College Essay About Music

Writing your college essay about music ? Read how music influences lives in these college admission essays. Your essay should be unique and demonstrate your passion and unique influence with music in your life.

Last updated on November 30, 2023 by College Financial Aid Advice.

Here are a few examples of college essays about music to give you some ideas.

Music Made Me Who I Am

college application essay about music

University of Virginia circa 1914

Note: I used this essay as a human written essay to see how well AI ChatGPT might edit it. For examples of ChatGPT essays derived from this essay, see ChatGPT writing essays .

A Musical Experience

All that jazz, in the key of 'c', college admissions.

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Duke University Admission Essay: Music as My second language

Duke University Application Essay, Duke University Admission Essay

College application essay about talent

"Music as My second language"

Duke University

Music has shaped my personal and intellectual life in many ways. Music is a common language that connects me to others who share my enthusiasm for creating it. Furthermore, I learn about my own preferences and personality through the pieces that intrigue me. As I expose myself to a wider array of styles and eras, my musical tastes grow more complex. Through music, I welcome opportunities to expand my friendships as well as my instrumental horizons.

I began studying piano at age six. For the next fve years, my mother lived vicariously through my musical education, which her family had not been able to afford. In ffth grade, as I was becoming an earnest piano student, I was selected to commence violin lessons and play in my elementary school orchestra. From that day on, I saw life from a violinist's point of view.

Although I am a seasoned pianist, an ambitious solo violinist, and a fedgling cellist, I am, above all, a passionate chamber musician. My experience in a chamber quartet has had a strong impact on my character. When I was the second violinist, I simply enjoyed making music with my friends. Only after I became the frst violinist did I feel the responsibility of leadership settling uncomfortably on my shoulders. However, the burden soon became a part of me and transformed into enthusiasm. now, as the quartet leader, I use the small group setting to channel each of our individual creative instincts. Each member of the quartet shares her musical interests, bringing favorite repertoire to the table, so that we each participate in the learning and playing experience. The quartet is also an outlet for my musical fancy. Ever since I discovered the Finale music writing software, I have delighted in arranging works for our quartet to play and perform. This year, my goal is to arrange and perform the Ferrante and Teicher version of the love theme from The Godfather for a piano duet and orchestra.

As my aspirations grow, I aim to arrange music for a greater variety of instruments and to explore jazz, pop, and other styles of music on the piano. I desire to join others with similar talent and passion at Duke. However, before I leave my high school, I hope my appreciation for music will leave a mark on my community.

Essay Analysis

In "Music as My Second Language," Jean writes about how "music is a common language that connects [her] to others who share [her] enthusiasm for creating it." Jean packs a lot of information into a short essay while keeping the topic tightly focused. The language metaphor helps tie this essay together: Jean's assertion that "musical tastes grow more complex" parallels the growth of someone learning new vocabulary when studying a foreign language. And just as learning a language expands ones possibilities for connecting with people, so too does Jean note that music helps her connect with others and expand her friendships.

In relating her childhood history of exploring "instrumental horizons," Jean not only tells about her lessons in piano and violin but also draws in the history of her parents, who were not able to afford a musical education. Jean demonstrates a nice balance between her personal history and the story of those who shaped this history—in this case, her parents. When writing about past events, focusing solely on oneself can create a distorted sense of self-as-center-of-the-universe. Of course, it is appropriate to focus mainly on oneself—these are, after all, personal statements—but it can be useful to describe the people around you in setting the stage for telling your story. This not only helps readers contextualize your situation but also shows your ability to connect your own experience to the experiences of people with whom you interact.

This short essay connects to Jean's longer essay, "Anything Goes" (Chapter 10) in continuing the theme of expanding horizons and building upon her current knowledge. In both essays, Jean does an excellent job of balancing descriptions of her personal drive and motivation with illustrations of her ability to work collaboratively. For example, in this essay, we see that though she is "a seasoned pianist, an ambitious solo violinist, and a fedgling cellist," Jean is "above all, a passionate chamber musician." Throughout the panoply of her musical experiences, Jean wisely chooses to hone in on her experience as the leader of her chamber quartet. She demonstrates her egalitarian leadership style when she notes, "I use the small group setting to channel each of our individual creative instincts." Her passion for acquiring new skills can be seen by her discovery of Finale music writing software. Jean's creativity and motivation can be defned in her very goals, for example, her desire "to arrange and perform the Ferrante and Teicher version of the love theme from The Godfather for a piano duet and orchestra." Writing about these future aspirations gives Jean an excellent segue into discussing why she hopes to join Duke's musical community. Here, Jean might have chosen to write a little more about "why Duke" specifcally. When writing reasons you want to attend a college, it is important to do research on the school and to write in a way that the college name is not interchangeable with that of any other university. Jean could have made her ending even stronger, had she mentioned a specifc group at Duke so that this essay would have been noticeably specifc to that university.

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College Essay About Music: “Music Is My Life”

EssayEdge > Blog > College Essay About Music: “Music Is My Life”

Here, you will find an example for an admission essay about “Music in my Life” aimed to show the applicant’s originality. Look through it to find out the basic structure and main features of the well-done college essay.

“Music is My Life” Essay Sample

I am an addict. I tell people I could stop anytime, but deep inside, I know I am lying. I need to listen to music, to write music, to play music every day. I can’t go a whole day without, at the very least, humming or whistling the tunes that crowd my head. I sing myself hoarse each morning in the shower, and playing the trumpet leaves a red mouthpiece-shaped badge of courage on my lips all day. I suspect that if someone were to look at my blood under a microscope, they would see, between the platelets and t-cells, little black musical notes coursing through my body.

On many occasions I’ve woken my family (and perhaps the neighborhood) composing on the piano early in the morning. Other times, my mother will admonish, “It’s too late to play the trumpet.” But I can’t understand why people wouldn’t want to hear music any time of the day. Keeping the music bottled up is more than I can bear. “I never worry about you sneaking up on me,” my friend once admitted to me. “I’ve never seen you walking without humming or whistling to yourself.”

For me, playing the trumpet is the opiate of music in its purest form. I love to play in all types of ensembles. I’m not just addicted to one kind of music; I couldn’t imagine limiting myself like that. Choosing just one kind of music would be worse than choosing one food to eat for the rest of my life. Playing orchestral music, for example, I become a sharpshooter. Waiting, I hide behind rows of string players, ready to jump out with a staccato attack that pierces the hearts of the audience. Playing in an orchestra, I can be Atlas, holding the other musicians above my head, or Icarus, flying through a solo in a desperate attempt to reach the heavens.

