In our Opinion section, we created a column called “Argus Apps” to humanize the college process. It’s easy to forget that behind the Common App essays are people with real feelings and experiences. These essays are always considered within the framework of the university admissions process, so it’s a photo editor’s question about publishing these essays without combining them with someone’s SAT scores or a list of “Argus Apps”. We heard about her from Lily Faith-Goldfine ’25. A journey through college application essays.
Trigger Warning: Golf
I’m a double major in economics and film. (I know about stellar optics.) All my friends are non-athletes (NARP) and I have been a golfer for the past two years. However, he is currently taking a semester off to “search for himself.” ” When I wrote this essay, I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to play golf in college, but I truly believed that the theme of the sport was what would define me.
Now, the unfortunate truth. Despite the fact that a pink golf ball is the central object of my essay, I have never officially played with a pink golf ball and have always stuck with the poor white ball. I’m still working on the “pink and safe” thing. I think that’s a blatant lie. But apart from that detail, this essay is my truth. I was drawn to golf because I love making life difficult for myself. From the cost of coaching and lessons to the regular occurrence of being the only girl in my age division at tournaments, golf has never been easy. However, despite the rationale presented in my essay, this desire for discomfort extended beyond my college life.
Here are my three sure points. First, golf has a terrible impact on the environment. Second, like most university and academic activities, they share the commonality of extreme inaccessibility. And finally, the perception of golf in college is highly volatile depending on the space it occupies.
Well, this is my theory. If you “come out” as a golfer at a Delta Kappa Epsilon (DKE) party at the Freeman Athletic Center, or in economy class, you’ll be told you’re “so cool.” But if I were to do the same thing at a Pine Street Frisbee party, Wes Rave Part 2, or any other arts venue, I would be met with obvious dismay from liberals.
Those who know me know that I’ve never been vocal about being a golfer. I’m calculating about that. First, I want you to notice how cool and Wesleyan I am, and most importantly, how liberal I am, but then I want you to realize how cool and Wesleyan I am, and most importantly, how liberal I am, but then I want you to notice that I’m a little white (pink) in a hole 300 yards away with a bunch of sticks. (not) know that you hit the ball.
At some point, golf went from being a pursuit of recognition and recognition to being a source of partial embarrassment and considerable anxiety. A horrible fear that onlookers would reluctantly filter my words and actions through a giant golf watermark plastered above my head followed me everywhere.
So why am I so hyper-conscious when someone discovers my affinity for golf? What is it about their judgment that bothers me? Do they actually think about it at all, or was this revelation prompting an evaluation of my character?
Maybe I’m just overthinking it, maybe I’m not taking into consideration my own decisions as I parade around town. When I say someone works in a lab on campus, I imagine people who look like a cross between Abby from NCIS and the nerd from The Big Bang Theory. Please tell me you work at Long Lane Farm. Suppose you are a member of the Wesleyan version of a bourgeoisie commune. Or if someone says they’re going to improvise, I say, “Yes, and?” like Mr. Darbus from High School Musical. My inexperience with these activities is the reason for my completely accurate and unbiased perception. So maybe Wesleyan students need to play more golf, preferably some kind of exposure therapy.
Of course, I am conscious of my position in an environment where golf is not generally accepted. I have a genuine love for both the individuals and activities in these spaces, as well as the game of golf and the people who share that interest. I’m also not tired of navigating the social torrent. Part of me probably enjoys the thrill of it. But at the same time, maybe it’s all in my head.
small pink golf ball
On the golf course, it is customary to offer young women a pink ball. I learned this first hand when I was 7 years old. I was no exception. Despite constant offers, I never chose pink. I was convinced that if I was seen holding a pink golf ball, I would be seen as a little girl and not as a golfer. Driven by a desire to rise above public expectations, it took me a while to develop the confidence to break free from the expectations of others both on and off the golf course.
When my father burst into my room for the first time at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning and announced he was going to Duiker (New York City’s most played golf course), I obeyed without hesitation. At first, I, a 7-year-old professional driver, sat between his father and his friend Lionel in a two-seater golf cart, waiting for an opportunity to show off my NASCAR skills. As the years went by, I left my golf cart behind and started riding the wide green courses with my dad instead. As I spent early Sunday mornings honing my stance and swing, I fell in love with the game of golf and it became my oasis.
My steadfast rejection of pink golf balls continued even after I began to excel in the sport. The more I play golf, the more I become aware of the fact that golf is male-dominated. Every Sunday, I felt like the eyes in the back of my head were staring at a crowd of men. To them, I was just a stupid girl dragged along by her father. I was determined to prove them wrong. When I stepped up to the tee and hit the white ball, I didn’t have to turn around to see their jaws hit the ground.
Despite consistently improving, I still felt very anxious and out of place on the golf course. Determined to “improve my skills as a golfer,” I got rid of my nerves and concluded that lessons were necessary. I met a former police officer who teaches at a run-down driving range in Brooklyn. He served me. Instead, I helped coach him and spent time with autistic kids who used golf as an outlet.
At the Brooklyn Junior Autism Golfer Academy, I taught golf to children on the autism spectrum. There was a girl the same age as me who used to go there often. She always arrived on time, ignored her greeting of “Hello, how are you,” and headed straight for the 7-iron. Every shot she fired was equally perfect and hit the target. It was clear that she was not affected by people’s gazes and suspicions, and I envied her. She wanted to emulate her casualness.
I told myself that if I played more golf and improved my skills, I could become like the girls at BJAGA. I found myself hitting golf balls for hours every night at Chelsea Piers Golf Center. Even getting to Chelsea Piers wasn’t easy. Even just 5 miles with a backpack and clubs on your back will take you at least an hour. I practiced for 3 hours and got home at 8pm. This has become my life. The sights on Sunday’s first tee faded as the season progressed. At first I thought it was because I was getting better at golf, but now I realize it’s simply because I don’t care what other people think or expect of me. Instead of being anxious, I now have more confidence on and off the course. Thanks to the lessons I learned from the game of golf, I realized that the more time I spend taking care of myself, the less time I have to live my life. Now I only play with pink golf balls.
Lily Goldfine can be reached at lgoldfine@wesleyan.edu.