As in most institutions, especially predominately infamous institutions such as Harvard, people get left behind. There’s a method, I am sure, that the admissions office is asked to abide by, rules that cannot be bent, and most importantly, as in my scenario, deadlines that cannot be extended. I just need to give this application my all, every last ounce of who I am. I need to explain, even if this letter is never read, even if my application will never be reviewed. I need to know that I fought until my last breath. I’m staring at a blinking courser, and my mind is dancing through the maze of this past six months. The adventure I’ve experienced, the rollercoaster I’m still nauseous from, the maddening speck of hope that Harvard has become on my ever unfolding horizon. Where to begin? Where?

For anyone to understand the absolutely profound enchantment that this institution has cast, would require a novel. A novel not on the past six months, but rather on the lives I’ve lived, heroes and villains I’ve portrayed, the damsel and self-rescuer I’ve become; a novel focused on the worlds I’ve explored and devoured at only nineteen years old. On my past, on my process. On the distinguished hatred towards institutionalism I’ve grown accustom to, and the shell of servitude in which society encased education, that Harvard has cracked wide open. A novel exploring my solely explicit adoration and intrinsic love for knowledge and adventures. “The only people for me are the mad ones,” yes, it is true! I crave the company of madmen and madwomen alike, of carcasses containing stories which I wish to write and write until my pen explodes and ink showers over the paper like marvelous fireworks in the night sky, erasing and destroying, forcing the migration to a new story, new paper and ink. I am impractical, that is for sure. I do my best to survive in a world I was not meant for, but a woman controlled only by moonlight could come across some troubles when attempting to cope with corruption.

Painting with light brush strokes over the surface, here is a summary of my past couple chapters. Here is a summary of my fairytale, my unreasonable reason that I am whole-heartedly grateful for.

I woke up in a tent the majority of my summer days. Raw heat baking me to the bone. I’ve been addicted to false realities and ultimate truths since I could read. As a child, at friend’s birthday parties, I would crawl under the table and stay there with my book until I fell asleep. The years passed, and through all the difficulties I faced, stories never failed me. This summer I slept in sap on tree limbs, flowers falling finely in my hair, flowing into the rivers encrusted on my cheeks. The forest is where I hid. The forest is where I found my heaven.

I arrived at Nichols College for sophomore year in August, and attained my very own room as a resident in Winston, the only quiet dorm on campus. Most students aren’t even aware the house exists. In the back, there is a field of brilliant jade and specks of weeds that resemble delicate dancing pixies. This is where I grew in great writing. Professors began to tell me I was doing more important things outside of the classroom, than in it. I discovered a direction, a destination that I desired. My writing.

Late at night when silly girls dream of their prince, when starving children envision sufficient diets, when boys dream of basketball and mothers dream of marriage… I dream of books. I dream of worlds and parallels and consciousness. At one point, in high school, I thought this was a curse. But recently, I’ve come to understand that my pen is my blessing.

I began to send out my poetry after the encouragement of my peers and pals. I was the first student on campus to make serious use of the green room. I started to push and gain traction with the sixteen-student population of English majors at Nichols. Most often, professors found me outside of the door, under a tree, writing, while I was supposed to be in classes. And they encouraged me. Let me repeat that, because it has become a trend in my life… I was encouraged to skip class. I was told that I taught myself, and that was beautiful. I began to appreciate my own mind. Not to say that there weren’t professors that didn’t agree with my methods. I approached them with as much honor and grace a human so scarred could manage.

The most significant, and enigmatic character of this story is named George Wilson. Here is what I know of the man. He is my stepmother's father. He is a minister, or a pastor or something relating to religion. He graduated from Princeton. He is a very persistent and strong-willed advocate for the black community. He walked with Martin Luther King Jr. through Selma. He left me the half of his veggie sandwich in the fridge the last time he came to visit, and I was very grateful. And, he told me to write my way out.

So I did. I wasn’t too close with George at the beginning of this journey. My proud father sent him mass emails filled with my poetry, and it was like throwing a box of matches onto fresh-cut kindling and gas. He exploded with joy and, yet again, I received more encouragement.

Then, I opened an email. George invited me to attend a dinner at Harvard with a man by the name of Harvey Cox. I saw the name Harvard, and agreed immediately. I was sure nothing would come of it, and didn’t think twice about it.

