Some of the most fundamental questions about money are also central to figuring out what and who you want to be: What do I have, what do I want, how does that compare to others around me, and how should I feel about it?
In the tenth year that The New York Times has published college application essays on money, work, social status, and other related topics, all four authors grappled with these questions in their own way.
How should I deal with my parents drastically changing the way they make a living? What will I do to get money and why? What can I learn from paying careful attention to physical money itself? And how should I best process the wealth and poverty that coexist just meters apart—and away from me?
There are not necessarily easy or right answers to any of the questions. But learning to ask the hard questions is a huge step toward understanding your place in the world.
Sydney Carroll
“We’ve taken ‘family business’ to a new level.”
Franklin, Tennessee – Battle Ground Academy
***
When you meet new people, there are things you immediately recognize: their hair color, their height, their fashion sense. As for me, I also know immediately who they voted for, that they are a proud NRA member, or that they support the “sanctity of life” and “Southern heritage.”
That's because I work at my family's car wash. That's why the bumper stickers are my first encounter with people.
I haven't always worked at a car wash in outwardly beautiful but extremely busy Columbia, Tennessee. In fact, until I was 14, my father worked on Wall Street—the New York one, not the Tennessee one, which has our county's only Chipotle.
But when my 40-year-old aunt died, my parents resorted to radical methods of mourning: They had a complete midlife crisis, quit their regular jobs, moved us to Nashville, 950 miles away, and opened a car wash. As you can imagine, my parents' crises led to a whole new crisis for me. In Tennessee, I often feel like I stand out like a blue crayon in a 125-pack of red crayon (with sharpener attached).
When my family opened the car wash, we took “family business” to a new level. My dad traded in his khakis and button-down shirt for shorts and industrial work shirts with our logo on the pocket. My mother gave up her previous experience managing accounts at Cartoon Network and turned to making WindMaster signs that tell people not to hit other people.
And me? I went from an eighth grader to an assistant manager.
I know things that virtually no other 17-year-old knows or wants to know: how to grease appliances, the perfect mix of chemicals to remove algae from cement floors, and the best way to avoid a car coming straight at you. I also had the pleasure of being the manager on duty when cars crashed in our parking lot, which led to me trying to get a brand new surveillance system up and running while also apologizing to the police who clearly wanted one adult would be present.
However, things have also happened at the car wash that are anything but funny. Because I am female and underage, customers have made comments and jokes when speaking to me that made me feel deeply uncomfortable, exposed, and most of all, out of place.
It's hard for me to feel like I belong in Tennessee, where we report weekly about a new book ban, shootings, or the closure of a Pride festival. I'm stuck in a place where so many interactions feel like a contradiction to everything I stand for. It's not easy to accept that our regulars – the people I've grown to love and who always bring me fudge or water or show me pictures of their children – don't believe in my right to reproductive health care. Some of them carry weapons and most of them are unvaccinated. They care about me, but they don't care about me.
And they will never really know me, the me who participates in protests and works on political campaigns. One reason for all these loud bumper stickers is that we live in a time of not only great division, but even greater hatred. I admit that I am no angel, but I firmly believe that activism must come from a place of love. That's why I will continue to fight for what I believe in, not in spite of, but because of the people I disagree with.
Although the car wash regulars may not fight for my rights, I love them enough to fight for theirs. I will fight to ensure that they have free universal healthcare, that their children have guaranteed school meals, and that the economy is fairer.
I may be ready to leave Tennessee, but I care about its future. So while I'm here, I'm going to try to change some people's minds, be it one door, one protest, or one car wash at a time.
Sam Smith
“I've always been 'The Money Man'.”
La Jolla, California – La Jolla High School
***
There it is. The little mutant who is supposedly immortal lies motionless right under our noses.
The sun beats down on our backs as midday approaches on a sweltering day in San Diego. The cockroach lies stretched out on the ground, motionless, with one of its six legs pointing in each direction. A gathering has formed around the dead invertebrate as our squad argues about what to do with the prospect.
“I bet you don’t eat that cockroach now,” challenges one person.
“Ten dollars says I’ll do it!” I shout confidently.
