Accepted Pomona Essays for 2019

Example Common App Essays and Supplements
Home Essay Database Pomona College
Last updated on January 20, 2019
Pomona

Introduction

Ryan Chiang
By Ryan

Pomona College is a top liberal arts college that is part of the Claremont Colleges consortium. Located in Claremont, California, Pomona is often recognized as the top liberal arts college on the West Coast. Pomona is known for its small size and highly renowned liberal arts education.

Pomona has the lowest acceptance rate of any liberal arts college. This past year, Pomona received over 10,200 applications and accepted only 6.9% of those students. This makes Pomona College highly selective and admission extremely competitive.

In order to get your best chance of acceptance to Pomona College, below are some essays written by real students who were accepted into Pomona. For top colleges like Pomona, your essays are extremely important in order to stand out from the thousands of other applicants.

Please note: all names, cities, and other personal information in the essays and supplements have been replaced to keep the authors' privacy.

EssaysThatWorked does not condone nor tolerate plagiarism. Do not copy, reuse, repost, or modify any part of the written works posted on this site without express written consent.

Pomona College Essays


Common App Essays ()

Written by Alessandra Fang fang.alessandra@gmail.com

Share an essay on any topic of your choice. It can be one you've already written, one that responds to a different prompt, or one of your own design.

An obnoxiously red banner with Chinese characters hangs in front of a small, unassuming diner close to home. I stroll inside Grand Lake, this bustling hive with waitresses scuttling hurriedly and tables shaking lightly, the din of laughter from families mixing with the aromas of Chinese food. A lady with a notepad impatiently beckons my family to sit at one of the free tables, and as soon as we’re all settled in, she begins addressing me in Mandarin - possibly asking what I wanted for a drink. I look at her blankly, and she returns the confused expression. “I don’t speak Chinese,” I laugh forcibly after a tense moment. She doesn’t find the humor in my apology. From thereafter, our order is taken in broken English, our chopsticks switched out for the standard fork and knife, and I feel the burning gaze of the waitresses judging my family as we eat our Sunday brunch in silence.

Cultural confusion is commonplace. Being born in Peru and raised in Venezuela makes no difference in how most people see and treat us. Focusing on my slanted, almond eyes and ebony hair, I’m automatically pegged as an Asian wherever I go. Touring Peruvian artisan markets is always a test of wit and cleverness, as vendors try to over-price items we’re interested in simply because we look Asian, and therefore must also have Crazy Rich Asian bank accounts. Pulling out a simple credit card at a Caracas mall once got us chased by three armed motorcyclists on the highway, and my mother risked collision as she wove in and out of the cramped lanes like a Formula One race car driver. Since when did my appearance jeopardize my life?

My ancestry traces back to both Chinese and Japanese roots, its imprint burrowed deep in my face and DNA. But I’m a third generation, Peruvian-born girl with the fire to prove it. Over time, our Asian culture diluted and was replaced with a vibrant, Latino lifestyle. With each generation, the immigrant language faded, folktales blurred, spices dulled, and all things Asian abandoned. I celebrated Noche Buena as a kid, not Chinese New Year’s. My favorite childhood dishes were anticuchos and papa huancaína, not onigiri rice balls or sushi rolls. Everyone assumes that I am a math prodigy, shy and antisocial, a black belt karate master, and a laughingstock on the dance floor. But actually, I struggle hardest in my math class, studying twice as much as others for the same grade. My personality, although sweet, is bold and gregarious. I am a three-year kickboxer and a five-year Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu competitor. Turn on Marc Anthony and I may just get a spot on So You Think You Can Dance. I’m Latina, just packed in a cute, little Bento box.

There is one Asian stereotype that I fit into, even though its backstory is completely misguided: playing the piano. In reality, piano musician culture was not developed in any Asian region, rather in European countries with pioneers such as Bach and Haydn. Statistically, there is an equal amount of Asian and non-Asian musicians in the professional world. I came across the piano through my own curiosity and will, not through my parents bludgeoning me to play it like it’s portrayed with all young Asians. I actually studied South American music for an international piano competition in Peru, finished as a finalist, and grew to love the radiant and eccentric style of Latino modern music. But I digress-- my potential should be evaluated separately from my appearance.

I am a musician born by passion, not by race. I am a human defined by my achievements and experiences, not physical assumptions. Leave your preconceptions by the welcome mat and size me up by the sound of my Rachmaninoff sonata or Enrique Iturriaga solos, and let my character sing your first and final impressions of me.