My professor, Michael Lajoie, graduated from Harvard. He is another major component of my voyage. Our campus nickname, Einstein, for our beloved Lajoie originated, presumptively, from his tangled mane of wispy white hair dancing around his face, creating a light halo of iridescent indisputable intelligence, resembling that of the great Albert Einstein himself. Except, his talents, although matched in quality, are significantly different from the madman who divided atoms. Instead, Lajoie dissects Adams, and Eves, and the concept of life and love and gender and race and perspective all at once in a beautiful maelstrom of higher learning. He texted me, discussing "The Wind" and all of its binding properties in Dorothy Scarborough’s tale, and I mentioned Harvard, and Harvey. I still remember his exact words “Do you even know who that is? I would be on the floor, screaming ‘I’m not worthy!’” For a man of such well-known caliber on campus to write that of another man, triggered me on a mad manhunt for Harvey Cox in my search engine. Google was my first destination, and there I found out his age, his education, his marriage status, his son, and fifteen books covering the only topic I was one hundred percent uneducated on… theology. I ordered them, and went to sleep.

Weeks past, leaves fell, winter kissed the ground with snow. I found solace in the superb minds surrounding.

After constant correspondence, a couple months later, I sat in Greenhouse Café and ordered a hot tea with milk and sugar. Outside, the busy streets of Cambridge hustled and bustled, every inch entrancing me. As candy is to taste buds, Cambridge was to my sense. I spent hours in the bookstores, staring at art and discussing literature with strangers. Although it was cold, nothing could stop the steady flow of students entering spectacular libraries, books in hand, ready to study and learn, discuss and write, observe and grow. It was everything I ever wanted, staring me dead straight in the eye. Pupil to pupil, hand to toe. I rubbed John Harvard’s foot. A precious moment, one I’m sure I will never forget. The statue was bronze, but the toe was rubbed gold from years of good luck-giving. My pocket was empty, no phone, no money, barely a sweater to compensate for lack of a winter coat. I was happy that Harvard was generous with his luck, and completely in awe of the way the universe conspires.

Next to me, sat Jim Henry of Columbia University, George Wilson of Princeton University, and Harvey Cox of Harvard College. I wore a maroon Harvard Divinity School scarf that Harvey christened me with the moment I floated through the door. That scarf became my prized possession, until a dorm mate magically turned it into an omen after pulling a disappearing act. Michael Lajoie sat next to me, always there to help me through Harvard Square. My prophet, my guru. We attended a God and Money Seminar that Harvey taught with the assistance of Jim, and went to dinner at The Red House. I read a poem I wrote entitled “Cast Your Pen,” discussing the difficulty of trying to survive in the clutches of poverty, about how it feels to be the only survivor. The night ended, and we all dispersed.

I thought my adventure was over, little did I know that I would be back, parking under a quaint hotel that Harvey Cox took a photograph with me at, in less than three months. I saw the name Harvard everywhere I went. I watched videos, listened to lectures, and talked endlessly with Professor Lajoie, my philosophical guide. Harvard started to haunt me in the sweetest and most satisfying way. I saw the name written on magazines, books, everywhere in the library I work at. Still, I wrote uninhibited, prompted by another dear professor of mine, Wayne-Daniel Berard.

Berard held my emotional upsets together with the simple statement “Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh”. According to him, when Moses came across a burning bush and it spoke to him, the burning bush (aka God) said “My name is Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh.” This means “I will be whatever I will be.” I found a strange comfort in these words, and they erupted into an acceptance of myself that triggered a chain of writing. I began to develop my own website, delving into the depths of perhaps a future I never expected.

I filled out an application for fun, toying with the idea that a student of such low “substantial” scoring could ever have access to such an institution. I wrote the things I really wanted to say, the things I thought an admissions counselor would like to hear, deleted them, rewrote them, deleted again, and finally just wrote whatever came to mind, with no edit or filter. I wondered whose hands would caress the paper of my recorded past. I dreamed of the day I could open the envelope. Feel the thick carcass carrying the conviction I craved. Yes or no. In or out. Thirteen transfer students out of one thousand, four hundred thirty-two applicants would be accepted. Thirteen. My dreams, not of Harvard, but of travel and comfort and change and growth kept me wide awake at night, imagining a life free of fatal poverty.

January came, and the cold crippled me, carrying a current of misfortune in family and health. I spent weeks in bed, fighting my old dreary friend, sick with an intangible disease. Then I opened my email. It was George. He suggested I contact Harvey, as he expressed an interest in touring me through Harvard. And so I called Harvey Cox, hearing home voices through an automated voicemail. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and thought of Ronda Rousey and Joan of Arc. My voice sounded secure as I spoke, only once near the end betraying me as I left my contact information and stuttered over my phone number.