The small crowd falls into a state of silence as heads turn first to the instigator and then back to me, expecting a standoff.
I have always been the “money man,” so it was common for me to be offered to eat a cockroach or fulfill similar desires in exchange for some monetary value. I can't explain why $10 tempts me to perform obscure feats. I had a happy childhood where I would usually use the money I earned to buy a Snickers bar for my enjoyment.
I often wonder why these trivial challenges are important. My dad's job requires him to live on the other side of the world for six months every year. His absence in my life has left me with an insecurity that money cannot buy.
At a young age I had to learn to live without a father figure. Our trips to Mission Bay Park were cut short every time his next change came, so I had to teach myself the importance of a spiral when throwing a football.
As a child, I quickly learned that not everyone leads a life like mine. When I was growing up, we lived abroad because of my father's work and taught me firsthand about the value of money. I have experienced poverty at its worst. Living abroad opened my eyes to how many people would eat a cockroach for an American $10 bill.
I have watched five-year-old children in China do hard labor for their families just to make ends meet. Or beggars lining the streets of Egypt while their respected neighbors shared the road in their gold-plated G-cars, spending millions on parties and celebrations instead of helping their predecessors. Or my own family members in Mexico who begged us to bring them and their children jugs of clean water and books.
I may be privileged, but I have seen every nook and cranny of what it takes to be successful in life. So when the opportunity to make an extra dollar presents itself, I understand its value and take it.
Maybe I'm driven by money because I always believe that I have every reason to make it in life. I have seen people come from great poverty. So I have no excuse not to make it, because people all over the world who have so much less than me still manage to get to the top.
Maybe it's the belief that if I learned the value of a dollar at an early age, I could help my many family members struggling on the other side of the border. Maybe that's why I took a job in construction, not because I needed the money, but because I knew how important it was.
I hope that attending college, which most of my family members were unable to do, will allow me to both provide for them financially and be present in their lives. My family taught me the importance of a dollar no matter what, even if I had to become the “cockroach guy.” My value of money and my understanding of its global significance will hopefully help me succeed in the classroom and beyond.
Shane McDermott
“That was my first ever experience wasting $300 in one day.”
Brooklyn, NY – Brooklyn Technical High School
***
I stepped out of the bank and followed with my eyes the silver and copper flecks that shimmered beneath the water of the fountain.
I reached into my pocket and watched a man flip a coin, expecting his wish to come true. I ran my fingers along the edges of my underwear, wondering if I should pop one in myself. However, I couldn't just throw away a potential lottery ticket. I gripped the rolls of coins just hard enough to leave light marks in my palm and made my way to my car.
Once home, I began the familiar sorting process that I performed with all the coins in my collection. I opened the rolls of quarters on my desk and examined the sides to see if any coins had a silver core. The spicy smell of copper swirled through my room as I sorted the coins by date and searched online for possible prices and potential error coins – coins with manufacturing defects.
My eyes lit up. I had found one: a 2005-P Minnesota quarter with an inverted double stamp, a duplication of design elements on the reverse.
I quickly placed the coin in a small case, scribbled an estimated value of $60 on it, and carefully stacked it in my wooden drawer with the other rare coins. Although it was just a bargain case, it was far superior to the makeshift, torn paper and tape “sleeves” I had used as a new collector.
I reached into the back drawer and pulled out a 1981 Australian 20 cent piece, one of my first foreign coins ever and my favorite coin. I put the car in reverse. Having lived in the United States my entire life, it was always fascinating for me to see a platypus instead of the freedom bird staring back at me.
I turned the coin between my fingers as I looked through the other quarters. It inevitably reminded me that I had never been so careful with my money before; My coin collection was more of a monthly holiday than an aspect of everyday life.
My original connection to coins came from my grandmother's many travels around the world. When she came back from South Africa, she had me pick out some coins and bills from the bottom of her purse. However, when I peeked inside and saw a leftover coin that was the brightest gold color, my 8 year old mind couldn't help but entertain myself with it.
The coin in question is a 2 rand coin from the early 1960s worth well over $300. It felt like a small-format quarter, but had much more pronounced grooves on the edges and was significantly heavier.