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Completely different, small jazz ensembles are like a conversation with your closest friends. “So,” someone asks, “what do you think about. . . .” We mull it over together, and then each has a say. I build on what the piano proclaimed, or disagree with the saxophone. Playing jazz like this makes me giddy; jazz musicians know that music isn’t little dots on a piece of paper, but a feeling that makes you want to stomp your feet, shout for joy, or grab a partner and swing. Taking a solo, I extend my wings, a baby bird jumping out of my nest for the first time. Flapping madly, I hope that by some act of seeming magic my music will fly on its own.

Not only am I an addict, I am also a pusher. The schools in the neighboring community are unable to afford musical instruction, so each week several other high school musicians and I teach music at an elementary school on the east side of town. I work with all of the trumpets for an hour before we join the other instruments to play as a band. Having tutored since freshman year, I’ve seen my students gradually improve. Four years ago, few of them could read music.

This year, one of my best students won a scholarship to the Stanford Jazz Workshop. Many students from the east side of town never continue on through high school. At our last homecoming game, all of my students came and played with the pep band. One student, who had been struggling in school, confided in me that playing with us had made him excited about attending high school for the first time. That afternoon, I saw a new music addiction forming; it was almost better than being hooked myself.

The given example of a well-done college essay “Music is my Life” aims to show how you can write an essay that works. Apart from this essay about music, see other samples of admission writings .

This sample is given not for mere reading. Applicants must check good samples from time to time to see the proper essay structure, the differences between writing styles, and even borrow some features. However, you’ll need to spend time editing your paper. If your skills in it are poor, our college essays editing service is ready to help you 24/7.

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Here's The College Essay That Got A High School Senior Into Every Ivy League School

Last week, high school senior Kwasi Enin found out he had been accepted to every college he applied to — including all eight Ivy League schools .

How did Enin pull off this impressive feat? The Long Island student scored a 2250 on his SAT, had taken 11 AP courses, and was in the top 2% of his graduating class, but that doesn't necessarily show him fully as an applicant. The answer could be in his college application essay , which The New York Post published today.

Enin's essay examines the impact music has had on his intellectual and personal development. "My haven for solace in and away from home is in the world of composers, harmonies, and possibilities. My musical haven has shaped my character and without it, my life would not be half as wonderful as it is today," he writes.

Read the full essay below, via The Post:

Kwasi Enin's college essay

college application essay about music

Class of 2012

These essays are in addition to similar collections from the Class of 2026 ,  Class of 2022 ,  Class of 2018 , and Class of 2007 .

The Rhythm of My Days, Measure by Measure

By zane glauber bedford, n.y..

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“Time to get up!”

I make the journey from my warm bed to the hard oak of the kitchen table downstairs. Racing thoughts about the day's events, upcoming tests, hours of inevitable homework are silenced as the Miles Davis sextet walks out onto the stage in my mind. There’s a round of applause and the group starts playing.

The men look at Paul Chambers on bass as he thumbs the familiar riff of “So What.” My focus is not on him, however; my eyes digress to the sparkling silver Gretsch drums in the middle of the stage. This is what I've been waiting for. Philly Joe Jones sits behind the carefully crafted set and, in a couple of measures, digs into his ride cymbal while keeping time with his left foot on the hi-hat pedal, his face shining with sweat, his smile beaming excitement, every pore of his body oozing jazz.

I finish my eggs and venture back upstairs to clean up, put on some clothes, and organize my backpack before leaving for school. I hold the toothbrush to my mouth with my right hand and play out the ghost notes of Jones’ snare drum with my left hand on my thigh. I go down the stairs for the last time, taking each step in rhythm, the thud of each foot a kick on the bass drum.

A school day ensues. The bell rings, time for seventh period BC Calc and another derivative quiz. I methodically go through the formulae in my head. Should I use the quotient rule, or change the exponent of the second function and use the multiplication rule with the chain rule? I feel like Philly Joe given a straight-ahead 4/4 bop groove; he could keep it at 4 or he could spice it up with two groups of 3 and one group of 2 with quick Swiss Army triplet fills. My hands express the mathematical directives in my head, they feed one off the other, just as Elvin Jones grooves off the blazing solos of Trane. While trading fours, Coltrane blares out sixteenth-note triplets and Jones responds with thirty-second notes between the snare, the toms, and his vintage Zildjian Ks. My quiz asks me for the derivative of a complicated polynomial — my pencil draws variables, exponents, coefficients and parentheses, much the way Elvin responds to the tenor sax with comping paradiddles, accents, ruffs and cymbal hits. The solo is finished; I hand in the paper.

It’s now five o’clock. I sit at my desk, contemplating my approach to an English assignment. My confusion mirrors the playing of a complex time signature, say 19/8. Counting 19 beats every measure while keeping perfect time is close to impossible. I ponder solutions. Would I divide it into two groups of 7 and a group of 5 or count it in four groups of 4 and then a quick group of 3? I complete the assigned essay by seven.

The clock strikes ten. I lie in my bed, my head reaping the benefits of the cold side of the pillow. Before I drift off, I hear the soft sighs of Jack DeJohnette’s brushes on the skins, complementing a mellow Michael Brecker ballad. Lights fade into darkness as one day’s end blends into another’s beginning.

I live my life through music. The complex rhythms of jazz drumming inspire me to be spontaneous and creative, to play off the sundry challenges I face every day. Time perpetually moves forward; I will always be there to keep it.

By Samuel Choate Weston, Mass.

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Cranky and wheezy from her latest cigarette, Auntie El walked into our house on her first day wearing her flowered apron and carrying a plastic grocery bag in which she packed her clothes for the week — not exactly Mary Poppins. Both my parents did not see this arrangement working, but were grateful for her services until a suitable caretaker could be found. She took care of me for two weeks until she went on a previously scheduled trip to Las Vegas. I guess she must have softened to the idea of caring for me because, halfway through the trip, she called my mother and told her she wanted the job full time. Auntie El started the next Monday.

No longer able to smoke because of my fragile lungs (I was on a respirator for several days after I was born), Auntie El had to find activities to take her mind off cigarettes. She took me on long walks every day and, as I grew older, would play catch with me in the backyard. Her health improved dramatically. We were good for each other.

As the years passed, we became even closer. By the time I was in first grade, she was a faculty favorite at my school and could be found waiting for me every day in the parking lot in her white Cutlass Ciera Oldsmobile with her BINGO plate on the front. She quickly became a school legend when she was the only adult in memory to join the Halloween parade which took us through every classroom in the school in costume. Auntie El wore a witch’s hat and a black and orange polka dot apron; I was a fireman.

