哈佛大学校报《The Crimson》每年都会邀请哈佛新生分享自己的申请文书，并从中精选10篇最佳文书进行点评发布。这些文书代表了大学招生官所寻求录取的学生的重要品质或特性，有非常高的参考价值。
今天，就带着大家一起来看看，令哈佛招生官称赞的文书究竟是什么样子的。刚刚接触留学的同学，或者还对自己文书没有思路的小伙伴，可以收藏起来慢慢细读~
相信大家看过这几篇文书后，能够更直接地了解名校对文书的偏好，写出一份优秀的申请文书！
无家可归十三年
我坐在父母的床头，头靠在双膝上哭泣着。“为什么要这样对我？为什么要让我看见看见这所房子最后又无法拥有它？”绝望之际，我发现自己在向上帝祈祷，我知道这是我最后的希望。
多年来，为了有一个更美好的未来，我和家人辗转于一个又一个国家。战争、学业机会等等各种因素让我的父母不得不收拾行囊，在世界各地开始一段又一段新的旅程。我们的艰苦旅程始于阿尔巴尼亚的库索夫，然后是希腊的雅典，最后是马萨诸塞州的波士顿。这些年来，虽然我们一直都有地方住，但从来没有一个地方可以称之为“家”。
那晚我向上帝祈祷时，思绪又回到了那个晚上，正当我点击着邮件上的删除键时突然停下来了，因为我看到了那则房屋清单。那是2007年9月22日——正好是我们一家搬来美国8年的日子。随即我就意识到，我看到这所房子是命中注定。记得当初和父母一同参观那所黄色的房子时我就深深地爱上了它。然而，我同样清楚地记得一周之后打来的那通令人心碎的电话，告知我们房主选择了另外一家的报价。
向上帝祈祷一周之后，我已不抱任何希望父母会买下这所房子。一天放学之后，我打开了我们家那一居室公寓的门，走过电话发现红灯闪烁。于是我点击了播放键，然后惊喜地听到了房地产经纪人的声音，她高兴地说：“Eda, 和另一个家庭的交易失败了，现在房子是你的了！请马上给我回电话并开始准备相关文件。”霎时间，我呆呆地站在那里，脑中不停地回放着她的话。这真的发生在我身上了吗？我想要拥有一个家的梦终于要实现了吗？
11月整整一个月，我白天在学校上学，放学后就快速冲回家打电话。尽管我的父母英语并不流利，无法与银行和房地产经纪人流畅交流，但是我知道我绝不会让这些问题阻碍我帮助家人购买一所房子的梦想。因此，与典型的13岁女孩的对话不同，我的电话中不是关于化妆、鞋子或男孩。相反，我的谈话中都是“固定利率抵押贷款”、“预批准”和“首付”等术语。尽管如此，13年都住在一居室公寓的困窘让我决心帮助购买这套房子。我再也不会因为无法让朋友来我家过夜或者不能和学校里的女孩闲聊谁的房间颜色最漂亮而感到羞耻。
在生命伊始的13年里我都无家可归。虽然我永远也没有办法完全报答父母所做出的牺牲，但是至少我能够帮助他们找到一个家，一个可以称之为他们自己的家——那一年，我做到了。于我而言，家并不仅仅是四面墙和屋顶搭起来的冰冷的建筑物。家，应该是充满亲人回忆与欢声笑语的港湾。不论我的未来会走向何方，我知道任何感到孤独的时候，我还拥有一所黄色的房子，家人在里面等我。
专业评论
真诚 心碎 有力
这是读了Eda的文章后想到的前三个词。
我们喜欢Eda的文章是它令人耳目一新的脆弱感。太多的大学申请作文“过于”完美。Eda没有删减真相，即使承认她的内心想法可能会给她带来负面影响。例如，她在整篇文章的开头描述了这样一个场景，她在父母的床上哭泣，把自己的不幸归咎于他们。通过如此诚实，Eda展示了她随着时间的推移真正的成长和成熟。
原文
Eda's Essay
Homeless for Thirteen Years
I sat on my parents’ bed weeping with my head resting on my knees. “Why did you have to do that to me? Why did you have to show me the house and then take it away from me?” Hopelessly, I found myself praying to God realizing it was my last resort.
For years, my family and I found ourselves moving from country to country in hopes of a better future. Factors, such as war and lack of academic opportunities, led my parents to pack their bags and embark on a new journey for our family around the world. Our arduous journey first began in Kuçovë, Albania, then Athens, Greece, and then eventually, Boston, Massachusetts. Throughout those years, although my family always had a roof over our heads, I never had a place I could call “home.”
That night that I prayed to God, my mind raced back to the night I was clicking the delete button on my e-mails, but suddenly stopped when I came upon a listing of the house. It was September 22, 2007 —eight years exactly to the day that my family and I had moved to the United States. Instantly, I knew that it was fate that was bringing this house to me. I remembered visiting that yellow house the next day with my parents and falling in love with it. However, I also remembered the heartbreaking phone call I received later on that week saying that the owners had chosen another family’s offer.
A week after I had prayed to God, I had given up any hopes of my family buying the house. One day after school, I unlocked the door to our one-bedroom apartment and walked over to the telephone only to see it flashing a red light. I clicked PLAY and unexpectedly heard the voice of our real estate agent. “Eda!” she said joyfully. “The deal fell through with the other family—the house is yours! Call me back immediately to get started on the papers.” For a moment, I stood agape and kept replaying the words in my head. Was this really happening to me? Was my dream of owning a home finally coming true?
Over the month of November, I spent my days going to school and immediately rushing home to make phone calls. Although my parents were not fluent enough in English to communicate with the bank and real estate agent, I knew that I was not going to allow this obstacle to hinder my dream of helping to purchase a home for my family.
Thus, unlike a typical thirteen-year-old girl’s conversations, my phone calls did not involve the mention of makeup, shoes, or boys. Instead, my conversations were composed of terms, such as “fixed-rate mortgages,” “preapprovals,” and “down payments.”
Nevertheless, I was determined to help purchase this home after thirteen years of feeling embarrassed from living in a one-bedroom apartment. No longer was I going to experience feelings of humiliation from not being able to host sleepovers with my friends or from not being able to gossip with girls in school about who had the prettiest room color.
I had been homeless for the first thirteen years of my life. Although I will never be able to fully repay my parents for all of their sacrifices, the least I could do was to help find them a home that they could call their own—and that year, I did. To me, a home means more than the general conception of “four walls and a roof.” A home is a place filled with memories and laughter from my family. No matter where my future may lead me, I know that if at times I feel alone, I will always have a yellow home with my family inside waiting for me.
