cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

the statement of purpose i would write if i didn’t care about getting into grad school

To: The Graduate School Admissions Gang From: HMB Re: The M to the A to the H to the U to the you get the gist

I was born a poor black child. Medium-sized dwarves stole me from my family and raised me as their own. Though I was named Thorny Cloverfoot by my real parents, the dwarves named me Sulky. I would live up to this name, someday, but I did not know I had it in me. All I thought I had in me was some squishy bits that processed food and oxygen and whatnot. Especially the whatnot.

Anyway, back to my writing. In between chopping pumpkins in half and preparing small trays of plastic food for Benihana windows, I learned how to write. First I learned how to write the letter A. Then I learned how to write the letter A. (The first one was short.) Then I learned how to write a whole bunch of letters that I can’t type on this keyboard. They’re, like, crazy.

My first work was an exposé on why medium-sized dwarves chop pumpkins in half. (“Easier to carry. The end.” Some of my best work, I think.) Then I moved on to deeper subjects. Namely, really deep bodies of water. Like wells. I wrote the 437-page epic poem entitled “Down Down Down Where Will It End O There It Went” which received critical acclaim from at least three people. I think. Or maybe it was two and a rat. An excerpt:

Down, down, down. downdowndowndown and then, down some more.

Then tragedy befell me. Actually, it fell on me, in the form of a life-sized steel sculpture of Ann Landers. To this day, I cannot accept well-meant, politely-stated advice. Not from you or anyone. So please don’t critique my work. Ever. Things will happen.

Really what I am saying is that I wrote a lot and I think I am brilliant enough to teach other, stupider people how to write too. They could just come to class, bring some jars of Nutella and some nice spoons, and I would eat their Nutella while they basked in my coolness. Surely some of this talent would rub off. But for some people, unfortunately, it does not. I know this, and yet I would still care about them enough to ask them how they are doing that day, maybe a little about what sort of music they like and which movies they’ve seen lately. I could even offer a pat on the shoulder.

This I am willing to do if only you would let me into your program. I don’t want to have to beg, but I am prepared to sing your favorite Patsy Cline song, accompanied only by my friend Eli, who plays a mean set of spoons.

Sincerely, and without remorse, HMB (a/k/a “Sulky”)

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.