Through our years together, we had numerous adventures. One night, her nose bled profusely and she could not stop the bleeding. Since my parents were at work, she had to call an ambulance and was forced to take me with her. With the sirens blaring, I hopped in the back, dressed in my red Power Ranger pajamas.

Auntie El’s tough, gritty mentality made me a stronger person. She grew up without a father and her family was poor. She and her siblings were taken out of school by tenth grade in order to help support the family. She never missed a chance to point out how hard my parents worked to provide me with great opportunities and called the town in which we lived “la de da land.” I always had Auntie El to give me a dose of reality.

The littlest things seemed to pull Auntie El and me together. Our passion for food was a regular topic, and we would have daily discussions on what I had to eat for lunch that day at school. Late at night, I would sneak up to her room and watch episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond and would laugh until my parents heard us and ended the fun. No matter where we were, you could always find Auntie El and me laughing about something and enjoying the moment.

In the fall of my freshman year, Auntie El was diagnosed with colon cancer. After a successful operation, she spent some time in a rehabilitation center to regain her strength. On Thanksgiving evening, 2004, Auntie El suffered a heart attack. She fell to the floor, and hit her head. She was found later the next morning, and was pronounced dead. I found out when I heard my mother scream on the phone with the hospital. Auntie El’s passing affected our whole family, but it was particularly tough for me. My good friend, my partner in crime and my teacher was no longer with me. Coming home to her every day for fifteen years was something I really enjoyed. Arriving home to an empty, quiet house and having days pass without talking to her was the worst experience of my life. I did not know life without Auntie El.

However, my family and I had to adjust but I did not know how to start over. I found myself thinking about Auntie El a lot and, one day, realized that she was still with me when I would hear her voice in the back of my mind during a test or a game or just when I was making dinner for myself.

More importantly, I realized that Auntie El instilled in me the values that I admired in her. She was genuine, caring and respectful. She taught me to work hard, and be mentally tough for life’s challenges. Her perseverance and grit showed me a lot and provided me with the perfect role model for life.

Why My Friends Didn’t Visit Last Summer

By riley smith '12 rhinelander, wis..

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I shouldn’t have told them I live on a farm with a barn, ten chickens, a dog, a canary, two thousand deer, coyotes and beautiful Silver Bass Lake. When I say beautiful lake, I mean it in the past tense. Each year the water level drops several inches, and we now refer to it more accurately as “the puddle” threatening to transform into a wetland. But even though you can't swim because of the weeds that entangle your appendages, you can still kayak! Just be sure you wear muck boots with your swimsuit because we traditionally portage the kayak a quarter mile down the bank to find water deep enough to push in. The bloodsuckers are also a turnoff. In the last year I have only had two bloodsuckers (leeches with small teeth) attach to me. The anticoagulant kept my leg bleeding for around two hours while I lay with my leg elevated; my neurotic mother pacing the room and crying while on hold with the local ER. But really, that's no reason to postpone a visit!

Another fabulous addition to our “farmstead” is the field that Papa was able to mow into a running trail. In order to escape the locusts that cling to your legs and spit brown juice on anything they come in contact with, you have to run early in the morning, and by early I mean quarter to five and still dark. However, this does pose another problem. Recently we’ve spotted some bear scat, indicating there is a bear somewhere on our property. This was confirmed when my sister ran into two cubs and a mother sow during her morning run. Rule number one for human survival; do not run into a mother bear with her two cubs. Luckily my sister is an elite cross country runner and was out of the woods by the time the bears even realized an intruder’s presence. But I still find it an excellent excuse to not use the “awesome” running trail.

Being a true-blooded Wisconsinite, naturally winter is my favorite time of year. The amphitheatre in our field provides ideal opportunity for break-neck tobogganing, and the running path is converted annually into a cross country ski trail. Two years ago we recorded five feet of snow in our field. It’s great for my brother and sister who just prance around happily on the icy surface, however, I tend to sink down to somewhere around my mid-thighs. If you’ve ever watched the movie A Christmas Story with Ralphie’s little brother in the intense snowsuit that resembles the Michelin Man, you would understand what I look like. Adding to my attire of boots, mittens, hat, scarf, face mask, long johns with snow pants and two sweaters, my mother insists I wear an oversized blaze orange jacket, because in Rhinelander, every season is deer season.

It probably wasn’t the best idea to mention my two uncles. Uncle Pete is fun; he always comes to watch the Packers game on Sunday and enjoy my mother’s home-cooked brunch. But the partial he received last year, after he knocked out his two front teeth dog sledding with his huskies through downtown Rhinelander, does at times make you lose your appetite. My Uncle John sometimes can be mistaken for a mountain man. His assortment of furs and strange bags full of fishing gear and other odd tools whose uses are a mystery to everyone but Johnny himself, add to his “Yooper” appearance. To clarify for those non-Midwesterners, a Yooper is a term used to describe those from the backwoods of the Upper Peninsula. So sometimes he’s a little strange. However, he is probably one of the most well-known men in all of northern Wisconsin; famous for providing fresh bluegills to the Franciscan nuns, his state-renowned loon calls, and his never-ending repertoire of jokes. He’s burst into our house on several occasions with a dripping and still-twitching forty-eight-inch musky. And did I mention he’s a part-time grave digger?

But no matter how hick it may seem, in the end, I just feel sorry for everyone who scoffed at a visit to Rhinelander. Long nature walks in the woods, fresh little red potatoes from the garden, glowing sunsets off the porch, families of loons and whippoorwill calls, rhubarb and asparagus patches, freshly fallen snow, fiery reds, tangerine oranges and the sunburst golds of autumn, making apple pie with the apples from our orchard, playing piano at night in front of a blazing fire — they’re the ones missing out.

Music for Prague 1968

By ryan park moraga, calif..

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Just as Music for Prague shattered my perspective of music, my mother’s unsuccessful battle against leukemia shattered the stability of my life. In October of 2005, after eight years and several failed treatments, it was determined that nothing more could be done for my mother. Over the next several months I watched as she withered away, living the last of her days with the feebleness of an old woman. When my mother lay too still in her sleep, I feared that I had lost her. And when she was awake, I was haunted by the images of her shivering violently in bed, the images blurred by the tears I tried to suppress in order to be strong for her, and the demoralizing feeling of helplessness that came with my inability to comfort her. I was torn emotionally. I wanted her suffering to end, but that meant losing her forever.