I remember holding it in my hand; The strange weight felt like it was pushing my arm down. On the back there was a stunning picture of an antelope, which seemed to make me believe it was actually an antelope.
I made the brilliant decision to have the “antelope” gallop on a railing over the steep banks of Riverside Park. This was my very first experience wasting $300 in one day and it wasn't until years later that I realized what I had lost.
After the antelope incident, I made sure to keep the rest of my coins safe, which led to the development of my careful sorting routine. I scanned all the remaining coins, double-checking that I hadn't left any treasure behind. Then I scraped up the quarters and put them back into rolls. I went back to the bank to exchange the quarters for pennies so I could try again to increase my collection.
On the way out I saw several people throwing change into the fountain again. But the smiles on their faces quickly turned into frowns because I took off my shoes and, not wanting to leave any wish unfulfilled, rolled up my pants and hopped in with a bucket.
Haley song
“Kickstand up, ignition growls and helmet firmly on, the world is new again.”
Phnom Penh, Cambodia – Logos International School
***
Through the morning haze of dust particles, car exhaust and visible heat waves, my thoughts race faster than the 30 kilometers per hour of my motorcycle. A world full of incomprehensible dealers shouting outside and a window pane delivery man on a motorcycle attracts the curious and the analytical.
As my mind races with curiosity, I am challenged as a driver. The sudden swerve of another motorcycle or a substance believed to have been killed on the road sends me jerking to grab the brakes on the handlebars. Although I am perceptive, my senses are not supernatural; Nothing can explain the lawless streets of Phnom Penh.
My daily commute to school is anything but monotonous. Our starting node is in a closed community. Kickstand up, ignition growling and helmet firmly on, the world is new again. Between the houses I drive past, a pattern of mansion, Lexus, and renovation emerges—a gate spray-painted gold or a large green sunshade—giving me a glimpse into the homeowner's mind. Although the thought of finding bursts of neural activity in their actual brains sounds endlessly exciting, I'll settle for inferring their aesthetic values - for now.
Before saying goodbye to the neighborhood watchmen, I carefully stop in front of the woman driving a Rolls-Royce with a small child in front of her, while a woman pulling a tin cart full of brooms and leaves pulls up behind me. Issues of luxury car shipping, child safety, and car construction are trumped by the irony and tragedy of the gulf I create between them.
I join the hustle and bustle of commuters spreading like liquid particles into every square cent of empty space. I decline an opportunity to avoid two large cars, but apparently my depth perception diminishes when another driver takes advantage of the opportunity.
My recent failure to calculate time and acceleration fades as I reflect on humanity's natural acclimatization of capabilities. After my failure, I took to heart the first and second virtues of volleyball, aggressiveness and communication. The conflicting instructions of a traffic light open the traffic floodgates, but I make it through carefully. Every yellow light run and sidewalk run leads me into a thought experiment about human nature. Although for me issues of habit, the inorganic nature of driving and social pressure take precedence over the innate chaos and evil of the human soul.
As my motorcycle comes to a stop, the signage in Khmer, English, Chinese and Korean becomes as legible as my skills allow. A truck filled to the brim with factory workers blocks my path. The green light at the intersection flashes and the truck continues straight, narrowly missing the turnoff to the brand new H&M in the country. It's a wonder they didn't do this sooner, considering how cheap the transportation costs would be.
When I see global issues manifesting themselves, I realize that I will always appreciate Model UN for the comprehensive awareness, but without everyday life, I would never have been able to feel the weight and burdens of the world. Entrenched systems built on poor foundations cannot easily be rebuilt. With little things like For example, to avoid running yellow lights or to connect influential NGOs with students who want to help, I can try supporting a new foundation.
Through the outdoor market, past the corporate mall, and looking down a street with neon construction signs, I'm finally on the street that leads to my school. The concept of sequential occupancy has always stuck with me. From the far-reaching effects of genocide to the more subtle classification as a “charred animal on a spit,” everything is an amalgamation of his past and present.
The chaos, injustice and joy of the streets of Phnom Penh have fundamentally made me who I am, and I will only continue to grow as I leave them. As I pull into the parking lot, I know my training began long before the bell rang.