50 Harvard Essays

Essays are for reference only. Do NOT copy or imitate anything! 
Plagiarism is severely punished! 
of human nature – she admits that as a “middle-class African-American,” she has a 
bias, and she is also wrong from time to time. 
The main danger in this essay is oversimplification. It’s difficult to condense the 
arguments of two leaders into a few paragraphs, and Freelon doesn’t present the 
total view of their philosophies. She also assumes a familiarity on the part of the 
admissions officers with issues of racial identity, which may or may not be true. 
Overall, however, Freelon’s essay is an excellent example of how a personal identity 
struggle can reveal a lot about the person inside. 
“Thoughts Behind a Steam-Coated Door” 
By Neha Mahajan 
Till taught by pain Men really know not what good water’s worth. 
------Lord Byron 
A light gauze of steam coats the transparent door of my shower. The temperature 
knob is turned as far as it can go, and hot drops of water penetrate my skin like tiny 
bullets. The rhythm of water dancing on the floor creates a blanket of soothing 
sound that envelops me, muffling the chaotic noises of our thin-walled house. 
Tension in my back that I didn’t even know existed oozes out of my pores into 
streams of water cascading in glistening paths down my body. I breathe in a mist of 
herbal scented shampoo and liquid Dove soap, a welcome change from the 
semi-arid air of Colorado. In the shower I am alone. No younger siblings barging 
unannounced into my room, no friends interrupting me with the shrill ring of the 
telephone, no parents nagging me about finishing college essays. 
The ceramic tiles that line my bathroom wall have the perfect coefficient of 
absorption for repeated reflections of sound waves to create the wonderful 
reverberation that makes my shower an acoustic dream. The two by four stall is 
transformed into Carnegie Hall as Neha Mahajan, world-renowned musician, sings 
her heart out into a shampoo bottle microphone. I lose myself in the haunting 
melisma of an aalaap, the free singing of improved melodies in classical Indian 
music. I perfect arrangements for a capella singing, practice choreography for 
Excalibur, and improvise songs that I will later strum on my guitar. 
Sometimes I sit in the shower and cry, my salty tears mingling with the clear drops 
upon my face until I can no longer tell them apart. I have cried with the despair of 
my friend and mentor in the Rape Crisis Team when she lost her sister in a vicious 
case of domestic abuse, cried with the realization of the urgency of my work. I have 
cried with the inevitable tears after watching Dead Poet’s Society for the seventh 
time. I have cried with the sheer frustration of my inability to convince a friend that 
my religious beliefs and viewpoints are as valid as hers. Within these glass walls I 
can cry, and my tears are washed away by the stinging hot water of the shower. 

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