May 17 was the night of the concert and however nervous I was, all I can remember about that night was my mother, still a mother despite her physical state, harassing me for not taking a shower. It was for her that I vowed I would perform the song.

Mr. Benstein raised his baton and the melody of a bird song echoed from the flutes; the audience fell silent. The peaceful aura was broken by the minor chords of my clarinet, calling forth a looming presence. His baton strokes widened, and machine guns blasted from the snare drum, adding to the roaring of the brass tanks. My instrument emanated the cries of suffering, the notes shivering off my tongue. With the final upswing, he summoned the Hussite War song, and much of the pain that had built up inside my heart over the past months was lifted. My father told me later that he was deeply shaken by the piece as well. I realized that Music for Prague was not about the structure or the visual images it conjured, but instead it was the very lack of structure that allowed for Husa’s emotions to stand out.

She passed away only a couple of hours after the performance. For the first time in months she looked at peace as she lay still in the presence of her family and I was able to accept that she was in a better place. It was Karel Husa’s ability to capture the loneliness and the pain of losing a loved one that allows Music for Prague to move us all. The rhythm and beat of music describe emotions not restricted by words, flowing together with the beating of the heart.

There is Something About Africa

By sorina seeley paris, france.

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“Then the person says ‘Sapela.’”


“Then you will reply ‘Sakhona snez wa nena.’”

“Sakhona snez wa nena” “Remember if someone gives something to you or helps you, say ‘ngiyabonga kakhuku.’ It means thank you.” “Ngiyabonga kakhuku” “Got it all?” “Yes.” “Good, because we’re almost there.”

My heart skipped a beat, we were almost there, we were just minutes away from the a world that so far, only existed inside my mind, inspired through bedtime stories and faded photographs. I was minutes away from a place completely strange, yet so familiar to me. As we drove through the vast open land, my father rolled down the windows and said, “Stick your head out, smell that? That’s Africa.”

Despite the many travels that characterized much of my childhood, I had never been on a trip quite like that of my first visit to South Africa. To me Africa existed through my father’s journals, letters exchanged between my grandparents, an array of photographs and wonderful stories of what it was like having Africa as a home. However now for the first time, I was actually arriving at the small town on the eastern coast of South Africa where four generations of my paternal side had grown up. Driving through the town of Estcourt for the first time seemed somewhat like a dream. As we passed the small stone church where my grandparents were married, a small black- and-white picture rushed to my mind. The beautiful stained windows over my grandparents' heads were somehow familiar. Jacaranda trees stood proudly between houses and along sidewalks with little blue flowers seated delicately on the top of most branches, so fragile due to the heat that when a warm breeze ruffled the branches, the flowers would float slowly to the pavement.

Soon the individual trees disappeared into a park in front of which stood a small sign that read: “Drummond Park.” “It was named after your great-grandfather,” my dad explained. “He was the first mayor of the town.” Soon the houses became more scarce and once again the landscape became littered with cows, horses, zebra and small flightless birds. Five minutes into this we had arrived at a house at the top of a hill. Glen Roy was etched on the wooden arch marking the entrance.

My dad’s cousin rushed forward to meet us, welcoming my dad home and welcoming my brother and me to our heritage. She guided us around the property, together with my dad, pointing out various places where events had happened: the rose garden overlooking the dam where my father and mother were engaged; under the tree where lunches were eaten when it was not too hot; and the back shed where the half-a-meter-long pet tortoise was kept. That same afternoon, exhausted from traveling yet full of excitement to see everything, my dad announced that he had someone he wanted us to meet. Her name was Josephine and she had been his nanny when he was a child and continued to look after him until he left Africa for London to find a job.

We walked around to the back of the house to the hill that leads down to Wagon Drift Dam. I lowered myself onto the grass, in between my brother and my grandmother, slipping forward as the dry earth crumbled a bit beneath me. My eyes swept the grass around me, yellow from the heat and lack of rain. By the dam at the bottom of the hill lay ten or twenty small huts raised from the earth. Up the hill from the huts marched a figure followed by many other smaller figures. “That's her,” my dad said laughing. A tiny woman no younger than ninety reached the top of the hill and embraced my father, both with tears in their eyes they sat down around me. After a moment's silence Josephine started to speak. She spoke so quickly, the Zulu words rolling out of her mouth indistinguishable from each other. Yet the unfamiliar words told a familiar and wonderful story. My grandfather and father were laughing as my grandmother translated the fast-paced monologue into stories of my father’s childhood. It was incredible to see my family’s history and my father’s past told through someone like an aunt to my dad, someone who had been a part of all the stories my father told me. I was seeing a part of me through someone else’s eyes that before had only been a bedtime story.  

At first, Josephine’s small frame contradicted the image of a strong black Zulu woman I had imagined from my father’s stories, but her strength, vigor and powerful presence greatly surpassed my previous image of her. Finally the fast-paced discussion slowed, and the laughter was replaced by a peaceful smile. She said very slowly in broken English that it was her first pilgrimage back up the hill to Glen Roy since my dad left over 30 years ago. Her dignified, serene stature remained dominating as many of the smaller figures came closer, around twenty small children gathered around her, the smaller ones crawling into her lap, the older ones tentatively remaining a few meters away. My grandmother explained that most of Josephine’s children and friends had died of AIDS, and she was now the matriarch of the village raising orphaned children as her own. She gazed at the children with such love and care, the same affection that saw my father’s upbringing.

As we stood up to leave, Josephine turned her head and looked at my brother and me. “Singabangane,” she said. The word sounded so familiar and beautiful. My grandmother leaned forward and whispered translation into my ear. “Singabangane,” I replied. It meant we are friends.

“There is something about Africa,” my father always says, “something that runs deep in your veins, something that will always draw you back.” When I lie in bed at night, I still imagine myself in far-off countries, immersed in exotic cultures, yet after a while my mind always returns to Africa. I feel the hot sun pushing me into the ground, the vast openness around me and the connection to the country that means so much to my family and me. I see the thatched roof of the house where my father spent his childhood and the landscape that makes my heart beat fast and hard. I think of the hot air that wrapped around me and the beauty and mystery of Africa that cannot be put into words, but remains a constant ache in my heart to return. On the plane ride back home to Prague, I wrote in my journal:

In the distance a hot wind Sways the branches of a lone acacia tree Giving futile shade to a lonely bird It doesn’t sing or dance, just sits there Staring out to nowhere Too hot to move, too hot to think Just sitting there, staring into the distance, Into the eternity of Africa. Jan 2002  

By Danielle Burby Huntington Station, N.Y.

