rat of paper. I'm less like a messy hoarder, and more like a treasure collector. To cross to the other side of my room, one would pass through a jungle of intricately folded paper animalia. I guess you can say I'm an origami aficionado, and paper cranes are my specialty.

I have been folding paper cranes since I was 8. I can still remember the hot and humid Malaysian climate and the hospital room where my grandfather first taught me the ways of origami. Baba was bed ridden with pancreatic cancer. I would stay by his side while the silent animations of my relatives' distressing arguments played out like a television program through the clear glass window. Despite the dim hospital atmosphere, we restored vivacity by folding origami. Baba's nimble fingers quivered as he creased the paper in a methodical manner. From time to time, his smokers' cough broke the tranquility. But moments later he would weakly shoot me a smile silently reassuring me everything was okay. I labored away for two weeks in order to fold the perfect crane that would win his approval. My 139th crane was the one. The white paper exuded a brilliance beyond any of its other predecessors. I presented my bit of magic to him, he smiled and said in a hushed Chinese dialect, "I guess my work is done here." That night he passed away. There is a legend that if one folds one thousand paper cranes, the soul can achieve eternal peace. With his warm scent of cigar smoke and his fond memories remaining, I knew I had to finish his journey. In two days, I folded the remaining 867 cranes.

To me, paper cranes symbolize the capacity for humans to share, teach, and learn. Perhaps one day we can stay up late with some food or a movie, and I can share the magic of origami. with you.

My feet tapped against the white tiled floor. I sat next to the window nervously awaiting for the secretary's confirmation to join the Discover Stanford tour. Stanford's prowess exuded from the photographs of football victories and picturesque architecture mounted on the wall. I sat on the bench, soaking it all in. So this was it, Montag hall, the office of admissions.

I heard a smirk from my right. I looked over to find a friendly stranger. He smiled and said, "Amazing, isn't it?" I realized my mouth was open in awe and I snapped it shut. He continued, "Hey, they name is Aamir I'm a senior here." From there, the conversation flowed, minutes flew by as he shared his experiences with me. He told me about his midnight ludicrous expedition to find supplies to make the perfect native American headdress for the Stanford powwow. He reenacted his "pro" dance moves from the dance marathon. His hands flailed about as he talked about his bioengineering project. The whole time, I couldn't help but notice his excitement radiating with every syllable he spoke.

It was then that I knew, I want to proudly wear the Stanford cardinal red. Amongst all of my other visits, Stanford was the only place where I sensed passion. The students possessed a lust of life, and learning that I can connect with. Beyond the prestige, academics, and athletics, Stanford is at the paramount of my list because students and faculty like Aamir demonstrate that Stanford can make me a better person.

The secretary at the desk called my name and nodded her head and told me I was all set to go. Aamir nodded his head and said, "As soon as you get accepted don't think twice, and be sure to stay in touch." I smiled and proceeded through the doors, ready to embark on my Stanford discovery.

Cleats spray clouds of rubber pellets. Breaths are heavy. Eyes are alert. I cradle the ball down-field and yell, "Viking!" My teammates follow my command. Like automated humans we sprint towards the goal with raised sticks and fierce yells.

Hard work, sweat, and perseverance all climaxed to that point. My school considered Girls' Lacrosse to be a joke. As a junior, I was selected to be varsity captain, and I was determined to make a name for our team. I researched Northwestern University tactics, and led self-devised drills and activities. Every practice, I could see our improvement.

We were never expected to have a winning season. But, when we made it to play-offs, we proved everyone wrong. Confidence was restored in my teammates and within myself. Leadership cannot be taught. Leadership cannot be inherited. Leadership can be enhanced from within. After our season, I realized... I am a capable leader.

My opponent and I shed our robes as we sized each other up. He stood at the opposite corner. His toothpick-like limbs miraculously held his body up. His arms appeared Neanderthal-like. Gravity acted upon the weight of his boxing gloves which seemed to elongate his arms until his knuckles dragged on the carpeted platform.

