顶级文书の大满贯2018

被两年两篇顶级文书熏陶的美本爬藤人，学习的速度是惊人的。这不才刚2018年，绝顶文书就横空出世。《English In Our House》，作者Cassandra Hsiao， 又是女生，而且是华裔。说它是绝顶文，因为这是一篇大满贯Essay，作者凭它一举拿下了所有八家藤校和斯坦福的offer。

↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓  想直接欣赏这篇原文的，请下拉到文末↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ 

谁是Cassandra Hsiao

Cassandra Hsiao，中文名萧靖彤，是出生于马来西亚的华裔女生。5岁时随父母移民到加州洛杉矶。7年级，她考进了位于洛杉矶市向南40英里的OCSA Charter School。Charter School是民办公助学校，不收学费，也不划片区，学生需要考试申请才能进来。OCSA的录取率仅为11%，不仅低于全美排名第一的公立高中Thomas Jefferson HS（此校改为考录后，录取率15%），甚至低于私立寄宿名校 Andover (13%)、Exeter (19%)、Groton (12%) 和 Thacher (12%)。

第一代移民在美国经历很多困难，第一关就是语言。在华人家庭长大的萧靖彤，进入小学前并不知道自己的中式英语口音，会成为被人笑话的理由。歧视是一种社会现象，歧视意识形成于孩子的社会观念初成阶段，会造成很大心理伤害。作为一个外来移民，无论被别人评为英语好或不好，你都会感觉歧视的无形存在。

在克服语言障碍的成长过程中，Cassandra发现自己最大的兴趣，却偏偏是英语语言。小学二年级开始，她就喜欢写作了。当口音甚至还没有完全矫正的时候，她已经进了Creative Writing Class，并在这里找到了自己的Passion。

家住Walnut镇的Cassandra，每天需要做公交车往返于家和学校之间，单程25英里，费时1小时。五年的学习，她获得4.6的GPA，近乎满分的SAT和ACT，还坚持学校和洛杉矶当地的媒体写过大量文章。当以OCSA的尖子生状态毕业（虽然不是valedictorian），并获得美本大满贯时，媒体报道铺天盖地。

拿到八家藤校和斯坦福的Cassandra，在各校之间negotiate financial package后，才选择了Yale的Theater专业。这是很成熟的表现。藤校在RD录取发出后，一般都不会更多的Scholarship余量。想要获得更多Financial，需要早申，或者向校外发掘机会。向外发展，这对Cassandra来说更不是难事了。

Cassandra现在是网络名人。自从她在油管贴出自己的文书之后，网络流量激增。于是，她顺理成章地为耶鲁招生办做了两年的Student Blogger。在校三年，Cassandra除了继续做美本在申请的油管红人外，工作履历也异彩纷呈。其中，不乏LA Times，NBC，Universal，Netflix 等媒体大牌工作经验。学生期间能有如此履历，Cassandra的未来无限可期。

大满贯の文书三要素

这篇大满贯文书，是近年来最值得一读的好文书。你反复读几遍，甚至背会它。要知道拿到大满贯的录取绝非偶然。因为你几乎不可能写一篇完全没有传统意义的文字，然后仅凭Murphy's Law就能击中所有AO的心情。

1. Dig in yourself

深挖你自己。从真实的遭遇和欢乐中找出你想表达的东西。设想一下，如果你今天得了绝症，你想要怎样给别人留下一个关于你自己的生命故事？可以有悲，最好的是喜。每个人都有故事，你肯定也有。比如这篇里的移民口音。平凡中见光辉胜于去制造光辉。

2. Show your value

在自己的故事中，找出那些可以饱含你价值关的地方，那些能张显出你的领导力、创造力、奉献精神、追求公平、求知欲等等的环节。你可能找出来很多，因为你确实太优秀了。但不能都放进一篇内，要有取舍。比如这篇歧视为主、助人为辅，扔掉创造性和领导力。

3. Play your story

取舍的标准，就是要形成一个引人注目的故事。有起承转合，有主线贯穿，有前后呼应。要会用喻，要有形象，要推敲词眼。当有需要解释的情节，要么它多余，要么你还没想透。这篇从snack到flour，从Malaysia到New York，所有情节都无需解释是一看即懂。

2018年：English in My House Essay

Cassandra Hsiao

Harvard/Yale/Princeton/Stanford

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.Ds 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 saw 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.