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One by one, my friends stood before us, dancing their stories. First went James, his tap shoes ringing out like pealing bells against the springy floor, telling a funny story about doctors. Then Sally, her beautiful red hair, newly cut, swinging and swaying along with her and her bubbly tale of band camp. Then Katie, intricately weaving a pattern across the floor, speaking about her open heart surgery. Then my little sister, the youngest one there, timidly striking her feet against the ground, quietly recounting the time she and my father had gotten lost canoeing.

Finally, it was my turn. I was the last to go, and I still had a hundred stories racing through my head. I stood up and slowly walked across the long room, my tap shoes clickety-clacking with every step. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my reflection follow me in the mirror. I turned around and faced five pairs of expectant eyes. Of their own accord my feet took up a rhythm: ba da dum bum, ba da dum bum. And above the metallic sound of my tapping flew a story I hadn’t consciously chosen; a story I had been keeping locked tightly away from even my deepest thoughts.

As I realized what I was saying, my feet quickened and the tapping grew more frantic. But the tapping couldn’t drown out my words; a story about my grandmother. I began with the surprise visit my mother and I decided to pay. I told of the window through which I watched my grandmother fall. I told of the glass door, the locked glass door, and my grandmother’s slumped form lying unmoving on the floor with just a door barring us from her. And my mother, my clean-mouthed mother, cursing and struggling to find a key, finally finding it and thrusting the door open. The two of us rushing to help my grandmother, me a few steps behind, unsure of what to do, of what was going on.

As I told the story, my feet and words felt clumsy and I didn't know what they would do or say next. Five pairs of eyes, full of pity, watched me. I choked on the words. My feet faltered. But I had begun, and now I had to see it through. I described the sour smell of alcohol seeping out of my grandmother’s very pores; the blood, the crimson translucent blood, puddled and smeared across the floor. And worst of all, her eyes, bleary and unfocused, facing in different directions. I told of my own eyes, wide as steering wheels. Blood oozed out of the cut on her head. And my grandmother — my grandma — tried to act as though nothing had ­happened, as though she weren’t drunk, as though she wasn’t an alcoholic.

My tapping faded out after the words had finally stopped running out of my mouth. The tale hadn’t been told in a cohesive manner and my dancing had been disjointed. But my story was out in the open. And as I stood there, I suddenly felt naked. I was utterly exposed. I had dug up a piece of my soul that I suddenly wasn’t sure I should have uncovered. Even an hour later, riding shotgun in my mother’s minivan, with the trees flying past me, I felt as though a piece of me had been scooped out and left for the vultures.

But miraculously, after I got beyond my feelings of vulnerability, my wound started to mend. It was as though by telling the story I had let out an infection. My anger toward my grandmother was scabbing over; my resentment was being changed into a small scar. And even though none of the people who had heard my story ever brought it up again, sharing that small piece of myself with them allowed me to accept what had happened and to heal.  

Hameau Farm

By hayden kiessling pound ridge, n.y..

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Thirty curious girls surrounded the calm haven that I had created in the stall for Petoria. The campers watched through the bars of the stall, waiting quietly and patiently for something to happen. I thought back to five years before, when I had first seen a calf being born. The mother was out in the pasture, so my friends and I watched in awe and anticipation as the massive creature lay down on her side and started pushing. A new calf was always an exciting change at the farm. Chores were put on hold as we wondered at the slimy, skinny animal trying to take its first steps.

The day Petoria went into labor, the girls were supposed to go to the state park for a barbeque and a swim, but they chose unanimously to stay and watch Petoria bring her first baby into the world. These are the kinds of girls that come to Hameau Farm: inquisitive, hardworking, independent girls who would rather spend two weeks feeding a baby goat with a bottle than splashing around in a town pool with their friends or playing soccer for their travel team. Even though my days as a camper ended long ago, I still consider myself a Hameau Farm girl, and this was my ­seventh summer.

For the moment my place was in the stall, sitting in the hay with Petoria. She let out a soft moo, and I stroked her soft brown-spotted coat. She was ready. I moved aside so that she could lie on her side, first coaxing her to the center of the stall so that the campers would get a good view. She started pushing. A series of hushed whispers rippled through the line of young girls. I loved that they were so excited. These were a bunch of city girls who had been dropped off almost a week ago, not knowing what to expect, but willing to try something new. I thought back to my first week at camp, and how I hadn’t even known how to wash my own dishes. When it was my chore group’s turn in the kitchen after dinner, I not only learned how to scrub, rinse and sanitize, but by the end of the night, I learned how to make the perfect beard out of soap bubbles, and I picked up some great dance moves to Britney Spears songs. Everything was an adventure at camp, and today was proving to be no exception.

Petoria was breathing harder. I could see the feet starting to emerge. I knew that the front hooves would come out first and the calf would literally dive out of its mother. This calf had some of the biggest feet I had ever seen, and Petoria had clearly noticed as well. As pushing got harder, Petoria became more vocal, and then she stopped. She was out of energy, but she needed to push or the calf ­wouldn’t survive. I tried to feed her grain and give her water, but Petoria would have none of it. She was exhausted.

After deferring to the camp director, I had to gather up twine from the bales of hay around the barn, tie them together, and tie the long string around the calf's exposed hooves. It was my turn to do the work. I pulled on the twine, but couldn't get a good grip on it. My fellow counselor and I tied our end of the rope around a pitchfork. That provided us with at least a little leverage. Three of us pulled on that handle for what seemed like an hour. By then there was no point in trying to keep the campers quiet and relaxed. They were all concerned, shouting words of encouragement to Petoria and clapping and cheering whenever a little more of the calf emerged.

It is a Hameau Farm custom to name a new baby animal something starting with the first letter of its mother’s name, so when that little bull calf finally came out of Petoria, the campers voted, and we named him Presley, after The King. He was the center of attention for days after, but as I made my way down to the farmhouse to shower away the slime, dirt, and sawdust, I knew that he was just one of the many adventures that each one of those campers would have at Hameau Farm.

Block by Block, Word by Word

By daniel steinman short hills, n.j..

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In elementary school, I was fanatical about my LEGOs. I would build the medieval castle, complete with the moat and the drawbridge and guard stations and the throne room for the king and queen and their royal dog, Patches. (Coincidentally, Patches was also the name of my dog.) I would kneel for hours, hunched over the hundreds of blocks spread over the carpet, to select just the right piece for each part of the structure.

Once the castle walls were erected and the knights on horseback were set to approach from the other side of the moat, I was done. I didn't really play with the castle afterward. I moved it to the corner so that my sister’s Barbie convertible wouldn't crash into it and ruin my little “Ages 3 and Up” masterpiece.

