Moving on, Moving Up

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Moving on, Moving Up

The first time it happened was in the middle of my freshman year of high school. It wasn’t the first move we’d undertaken at my father’s seemingly cavalier whim, only the one that came after the longest stretch we’d lived anywhere. From even before I was born, my family moved roughly every two years. Eight times in fact by the time we arrived in Chappaqua, NY. I was in third grade, my older siblings spanned into high school. Two years came and went, still we remained. We lived there for a luxurious seven years, until I was 14, knocking around town with a gaggle of close friends, trying new activities, never running out of new boys to flirt with or date. Then our captain—my father—once again steered our family ship onto a moving van.

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Writing Prompt: My biggest mistake

It took me a minute to realize the mix-up, since so much of the process had been out of my hands. I knew what was supposed to happen. First, answer the generic questions that can be used on more than one application (“What has been the most formative experience in your life?”), then write the essays that are unique to one school’s question (“If you could have dinner with one person, living or dead, who would it be and why?”), have Dad’s secretary type them up and photocopy them as needed, put the resulting papers in the proper application packets, mail them off, get accepted into all the elite universities, have a successful college career, have an amazing life. The steps were pretty straightforward.

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