The air horn sounded. We circled the edge of the ring. Neither one of us wanted to throw the first punch. I think thirty seconds went by, I heard them chanting his name, "Sam. Sam. Sam." I could not bear the monosyllable repetition, so I aimed and fired my jab-punch combo right towards his face. My entire body lunged forward with so much force; I just might have punched the Y chromosomes right out of him.

I certainly do not fit the boxer image. I am a "pocket-sized" Asian female with an infatuation for tree hugging and peace protesting. My stature alone leads people to believe that there is no way I could inflict damage or even bruise an opponent. At first I never told anybody about boxing for fear of what they would say or think. Eventually, I came around to telling them. Unfortunately, now they always ask me, "Hey, why the heck do you box?" Sometimes I ponder the same question, but when my mind drifts back to that memory on June 25th, I instantly know the answer.

I can still remember the first time I punched a guy. It was a "money shot."I had been preparing years for that strike. I still remember the indescribable streak of red as my fist jolted forward and recoiled back. Only one word is needed to express what I felt at that moment: liberating.
Kickboxing is considered a boys' sport, which is definitely not true.

At class and practice, I always found myself acting as the one woman counter weight to compensate for the exceedingly lopsided female to male ratio. As a senior in high school, I am one of the only girl boxers in Chicago's northwest suburbs. As a ten year old I was the only girl playing boys' full-contact lacrosse. As a prospective student, I want to be an engineer despite the predominant male nature of my intended major.

Practically all of my potential opponents were of opposite gender, no one was willing to spar me. I frequented the water-girl position. Not one boy wanted to compromise his manhood to fight a girl. I understand why they forfeited. However, I don't think they understand how I felt. I sweat and fought my way to exhaustion, but that all went to waste with every spar rejection. My lust for competition died slowly. Never before had I accepted that boys were physically superior to girls. By the tenth forfeit and fifth tournament, sadly, I began to believe it's truth. I didn't feel competent, in any aspect. If I could not prove myself in the gymnasium, what other facets of my personality could be questioned. Did my word mean nothing anymore? Was my activism and protesting invalidated. Could I still pride myself on my emotional strength? My entire being fell under assault by my own stinging judgments.

On June 25th, I had full intention of pouring water into Dixie cups for my mates. My coach Ronnie, like every other invitational meet, recited to me, "I'll try my best to find you a fight." In the back of my mind, lingered the knowledge that I wasn't going to have my time in the ring. My best friend Dylan kept me company, he and the intermediate fighters had two hours until their first match. We joked around naming our jab(left) and punch(right) biceps. He named mine "cha" and "ching", respectively, because of my infamous jab-punch combination "money shot" on the hanging bags during open gym practices. I saw Ronnie approaching from my peripheral vision. His stern guise did not forebode well.

I found out I wasn't in trouble, because the next thing I knew, I was preparing for my first feather-weight match. For the first time, my glossy red gloves would be put to work. Dylan massaged my shoulders. Mark put on my headgear. David gave me a pep talk. All I could remember, were my empty eyes staring back at me through the mirror: this was it.
And so, there I was with my fists up, blood pumping, and eyes focused. At the split second after I threw the punch, realization hit me. We were equals since the moment we cast off our garb. Shedding the customary robe was symbolic. I always thought the fancy silk robes acted as frivolous props to boost the theatrical nature of a boxing match. But, when we took off our robes, it was as if both of us cast away all of our initial notions and inhibitions. It was as if we were both... naked. He and I were fighters, and that's all we were. For once, age didn't matter, race didn't matter, and gender didn't matter. The only things that counted at that moment were skill, strength, hard work, and determination.

I did end up losing the match, and I did end up with more respect from my male counterparts. However, most importantly, I did end up stronger and more self-confident. That moment liberated me. I felt free from the shackles of social norms and customary expectations. At that moment, all of my actions, thoughts, and emotions were validated; I could be whoever I want to be. Before, there was too much pressure to be a societal carbon copy, so I felt compelled to conceal a part of me. Nevertheless, I no longer have to hide my boxing skills. In fact, I appreciate boxing and everything it has done for me. The day of my self-actualization is my most valuable experience. Jab-punch. "cha-ching". June 25th, was the day of my "money shot."