On Feb. 23, I sat in Lowell House Dining Hall while Harvey Cox introduced me to current students as his niece. His niece! As I was leaving, he gave me a kind hug and said, “Hope to see you next semester, Em!” I walked outside, breathing in the fresh air of a chilled February morning in New England weather. I sat on the steps of Lamont Library, staring at the mass of visitors. ‘How many of them are applicants?’ I wondered. ‘How many of them know the worlds I have traveled, the adventures I have faced?’ Lajoie found me there, glimmering with hope and happiness. We walked to the Harvard Bookstore and found "To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf, "The Invisible Man" by Ralph Ellison, a genuine Italian leather-bound journal, and a moleskin journal with Harvard's Ve Ri Tas emblem decorating the front. I squealed with joy when I bought my first Harvard sweater (only to be disappointed later on to find out I no longer fit a medium), and almost fainted from excitement when we found the fountain pens. It was a magical day, an experience I will be forever grateful for.

I submitted my application as soon as I arrived home. Then I received an email from my registrar’s office. “Your account is overdue, we cannot send your transcripts.” This was on Feb. 29, and my transcripts were due on March 1. I ran to the registrar’s office, to financial aid, down to the president of Nichols College, up to the dean of students, and back to the financial aid department. I screamed at an innocent woman with the taste of fire on my tongue, “What if it was money that kept your kid out of Harvard, what if money took your own child’s chance?” I cried. Irascible tendencies led me to the slightest and most human desire to flip a desk and run.

Throughout my life, the chains of an empty wallet have haunted me. Created a crater of hate inside. Hate for institutions (which you need money to thrive in) and hate for a system that neglects those that are not given the same options for success.

I went to my room, and laid on my bed, staring at my handmade poster that rests above my head. I stared at the three lines, twenty-one letters. My tears turned the whole world blurry, but still I saw it. Harvard, Harvard, Harvard.

I cried, and screamed, and ran and hit inanimate objects out of frustration. Seven thousand dollars. That’s how much money I had to come up with in less than twenty four hours. My whole body slumped and I felt all ambition drain. I gave up.

Ring Ring.

George Wilson.

I answered. “Emily, if I have the money, I will take care of this for you.” Tears of joy, and further I drained my body of liquid and life. “I will call my accountant in the morning.”

“Thank you!” I repeated a thousand times over. “Thank you so much!” I cried.

The morning came, and with it, the news that George did not, in fact, have the money. He wanted to, but his accountant advised against such actions. It was tuition or survival. I wouldn’t ever ask anyone to choose tuition.

My heart sank. I cried some more and then went back to the financial aid office. I begged, pleaded, talked logically and finally resorted to angry bitter comments that resulted in me curling up into a fetal position at the bottom of the staircase until the dean of students came over and picked me up.

“What are you crying for?” she asked. As in the nature of a woman under such circumstance, I simply cried harder.

“Poverty.” I choked out. She asked me to explain, completely clueless as to what I meant. “I won’t even have a chance. That’s all I want, a chance. This is the definition of privilege. Imagine we’re all sitting in a classroom per usual seating. In front there’s a trash can. The teacher asks the students to take out a piece of paper and crumble it up. Then she asks them to shoot it into the trash can like a basketball hoop. They do. By majority, the students in the front row all make it. By that same majority, the students in the back don’t. There are the students in the front that miss and the students in the back that get it in. Still it is all absurdly unfair and quite ridiculous how poverty and opulence all work, isn’t it? I’m a student in the back, and I can’t stop wishing I was sitting in the front, just for today.”

I sobbed.

In quite a quick summary, she moved my seat to the front of the classroom. Her, and two other people whom I have yet to discover, gave me the chance to apply to Harvard. My transcripts were sent out.

For the first time in months, I breathed. Then it was Spring Break, and I felt great.

Until I received an email from Harvard Admissions, explaining to me that I had to fax in my SAT scores, my Dean's Report, and my Secondary School Transcripts, all by Friday at 5 p.m. No one guided me through the application. I had no clue that I had to personally send these things. I thought the school took care of it. No one taught me what to do. Neither of my parents (or their parents) even went to college.

Yet again, I was sent into a tornado of motion, finding money to pay $107 for three numbers (SAT scores) to be express-shipped to Harvard immediately, faxing papers to my registrar’s office, and bothering poor Donna all day long begging her to fax the report before the deadline, and finally entering my no-go zone, aka my high school in order to obtain my secondary school report. I managed to do it all, in a matter of two days, although everything and everyone told me it wouldn’t work.

And it didn’t. It didn’t work.

My Secondary School Report was sent out on Tuesday of the following week. Midnight has struck, and Cinderella is running from the ball. I did everything I could, and if an admissions counselor ever reads this, I just thought you should know…

This is my glass slipper.