Personal Statements from Previous Applicants

Every process engineer remembers their first plant emergency. Mine happened less than a month after I started my first chemical engineering job. It was mid-afternoon on Labor Day, and I was confused when I saw that my boss was calling me. A power blip had caused an upset at the plant, and he asked me if I wanted to come in and help. I said yes.  

The parking lot was nearly full when I got to the plant – something I’d come to recognize over the years as the first sign of something gone wrong. Once I was inside the control room, I felt uncertain and anxious. Actions and decisions were being made all around me, and I was at a complete loss on what I could do to help. After standing a while staring at the alarms on the bright process screens, I finally did the only thing I felt qualified to do at that point: ask questions. What does each of these alarms mean? How does an operator go about prioritizing action when there are hundreds to address? I came to find that alarm “floods” are common in emergencies, as most alarms are designed to function under normal operation, and aren’t programmed to account for abnormal situations.  

When asked what I do for a living, I say that I help prevent things from exploding. I like to think that this conjures up an image of me single-handedly holding back a fiery explosion with just my bare hands, but it’s less dramatic than that. Process safety is mostly prophylactic – it involves building layers of protection to prevent disastrous chains of events from occurring. Once a spill, fire, or explosion occurs, people and the environment are already at risk of irreversible injuries and damages. However, it’s not the rules themselves that keep the plant running safely. It’s our ability to understand and carry out the rules, both during emergencies and during everyday operation.  

Although years of engineering education gave me the vocabulary, equations, and critical thinking skills to handle the theoretical, I quickly realized that my classes didn’t prepare me for the realities of running a chemical plant. My first couple years as a process safety engineer were a crash course in the technology of the plant. Starting with that first plant emergency, I learned that to do my job well, I needed to understand everything I could about the process: not just the “hows,” but the “whys.” Why do hundreds of alarms come on when we lose power, and how can we make it easier to respond to this emergency? At first, I struggled to find the courage to ask for help. I felt like I should’ve known more than I did, and that asking others would alert them to my ignorance. However, with each question I gained confidence and over time, I developed relationships with the operators that were built on trust and respect.  

After my experience with that first plant emergency on Labor Day, I made it my goal to identify the most frequent alarms and rationalize their purpose. I enjoy digging into regulatory language and plant documentation to deduce justifications for these alarms. Guided by my research and interpretation, I have since made hundreds of changes to our programming that improve an operator’s ability to respond to process events. I pride myself on learning how to balance between safety, compliance, and pragmatism, which are often at odds with each other. When safety regulations are vague, I research the letters of guidance and communications from regulatory bodies and how the industry at large complies. When research fails to provide a clear path forward I must use my judgment to find the proper balance.  

I now find confidence in admitting that there’s still a lot I don’t know. I learned that in a sea of uncertainty, I enjoy the process of finding solid understanding with every question. This lesson is what led me to decide to pursue law. In my current job, I am excited when a regulatory question is posed and it’s my responsibility to navigate the abundance of resources to determine the next course of action. At Boston University I want to explore this space – where the abstract word of law intersects with the reality of interpreting and acting upon it. 

I had my first interaction with the police when I was five. My mother was driving me to school and was suddenly stopped by an officer who screamed at her at an ear-splitting volume. While his words escape me, I will never forget the fear. There I was, watching a large man verbally assault my mother with no regard for the shaking child in the backseat. After a few tense moments, he let us go. While our morning car rides were characterized by spirited conversation, this one was consumed by heavy silence; his shouts echoed in our minds. When we reached the school, I asked my mother why the officer unreasonably pulled her over. With tired eyes worn from existing as an Indian woman in America, she said “Because to them, monu, we are thugs, not people.” I learned a hard truth that many children of color inevitably confront- our country’s modes of “justice” are biased against those marked with melanin.  

Over a decade later, George Floyd was murdered. As police reform dominated political discourse, I thought back to my mother’s ordeal with the officer. In the 12 years between her assailment and Floyd’s asphyxiation, it seemed like no progress had been made. While the justice system was meant to protect the public from harm, it was often an arbiter of said harm to marginalized communities. I realized that if people in power are unwilling to make the changes necessary to combat state violence, we must catalyze those changes ourselves.  

I utilized my college education to academically engage my interest in the justice apparatus. Through courses that examined this system from sociological, psychological, and environmental lenses, I learned how deep-rooted this institution is in our society. From our self-perceptions to the air we breathe, police and prisons impact our daily lives in innumerable ways. My studies immersed me in criminological literature that challenged the ubiquity of this system. Upon entering a dreamscape in which a decarceral future was possible, I was determined to play a role in its creation. Armed with my newfound perspective and analytical prowess, I organized.  

As I began working on political campaigns, my determination only grew stronger. Hearing constituents’ stories, gauging their needs, and empowering them to address those needs through civic engagement exemplified the collaborative nature of progress. Change comes from communal effort spearheaded by impassioned masses, not individual action. Throughout my journey, one question loomed in my mind: What can I do to uplift more disadvantaged people and facilitate advancements within the justice system?  

