集滑雪天才、学霸和时尚模特为一身的年仅18岁的谷爱凌(Eileen Gu)，在中国不仅是一个体育现象，更“破圈”成了一个教育现象。在小谷夺金后，如何培养出一个谷爱凌天成了各媒体的标配文章，成了妈妈见面的热聊话题。小谷在海淀黄庄上10天奥数课抵得上美国一年，小谷参加美国用来申请大学的标化考试SAT取得1580分（满分1600分），小谷被名校斯坦福大学录取，这些重重扣击着中国家长们的心弦，与自由式滑雪夺金一起冲上了国内热搜。
作为有着20年资历的留学申请及教育工作者，我们能够理解这些热搜背后反映出忧心的家长们对美国/国际教育的迷惑与不解。其实，这些并非美国教育及升学的重点。我们知道，新冠疫情让美国大学集体决定2021年秋季学期入学申请不要求SAT/ACT成绩（学术标化成绩），申请者可以自主选择是否提交标化成绩。据Common APP数据，美国大学的标化要求从2019-2020年度的55%降低至2021-22年度的5%。这或许可以说明，学术成绩在申请顶级大学时没有那么重要，那到底是什么让谷爱凌获得斯坦福的青睐？或许我们可以从谷爱凌在《纽约时报》的写作中探得一些端倪。
谷爱凌在加利福尼亚出生和长大，从小对滑雪这种挑战性比较高的极限运动表现出了兴趣。极限运动在给她带来喜悦之外，更为显著的是恐惧。随着滑雪运动的深入，小谷承认曾在日记里写过无数次自己的恐惧，甚至不同形式的恐惧。这次冬奥会，她应《纽约时报》的要求，再次写下了自己如何看待恐惧，如何面对恐惧，以及如何克服恐惧的文章《我承认我爱上了恐惧》（原文见本文末尾）。而这篇文章，完美契合了美国大学申请文书的标准，文章完美好地展示出小谷作为一个申请人的性格特点、兴趣爱好和目标性，招生官怎么会拒绝这种文书呢？
在这19项标准中，有15项和国际学生直接相关，分别是：
GPA、中学课程难度、标准化考试成绩、班级排名、Essay、推荐信、课外活动、个性/素质、天分/能力、志愿工作、对学校的感兴趣程度、面试、工作经验、是否属家庭第一代大学生、校友关系。
另有3项与国际学生没有关系，分别是：
- 种族（Ethnicity）：注重的是族裔因素，分亚裔、白人、黑人三种，亚裔竞争是最激烈的；
- 所在州/国家（Geographic Residence）：公立大学会优先录取本州学生，出于学生多样性的目的，美国大学会有意识地录取一些其他国家的学生，但对单个国家的学生而言，没有实质意义；
- 是否本州居民（State Residence）：不适用于国际学生。
最后还有一项，略有关系但可以忽略不计的因素：
- 宗教信仰（Religious Affiliation）：大部分美国学校都不把这项因素计入录取标准中。
美本录取指标数据表
从以上15项国际学生直接相关的录取标准中，除了学术能力以外，主要就是如何全面展示个人了，比如通过Essay（就是我们通常所说的申请文书），参加课外活动等等。以谷爱凌的这篇文章来说，她一再提到自己对滑雪“有瘾”，“无可救药地爱上”了滑雪，表明了她对滑雪发之内心的激情。此外，她也明白“恐惧”来自于不确定和高压，但她并没有退缩，而是认为这些心理活动都是获得成功的一部分。
美国高校招生官认为，有兴趣特长的孩子比单纯只会学习的孩子更有潜力，因为兴趣爱好的兼顾需要学生时间管理的能力。作为职业滑雪人，小谷需要花费大量时间训练，而同时她还每年会中国2到3个月时间学习中文，看似是体育和语言特长，但这些特长和SAT高分的背后都是严格的自我规划来支撑。所以特长只是一个载体，而这个载体背后的个人特质才是招生官所看重的。
招生官还希望看到的是一个有个人明确目标和计划的少年，而不是一个被家长安排得明明白白的乖孩子。这一点单从这篇文章里，小谷献身滑雪事业的明确目标，也显露的淋漓尽致。而谷妈妈在采访中也一再提到，小谷从小要进斯坦福，要学会中文，要做滑雪第一人，而这些目标都是她给自己制定的，并非妈妈强求。
从谷爱凌的文章中，能够看出她的写作能力非常不错，既有逻辑推理，又有情感投入。另外，小谷在冬奥会接受记者采访的临场回答中有理有据，她的口头表达能力是过关的。美国顶尖大学招生官最喜欢看到的学生既能运用简练精准的文字写作和答题，还能在老师提问之后能马上将脑海里的想法转化成语言，和招生官进行口头沟通。因此，小谷能录取斯坦福就顺理成章了。
虽然写作和表达很重要，但在日常中，想要练就一身优秀的写作功夫却不是那么容易的。对此，我们的美高写作课邀请到牛津女神葛欧蕾老师亲自下场指导。葛欧蕾老师从高中（格罗顿高中）起就名校傍身，写作教学经验丰富，多次发表文章并获奖，也曾带出上百名名校学生。想要轻松搞定写作，就来我们的写作课吧。
此外，2022《纽约时报》写作比赛（系列）正在如火如荼的进行中，我们许多同学已经拿到《纽约时报》写作奖啦，有兴趣的同学也可以选择参加我们的竞赛大师班。名额有限，先到先得。
For the last 10 of my 18 years, I’ve pursued a tumultuous love affair with fear. I’m a professional freeskier, and twin-tipped skis, 22-foot halfpipes and double-cork rotations are my main sources of adrenaline, the truly addictive core of extreme sports.