Looking back on my childhood, I was a bizarrely obsessive little kid. For days after building a fort or a spaceship, I would stop and examine that every plastic block was still in place.

It’s strange to think that between the age of riding a tricycle and the age of driving a car, I am, in some ways, exactly the same. I don't play with LEGOs anymore, but I am a construction worker of types. Now I write essays and stories and newspaper articles, and I approach it with the same compulsion.

Every word is painstakingly selected with the same intensity I exerted as a child choosing the right color block. Every phrase is turned around and around in my head like arranging the walls of the castle gate. Every sentence is examined for its structural quality. At my desk — like kneeling over my rug — I craft meticulously.

By writing, I hope to create the grand and intricate images in my mind, to give them some physical incarnation. Inked on a page, a nebulous mass of related thoughts can be forged into something real. A story or essay can be erected as the fulfillment of a single concept. My gratification comes from being able to perfectly embody an idea. This can be frustrating because I’ve never written anything close to perfect. For as much as I agonize over my words and methodically rework every draft, my ideal eludes me. Still, I return to my desk and keep writing, editing, and rewriting because if I don’t return to my desk, I’m sure I’ll never write the essays, stories, and newspaper articles that I know I want to write.

You can make almost anything out of words. You can build planet-sized spaceships, long-lost medieval castles, or cities of glass structures that pierce the clouds. If my construction work is solid enough, I believe I will be able to make these worlds — real and imaginary — come alive on paper the way they did on the rug of my basement. So I continue to build — block by block, word by word, sentence by sentence — in the hope that I will end up with something I can put to the side of my desk and examine every once in a while to see that every word fits in place.

These essays are in addition to three similar collections from the Class of 2022 , Class of 2012 , and Class of 2007 .

College Essay Writing Tips

The Hamilton Admission Team offers these tips for you to consider when sitting down to write your college application essays.

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Common App Essays About Music

We love music. Who doesn’t? In the past, we’ve gotten some emails about how to approach a common app essay about music and our TKG clients have asked the same question. Keep reading for our thoughts:  

The most important thing to keep in mind is that your common app essay needs to be about you. And we get that music might be a big part of your life. But there are two traps that we don’t want you to fall into:

Trap #1: Writing a common app essay about an extracurricular activity.

One of our favorite things about our job is the discovery process with our clients. We don’t try to fit people into boxes, and we love uncovering layers of depth that speak to a diversified list of interests, passions, and qualities. But let’s say that you’ve been playing jazz music since sixth grade. We know for a fact that “jazz musician” is going to be on the activities list of your common app account. A lot of people like to write about music through a lens that has been overdone: music helped me come out of my shell and allowed me to express myself. And while this might be true, colleges have been reading these essays for years. Your essay will be placed into the “music” pile, and that’s not a good place to be. So if you’ve been making music or studying music outside of school and it’s on your resume, you should avoid writing about it in your common app essay.

Trap #2: Writing a common app essay that’s a love letter to your favorite musician.

Whenever you write an essay about someone else (your grandmother, your favorite teacher, Drake) you unfortunately miss the mark. By definition, your common app essay is no longer about you. And that’s problematic because colleges can’t tell what kind of person you are based on your favorite musician. So no matter how love deep your love for Elton John runs, it’s best to skip this approach as well.

So, how can you write a common app essay about music? It’s best to reframe this to: how can I incorporate music into my common app essay? Writing about music can be a helpful lens if it shows how you see the world and how you think, but it has to be done the right way. To use an example, we once worked with a client who loved learning about other countries and cultures. He was sitting in French class one day and was trying to figure out how he could learn about France without his textbook. In hopes of brushing up on his pronunciation skills and knowledge of the country, he decided to start listening to French music. He continued along this path, listening to playlists from almost every country in Europe. This is a great example of an essay that incorporates music, but isn’t exclusively about music.  

The best advice that we can give is to avoid of trap of thinking that you want to write a common app essay about music, art, hardship, or any topic for that matter. This line of thinking often stints the brainstorming process because you put yourself into a box. Instead, think about writing an essay about yourself – and then use what comes to mind to tell a story with a beginning, middle, and end.

Need help brainstorming? We’d love to help. Contact us here if you’d like to work with someone one-on-one.

College Essay: Music Opens Doors

The beauty of the piano was that it became a large part of who I am. The consonant and dissonant sounds of jazz, classical, and modern music fill my limbic cortex with everlasting joy. Music has helped me cope with the loneliness of childhood and to gain self-confidence, and leadership.

My love for music will always be a center of my life even if college and career take me elsewhere. The piano also has led me to pursue other interests such as poetry, acting, biology, writing, and computer programming, including after-school extracurricular activities such as College Possible, Jazz Band, and Piano Club.

Jacky Thao, Harding Sr. High

I did not fit in with classmates during my childhood years. I was somewhat awkward and aggressive, bored and very lonely.

On a sunny afternoon at my cousin’s house, I became fascinated with the piano as I heard my cousin play a solemn tune that sparked inspiration deep in my atria. I asked my father that day to buy me a piano. He did, and I taught myself. I sat down at my family’s electric piano more and more. YouTube videos, music lessons, and simple practices. Slowly, the piano became part of who I am.

The bliss of listening and playing my favorite pieces on piano always excited me. Despite the difficulty learning everything by myself, I felt the need to feel the pleasant sounds bring a chill down my spinal cord and that I wanted to finish it to the end.

I developed muscle memories on piano pieces without having to look back at the recording. Then I progressed on to play piano pieces by watching Synthesia piano tutorials, analyzing pieces by ear, learning how to read music notations, and how to improvise using major and minor scales.

Although I was able to learn and complete complex piano pieces, I wasn’t able to share my playing with anyone else.

That changed when I was a high school freshman when I was asked to play in a piano class. I felt insecure and pressured wondering whether my music teacher would disapprove of my style and seeing other students gaze stiffly at me. I laid my fingers on the polished wooden white and black keys and let loose the sounds of a summer vacation tune as if I were free to do anything I wanted. Free from the pressure and insecurity.

I had never had the feeling of performing in front of audiences before. To have my accomplishment acknowledged as they applauded made me feel at home. It was an insight that was sudden and new to me like receiving a jolt of nourishing life from a lightning strike. It has helped me gain self-confidence not only in music, however into making new friends too.