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Supplemental Essays ()

Written by Alessandra Fang fang.alessandra@gmail.com

Most Pomona students enter the College undecided about a major, or they change their minds about their prospective major by the time they graduate. Certainly we aren’t going to hold you to any of the choices you’ve made above. But, in no more than 250 words, please tell us why you’ve chosen the academic programs (or Undecided!) that you have listed.

I’m sitting backstage at my first international piano competition, anxiously awaiting my turn to perform. Unconsciously, I massage my right wrist, still recovering from a recent injury. The young man beside me feels my nervousness and starts a conversation.

As we whisper, I notice him rub his hands together uncomfortably. “What’s wrong?” I ask, quickly leaving my own wrist alone. He suppresses a nervous laugh, then quietly details the long and unsuccessful surgery that shattered his dream of becoming a professional musician. His hands were permanently damaged.

“Alessandra Fang,” the judges call. I stand up, walk to the main stage and look back to see him encourage me with a stiff, crooked thumbs-up. As my fingers dance on the keys, I observe the fragile muscles and ligaments under my skin.

I realize in that moment that it is not in a massive concert hall where I wanted to change people’s lives, but on a smaller stage: an operating room. As an artist who has had her share of painful, music-related injuries, my goal is to become a musician’s physician, and blend my greatest two passions so that I might bring relief to those around me, while understanding their musical and anatomical plight. I wish to pursue both Biology and Music programs at Pomona College. I want to become a hand surgeon while still developing my artistry on the piano. After all, surgery also has its own cadence, complexity and composition.

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Written by Alessandra Fang fang.alessandra@gmail.com

For Pomona students, the College’s location in Southern California is integral in shaping their experience. Tell us about a location, real or fictional, that has shaped you in a meaningful way.

Inside every bedroom is the Swiss Army knife of the sleeping world: blankets. You can take them with you anywhere and they always come in handy. My blankets are dark blue with square tribal patterns, knitted from the finest pima cotton by Peruvian artisans. I fluff them up for a soft snuggle, throw them over myself to deter the monsters under the bed, or use them as a ShamWow for tears. Yet they also helped me overcome the biggest obstacle—the moving target— in my life.

I’ve moved within and between countries ten times. I’ve changed schools so often that I’ve never been in a classroom for more than two years. I have felt loneliness and isolation, while my classmates had playdates and tea parties in a language I struggled to speak. Nothing was mine, not in school where local kids decorated their lockers, not in our rented house where everything belonged to the landlord, and not in the bedroom I slept in, where furniture and wall colors constantly switched from cream to light tan to stale beige. The only thing that followed me from house to house were my two blankets.

As I started middle school, I began to resent moving. I took my anger out on my parents, despising them for ripping me away from newly made friends, the eighth-grade boyfriend who held my hand and gifted me Godiva chocolates, and the bedroom overlooking the Via Paloma, whose bare, white walls and street noises were beginning to feel familiar. I had no safe space or anchor to rely on when new cultures and languages overwhelmed me.

As I finished middle school, my dark blue blankets were brimming with tears of anger and frustration.

One night I rolled myself up into a pitiful cocoon of ill-thoughts and sadness, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply. The scent of clean cotton swirled inside my lungs, relaxing me. Memories morphed: The spacious apartment in the Andes mountains of Venezuela, the cozy cabin in the hills of Peru, and the lush single story homes in Palm Beach and Miami. Each stop carried its own memories like a distinctive aroma. I remembered the first hike along the Andean mountains in Caracas, sliding down the sand dunes in Lima, and savoring deep fried Oreos at the South Florida Fair. A nostalgic smile formed on my face as I continued to remember.

In retrospect, moving was my passport to exciting new ideas, tastes, and hobbies. I lived through vastly different cultures, and over the course of my country-hopping journey, I blended them to create a unique lifestyle of arroz con pollo, salsa, and Costco bulk shopping. I was exposed to new angles on belief and opinions, which opened my eyes to the diverse perspectives of the world. Changes of place, language and altitude have gifted me with an open-minded and thoughtful nature.

My blankets have followed me to every new home, to every new bedroom. They were my emotional anchors when I felt adrift, they were my safe harbors. They reminded me that it’s not important to own everything around you to feel in control of your own life. It’s okay for things to change, as long as you hang on to your values. The battle between bare white and dark blue has shaped me into a person that can accept and adapt to unfamiliar situations.

I’ll haul my weathered blankets to new adventures and apartments, hopefully to the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains and the gritty streets of East LA. Wherever I go, I can count on them to wrap me in their familiar arms, making the undiscovered feel like home.

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