Select 'OK' to allow Verizon Media and our partners to use your data, or 'Manage options' to review our partners and your choices. Tip: Sign In to save these choices and avoid repeating this across devices. You can always update your preferences in the Privacy Centre. Before you continue Learn More How Verizon Media and our partners bring you better ad experiences To give you a better overall experience, we want to provide relevant ads that are more useful to you. As the first Ivy League school to accept students from all religious affiliations, Brown is known for its openness.
It is also renowned for its innovative approach to education and outstanding research. Brown is committed to undergraduate autonomy and the process of free inquiry. Imagine what it might be like to have this level of control over the content of your studies. Tell us about an academic interest or interests that excites you, and how you might use the Open Curriculum to pursue it. Do not underestimate the impact of this response—it is a direct and powerful question. In short, why Brown and why the Brown Curriculum in particular? This is your opportunity to convey how the college fits with your interests now and potentially in the future.
How and why does the Brown Curriculum appeal to you? What attracts you to this approach, and what might you gain through the process? What are your thoughts about its educational approach? Consider how the Brown Open Curriculum complements your learning style. Think about why you are attending college and how Brown supports your goals. Are you planning to go on to graduate studies? What specifically draws you to Brown that you cannot find anywhere else? Discuss the subject areas you are interested in studying. Consider what specifically attracts you to explore these areas.
You can include examples from previous coursework, volunteer experience, personal research, or any other factors that influence your interests. This is a great opportunity to reflect on how you approach learning and discuss which subjects engage you. As you explain the scholarly topics you are passionate about, you are providing a context for your interests and offering insight into how you navigate and process your world.
At Brown, you will learn as much from your peers outside the classroom as in academic spaces. How will you contribute to the Brown community? Last year, this question was part of another prompt—this year it stands alone. 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! 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. 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. 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.
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Two years ago we recorded five feet of snow in our field. 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.
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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. To clarify for those non-Midwesterners, a Yooper is a term used to describe those from the backwoods of the Upper Peninsula. 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.
But no matter how hick it may seem, in the end, I just feel sorry for everyone who scoffed at a visit to Rhinelander.
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Benstein challenged us to look beyond the rugged atonalism which went against every concept of our musical knowledge, and convey the raw emotion that inspired Karel Husa to compose Music for Prague At that time I did not understand how emotions could be expressed without words nor could I comprehend the nightmarish atmosphere of a Soviet invasion. Instead I was more overwhelmed by the foreign rhythms, the harsh, squeaking notes that existed in the highest registers of my clarinet, the thunderous tempo.
I hated the song. In October of , 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. 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. 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. The rhythm and beat of music describe emotions not restricted by words, flowing together with the beating of the heart.
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. 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.
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. 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. 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. 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. 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. As we stood up to leave, Josephine turned her head and looked at my brother and me. The word sounded so familiar and beautiful.
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My grandmother leaned forward and whispered translation into my ear. It meant we are friends. 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:.
Jan We wanted to choreograph a tap dance like no one had ever seen before. We wanted to tell a story while we danced. We wanted to deliver a monologue. In the brainstorming session, Elyssa, our teacher, told us to think of a story, an experience, and to tell it not only through our words, but through our feet as well.
I sat on the cold floor, my arms wrapped around my knees, and I wondered what story I should tell.
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I sifted through my memories, grasping for inspiration. 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. As I realized what I was saying, my feet quickened and the tapping grew more frantic.
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. 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. 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. My tapping faded out after the words had finally stopped running out of my mouth. But my story was out in the open.
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