Whether guaranteeing indigent clients’ right to counsel via public defense or leading movements for police divestment through impact litigation, legal professionals are proven agents of criminal law reform. This education, and the institutional knowledge it provides, positions legal professionals to be particularly adept at creating the policy transformations I desire to make. Law school will engage my abolitionist mindset through intellectually stimulating coursework, pro bono projects, and clinics where I can gain practical experience with justice- impacted populations. More importantly, I will join a brilliant cohort of future public interest leaders whom I will have the honor of learning with and from. As part of a collective emboldened by the legal expertise we will gain, the strong professional network we will access, and the robust academic support system we will employ, law school is a place where I will simultaneously learn how to unlock the law’s emancipatory potential and thrive as a scholar.  

Before I adopted the liberationist outlook guiding me through my activist endeavors, memories of my first police encounter evoked the same debilitating fear I felt when I was five. I now look upon that moment with what I can only describe as revolutionary hope-a hope that we can one day rebuild society on the tenets of compassion rather than punishment. Trained by elite legal scholars and shepherded by my inner fire, I can and will actualize that hope into a new world where justice means restoration instead of retribution.  

One November evening, after waving goodbye to my online lecture and watching the last rays of sunlight disappear, I turned to see my bass guitar lying flat on the floor, hibernating. For several years, I had retired from my jazz career to focus on academics. Piles of notes on the principles of international trade, Chinese grammar structures, and the Song dynasty’s unprecedented population increase sat in front of me, but the moment I confronted my former instrument, I was no longer at my desk; I felt like I was on stage again. My fingers glided across the ebony fretboard, striking each staccato and bouncing across each phrase, forging the iconic melody of Chick Corea’s “Armando’s Rhumba.” I locked eyes with the pianist, each of us supporting the other through our sounds and taking joy in the music we created together. As the moment faded, I returned to my dimly lit room, silent and alone.  

Later that night I signed up to audition for Georgetown’s jazz program and initiated a months-long practice regimen to prepare for auditions. While I often fought the feeling of awkwardness as I relearned old scales and arpeggios, my memories of joy onstage with my peers kept me motivated. Months later, my determination earned me a place in the jazz combos program, which organized musicians into small groups and encouraged an open-ended method of studying jazz. “I hope you’re not too used to your music being written out for you,” our professor said to me during the semester’s first rehearsal, as he handed out blank chord sheets. This new format of sheet music demanded that I create an original rhythm and improvise note selection. While I relished the opportunity to exercise more creative freedom, it became clear after several weeks that I had yet to learn the most important lesson about jazz.  

My bandmates and I were rehearsing the solo section from Billie Holiday’s “God Bless the Child” when our professor waved for us to stop playing. I was hoping to receive praise for the solo I had been refining in my bedroom, but I could tell from his indifferent expression that this would not be the case. “I don’t believe it yet. Those blank chord sheets have you playing with freedom, but only as individuals. Nobody is complementing each other,” he explained. Sensing our collective frustration, he devised an exercise that would help us build collaborative chemistry. “I want you to close your eyes. Listen and feel, then play.” Although apprehensive at first, the percussionist and I settled into a steady groove before cuing the pianist’s solo.  

I was liberated. Casting aside the blank chord sheets, I could rely instead on my senses to guide my creativity, which in this setting encouraged me to connect with the music of my peers. I sensed myself focusing on the percussionist’s rhythm. I experimented with my sound, matching my rhythm with that of the percussionist’s high-hat. Our pianist’s heavy-handed technique allowed me to project my own music, exploring the lower register of my instrument to create punchy, complex bass lines. The words “listen and feel” echoed in my mind as we transitioned into the flute solo. I guided my hand further down the neck of the bass, playing in a higher octave, quieter volume and with simpler rhythms in order to better support the delicate melody of our flutist. Clamping my eyes shut, I felt transported back to my high school stage, and I grinned. Eventually, we faded out and opened our eyes to see that everyone, including our professor, had donned the same smile.  

The next few weeks of rehearsal were especially exciting. Like scientists in a lab, my bandmates and I explored the range of sonic profiles we could create by fine tuning the dynamics, rhythms, etc. of each musician. These exercises became crucial in understanding our roles as members of a group. In the classroom, I carved out my own role as a supportive presence in my thesis seminar. Treating the process like a collaborative effort rather than an individual competition, I opened myself to constructive feedback from my peers and advisors, offered my own insights, and even organized social events to tackle our shared burnout. By the time my bandmates and I stepped onstage for our end-of-semester concert, the spirit of collaboration had become a foundational force in my personal development.  

Rediscovering my joy for jazz has reminded me not only how important it is to color one’s life with creativity, but also that embracing comradery allows me and my peers to create far beyond our own capabilities. As I look forward to my career in law, I will continue to venerate the power of collaboration and put faith in my peers to support me across my academic and professional pursuits. I will allow my eyes to drift away from the chord sheets in front of me, and pay attention to the talent and ability of those around me. As future lawyers, we are more capable as a bonded community than as a loose network of individuals. I will aim my attention away from what I might accomplish on my own and instead dream of what we might create in concert with each other.