Playing the piano strengthened my character in other ways, too. I became president of the Piano Club. It was fun, but I recognized that I lacked the leadership skills for the job. So I dedicated most of my summer my freshman year to developing leadership skills in a program called the Center for Hmong Arts and Talents or CHAT. I created songs with friends and learned to improve expressing myself on stage and attracting me to other summer opportunities.

I’ve changed my life significantly. I’ve become self-driven in music, schoolwork, and discovering new opportunities — competing in musical competitions, volunteering, performing as an actor as well as a musician, trying to bring joy in communicating to audiences.

Although I may not major in music (following my parent’s wishes), my eyes have been opened to so many other areas of interest, especially in arts and communications, where I can make a contribution in college and career.

college application essay about music

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College Admissions Essay: How Music Changed My Life

College admissions essay: how photography changed my life.

As a young child, I often transformed my grandma's dwelling into my own personal canvas. Fueled by morning cartoons, I would concoct detailed illustrations of the oddities in my imagination and intricate pictures of my family and surrounding. It was evident I had been blessed. I was never discouraged from my routine doodling either, just encouraged to channel that creativity on to anything but our walls. When I started public schooling some years later I was introduced to the scope of what art really was. Painting, drawing, photography-It was a world unknown to me then. The way we experimented with every medium early on was perfect for my inquisitive nature. For years I invested in what I now consider to be my craft, with the guidance of numerous

College Admissions Essay: How Animation Changed My Life

As any cliché artist would say, “I started drawing a lot when I was younger;” but not me –I can’t remember when I started to enjoy the arts. I have always been driven to create and express myself. I painted scenery to calm my nerves, draw intricate objects to focus on details, and draw dynamic poses to allow development of my eye. The mountain of used sketchbooks fills its’ own bookcase, dating back to early elementary years when I would create little stories much like a comic book. Despite my deep love for the arts, I always loved animation much more. Animation is the perfect blend of drawing and creating visual aid, while elaborately designing a storyline and plot to engage the audience –animation lets the average audience member to feel

College Admissions Essay: How Dance Changed My Life

Dance is one of the major things that defines my identity and it is an interest that had become so meaningful, that without it my application would be incomplete. This has been able to shape me throughout the years, from discipline and maturity all the way yo leadership and teamwork. I find dance as an art work, that it is easy to make mistakes and fall, you just have to learn from those mistakes and get up twice as strong as from where you started. Dance is to look above and beyond and just let everything fall into place without hesitation.

College Admissions Essay: The Songs That Changed My Life

Most days, my head reminds me of a snow globe. As I wake every morning, my thoughts get shaken up and gently rain down in my mind, condensing into full, solid ideas. Most days, I think up fantasies.

College Admissions Essay: Songs That Affected My Life

I sat and listened to the beautiful yet invigorating song being played on the piano. I reminisced about the future, when I would be able to play such a complex piece of music. Six years later I sat awaiting my turn to perform this piece of music I had so long dreamed about. I felt butterflies dancing in my stomach, but at the same time I felt a sense of peace and contentment. I played this song flawlessly and from that moment on, I knew that I wanted to use my knowledge and talent of playing the piano to change the world for the better. I desired to impact young, aspiring piano students just as the song that impacted my life so long ago. I long to do so by studying music in college and continue to teach piano.

College Admissions Essay: The Sound Of Music

When I was younger, I loved to watch musicals on our small tv at home, especially The Sound of Music. I would sit for hours, watching it over and over. I learned all the songs by heart and would walk around the house singing “Doe a deer, a female deer” over and over until I was blue in the face. Finally, my parents took me out to see Hairspray on Broadway. Throughout the whole musical, I kept asking my parents where the music was coming from and after the show, they took me down to the pit to meet the orchestra. From that moment, I wanted to play one of those instruments. I realized that even though pit orchestra isn’t the most focused on the element even though it wouldn't be a musical without it.The music sets the mood, foreshadows and tells a

In the first grade, I picked up a clarinet. It was my sister’s, collecting dust while waiting for me to play it. From the moment I produced my first sound, an ear-piercing squeal that frightened my dog, the path of my life took a turn for the better. I began teaching myself for the following three years, along with learning from my sister how to properly play the beautiful instrument. The music pushed me out of my comfort zone: concerts that forced me onstage, tests that made me play difficult songs, and teachers that pushed me to be an exceptional player. From the shy elementary school student I used to be to the outgoing band member I take joy in being today, music has shaped my everyday life.

Essay on My Musical Autobiography

Ever since I was a young kid, I was extremely fond of music. Music was all around me: on the television, in school, at the store, and especially in the car. Not only did I love to listen to music, but I loved to play it as well. I am not saying I was any good at playing music, because I was not. But to a young child, hitting their hand on anything could be music, and to me it definitely was.

College Admissions Essay: Hungry For Music

Music was my entrance into the world of writing. When I didn’t have access to books, listening to songs such as Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable” and Raven-Symone’s “This Is My Time” helped me get through the many days in middle school where I was bullied and isolated myself from everyone. My social isolation led to my first bout with depression. As I kept to myself, I wrote my own songs, pouring my heart into each and every word. However, fully perfecting the craft was difficult because I did not know how to perform the music I created. Fortunately, there are organizations that enable children to learn how to play instruments, and one of those organizations is Hungry For Music.

College Admissions Essay: How Classical Music Changed My Life

The summer before my senior year of high school, I entered a musical rut. I worked a job to help pay for part of my high school tuition, and in doing so I could not attend a summer music festival, and had to stay home all summer. After attending an arts boarding school all year, the transition into life at home was difficult. To say that classical music is not a popular form of entertainment in my small, rural hometown is an understatement.The only other string players I was well acquainted with from the area were my siblings and cousin.

Personal Narrative: Bruce Springsteen Music

Some people remember things based on the date or who they were with, others tie their memories to specific emotion-filled moments, I remember everything based on what song was playing. I listened Supertramp’s “Breakfast in America”, off my brother’s first generation iPod, the first time my mom allowed me to bike alone through the neighborhood. Carpools home from rec soccer practice were filled with the Black Eyed Peas’ “Boom Boom Pow” and geeky dance moves, windows rolled down so everyone could see. Coming home from fencing practice and studying late at night was an accompaniment of Bruce Springsteen songs being quietly played on the piano by my dad. Whatever the memory, music permeates each and every one.

Personal Essay: How Jazz Changed My Life

It has been my experience that jazz has a relatively small audience. Obviously, I’ve lived most of my life with a household of people who dislike my music. In the many part-time jobs, I’ve held, I’ve worked with people who told me to “turn that crap off.” In high school, I played in a jazz band in which people who didn’t like jazz comprised most of the members. I began to feel that everyone I met must hate jazz. However, I realize most of you aren’t so strongly opinionated as my siblings are. Most of you have had little exposure to jazz, you don’t know what you’re missing. Even though I like playing jazz, I don’t necessarily like you.