Like all bewitching lovers (at least the ones in the novels I read, for lack of real-world experience), this significant other can be … mercurial. “Fear” is really an umbrella term for three distinct sensations: excitement, uncertainty, and pressure. I’ve learned that the nuanced indicators of each of these feelings can be instrumental to success when recognized and positively leveraged, and harbingers of injury when ignored.
Though it’s easy to label extreme sport athletes as fearless or capricious, the countless hours I’ve spent visualizing tricks and practicing them in foam pits (foam. particles. everywhere) and on airbags (think giant Slip ‘N Slide) suggest otherwise. It’s biologically counterintuitive for us to place ourselves in positions of risk, and while we make every effort to physically prepare, no amount of metaphorically safety-netted practice can equate to the unforgiving snow slope that rushes up to meet us after a steep kicker launches us into the air. Instead of ignoring fear, we build unique relationships with it by developing a profound sense of self-awareness and making deliberate risk assessments.
The work begins with visualization. Before I attempt a new trick, I feel a tightening high in my chest, between the base of my throat and the top of my diaphragm. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. As I ascend the gargantuan takeoff ramp, I imagine extending my legs to maximize lift. Then I picture twisting my upper body in the opposite direction I intend to spin, generating torque before I allow it to snap back the other way.
Now, in my mind, I’m airborne. I see the backside of the takeoff immediately, then my flip draws my vision to the cloudless sky above me. My ears register the wind as a kind of song, every 360-degree rotation providing the beat to the music of my motion. As my feet come under me halfway through, I spot the landing for the briefest of moments before I pull my body into the second flip. I imagine my legs swinging under me as I return to a forward-facing position and meet the ground with my weight in the front of my boots. 1440 degrees. I smile. Then I open my eyes.
In the split second following my visualization, the knot in my chest flutters and spreads — those famous butterflies reaching their final stage of metamorphosis. Excitement, the child of adrenaline, my true love and addiction. That tantalizingly precarious balance between confidence in my ability to execute the trick safely and excitement for the unpredictable experience to come. I’ve heard this state called “the zone,” which is indeed where I was when I became the first female skier in history to land the double cork 1440 last fall.
It doesn’t take much, unfortunately, for uncertainty to override confidence. Imperfect preparation moistens my palms, pushes that tight spot down into my stomach and makes each breath shallower than the last. The feeling isn’t panic, but something like dread. Danger! cries every evolutionary instinct. If I should choose to look past this safety mechanism, my body may act autonomously in the air, twisting out of the rotation and forcing me to brace for impact out of fear that full commitment to the trick may end in disaster. Every freeskier’s goal is to recognize the minute differences between excitement and uncertainty in order to maximize performance while minimizing the risk of injury.
Finally, there’s pressure, an energy source that can be wielded in many ways. One’s experience of pressure — by far the most subjective facet of “fear” — is affected by personal experiences and perspectives. Expectations of family and friends, a competitive streak, or even sponsorship opportunities can provide the scaffolding for a high-pressure environment. Pressure can be a positive force for competitors who leverage it to rise to the occasion, but it can also single-handedly dictate competitive failure.
But whether athletes alleviate or compound their innate desire to “prove themselves” depends largely on confidence. As I enter my early adulthood, I’m proud of the work I’ve done to cope with pressure by bolstering my self-esteem and minimizing my need for external validation. I focus on gratitude, perspective, and on the joy this sport brings me, regardless of whether I’m alone or in front of a worldwide TV audience. Though my views of myself and the world are constantly evolving, one thing is for certain: no matter how much time passes, I’ll always be a hopeless romantic when it comes to fear.