What Music Means To Me

Not only would I consider music to assist me through my daily life, but has a drastic enough impact to define who I am. The song “Surround you” by Echosmith is one to tell a part of my story, hence define a part of me. The lyrics “Ticking clocks were all I heard, all that sound, never thought love could be found,” presents a part of my past where I felt disheartened. Nevertheless, the theme of the song takes a turning point with the lyrics, “Wherever you are, whenever you need me… I’ll hold you beside me.”, this regarded when my life was beginning to enlighten, rebuild, and improve.

Why Is Music So Important

The other night I was in my room, listening to various playlists after a particularly rough day, when I heard the opening chords of Sugar start strumming in my ears, and I realized something. I realized that those chords felt more like home to me than the room I'd grown up in and the bed in which I'd slept for 18 years. And I think that's why this music means so much to us. It never fails to make us feel. Make us feel hopeful or safe, make us feel angry or motivated, make us feel better. I can put the headphones in

How Music Has Influenced Me Research Paper

I never ate lunch as a kid. As soon as the lunch bell rang during middle school, I would already be playing my clarinet in the band room trying to master a scale or tune. This lasted for about a year and a half until my mom scolded me. My drive for perfecting music at such a young age carried into high school. Music has influenced my life in various ways. It taught me perseverance, discipline, and the ability to express my emotions. Being a musician can be very stressful. I understand that the ability to push myself to achieve my goals requires hours upon hours of work, especially in music. My journey with music has shaped me into the hardworking person I am today.

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College Admissions Essay: My Obsession With Music

college application essay about music

Show More Ever since I can remember I have been preoccupied with music. As a child I remember obsessing over my dad's CD collection and spending lengthy afternoons just listening to them with him. My home was never silent there was always music playing in the living room, the sounds of drums being banged on or guitar amps booming from the basement. If you ask my mother she might tell you this was bothersome but if you ask me it was perfect. As I grew older my obsession quickly became a passion. I started to build my own CD collection and acquired a music taste aside from my dads. Then I started to join music groups in my school and that's when I found my place. In the fourth grade I joined my first choral group and I fell in love. I was always …show more content… I joined the Chorus and the Vocal Ensemble at the high school and continued to try and better myself as a musician. My music department also offered me other musical opportunities such as festivals. I have attended several festivals such as the Lakes Region music festival and the All New England music festival. These festivals allowed me to come together with other students from different schools that loved singing and performing as much as I did. Every time I perform at one of these festivals I am overwhelmed by how beautiful music can be when everyone I am working with is just as passionate as I am about the work we are doing and also extremely talented. Another opportunity high school has offered me is the National Music Honor Society. The National Music Honor Society allows me to give back to my music department and also my community. My music department has given me so much and really strengthened my love for music so when I got the chance to give back I jumped at it. In the Music Honor Society we organize fundraisers for our program and also events for all the kids in the music department. We also do community service such as food, clothes and toy

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Music is a fundamental part of my being and has always been in my life. Remembering songs my grandparents sang to me such as “You are my Sunshine” or recalling stories my mother would tell about me, like the time I performed for a whole restaurant at the age of three are alway the first memories to be dug out of my mind. There is a warmth and fondness I feel every time I think of them. The link to all of these memories are music. Before joining the JBHS choir…

Personal Narrative: Summer Vocal Music Intensive At East Carolina University

The professors were able to connect to over 100 high schoolers through a love of music and in that moment I realized that I wanted to do the same one day. It was towards the end of the camp and I had made such great friends. I did not want to leave. After that summer I did everything I could to further my career in…

Narrative Essay: Stone Temple Pilots

Narrative Essay Growing up I never really much appreciated the sound of music. Never had a care or thought of it in the way I could have now. Not up until the summer of 2001; my oldest sister, of the two, would always drive around in our town playing some of her favorite alternative rock tracks. It was calming; driving the backshores, waves crashed into the rocks.…

Music Education In Middle School Essay

Todays society is surrounded by music in many different facets. The exposure comes from the growth and dependence on technology, which allows the movement of noise to any location. People take music with them in the car, to the gym, over the speaker systems of most public venues, and even in the shower. This knowledge and understanding of music is a skill that needs to be enriched in the children of today. Music opens doors and opportunities for students that don’t want to be apart of the football team or didn’t make the cheer squad.…

College Admissions Essay: My Passion In The Performing Arts

The heat from the stage lights, the watchful gazes of the audience, and the sweat dripping off of our faces as we struggle to remember our lines, these sensations of being on stage are what caused the performing arts to become not only an activity, but also a passion and an unexpected source of personal growth. Through my experiences in drama and music I have been able to discover my own meaning of fulfillment and define who the person behind my appearance truly is. My passion in the performing arts started when I was a young child first learning to play the violin. Picking up the violin at the age of 6, I became stuck on one of the most basic songs for almost a whole year. At that time no one believed that I could play the violin, my teacher thought that I was too hyperactive and even my mom attempted to convince me to quit.…

College Admissions Essay: Memories Lie In Music

Memories lie in pictures taken it seems but yesterday now a lifetime ago or so it seems from when we were still teens first love, first kiss, first you my heartbeat gave that funny feeling that brought back a flood of memories our firsts and our love memories that never fade even as the years go flying by I still remember and I know you remember too it was a lot of fun just you and me and our love the many dances we attended the rock and roll beat we shared you strumming on your guitar wanting to be a rock star so many precious memories remain my heartbeat still gives me that funny feeling when looking at the pictures of when our love was new heartbeat never fails to warn me of those that are untrue when false one come on the scene and try…

Music And Exercising Essay

Introduction Previous Research article titled “Exercising with an iPod, Friend, or Neither: Which is Better for Psychological Benefits?” stated that exercising, in general, has been proven to reduce the chances of acquiring a variety of illnesses such as cardiovascular disease, obesity, cancer and many other life-threatening conditions. In addition, exercising has psychological benefits as well and may increase self-reliance, decrease stress, and improve moods. One of the ways one’s exercising environment could be improved is by incorporating music in it. Those who exercise to music create a more positive atmosphere to workout in which the person is able to accomplish his or her goals, while being pleasantly distracted by the music compared to those who exercise without music. They hypothesized that those who used a device for music (for iPod) or had a friend to work out…

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