In Admissions, How Do You Separate the Wheat From the Wheat?
. . . . That left, of course, the essays, which would seem the most logical place to find an applicant defining and revealing her motivating values and beliefs. But how few applicants took advantage of the opportunity!
. . .I wasn't sure why the essays were so tedious, since applicants had a choice for the first two essays, and picked their own topic for the third -- options intended to give them opportunities to present unique characteristics, thoughts, and experiences. For that third essay, a remarkable number -- what zeitgeist was operating? -- selected one of two subjects, what I label "My Great Moment in Sports" and "My Mission Trip." In the first one, both men and women wrote about the importance of sports in their life, and they did so by trying to describe, as in a short story with dialogue and description, a significant race or event that they had won, or lost, and how much they had learned from the experience: Don't give up, even defeat can instruct, teamwork is important.
The other most common personal essay described a volunteer service trip -- to Honduras to build a church, or to Appalachia to work in a food drive, or to the inner city to tutor at a school. All returned from their trips with newfound gratitude for their own circumstances, for the comforts they enjoyed at home, and with a heartwarming sense of how good it felt to help others.
Both kinds of essays focused with tunnel vision on only the most cheerful and safest of life's lessons. Even as reasonably sheltered American kids, they have surely witnessed divorce and depression in their own families, and the terrible events of September 11. So why the insistence on whistling a happy tune? Maybe I was seeing another example of the American pressure "to look on the more smiling aspects of life," They all seemed to be channeling a morning news announcer, eternally perky and bright. Did they think they wouldn't get in if they weren't cheerful? A horrible image came to mind: a university full of smiling automatons.
I did find exceptional essays and writers. There was "Ned," a black scholarship student at a private school who wrote of the estrangement he felt on returning to his old neighborhood from his "white" school. And "Jess," from a Western state, who described his anger at the death of a cow, choked by a plastic bag carelessly tossed away by a tourist. Or "Emily" wrestling with the division in her family when her older sister announced she was gay. These essays really stood out; they seemed honest, reflective, and personal. They gave me some hope that there was vitality in the applicant pool. And with so many of the other measurements of "merit" being equal, such strong essays gave the writer a real boost.
As I read and considered the folders, I realized I would hate teaching the applicants I was seeing. The essays suggested rote learners unwilling to dig a little deeper or take academic risks. How difficult it would be to bring them to life in a classroom, get them to ask questions, get them to think. But unless I wanted to think some terrible plague of soullessness had afflicted this year's applicant pool, I had to believe I was not seeing the full picture. Behind the lifeless essays had to hide many of the same kinds of spirited people I remember from my classes. What accounted for the blandness, the squelched quality, of the essays?
I started to see an explanation -- perhaps -- in the responses to one question: "You've likely heard that college will be the best four years of your life. If only you could get there! Describe how the process of 'getting there' has affected you. What have you learned about yourself or others -- peers, parents, admission professionals -- during the college search process?"
Some, of course, saw this question as an invitation to discuss the endless ways they had prepared themselves for UVA -- a resume in narrative, reiterating the accomplishments detailed elsewhere in the application. Others described the hours and weeks -- even months -- they had wrestled with their applications, far longer, I thought grumpily, than any would ever spend on a literary analysis or short story. Many complained that their parents were nagging, overinvolved, which upped the tension factor.
All reported how stressful they found the experience of applying to college, how much pressure they felt, how worried they were. They couldn't sleep; they couldn't eat. Some referred to the stress only vaguely, as if they weren't quite sure they should mention it, but the bass note of panic was there. Others described the fear and nervousness that they and their friends felt -- would they get in, and if they didn't, would it wreck the rest of their lives? How would their parents react? If they got in, would they be able to afford it?
Others presented a greater awareness of why the process was so distressing. One student wrote that he was forced to "package" himself, and he didn't like it one bit. Another wrote about lying in bed at night and thinking about her "life score." Did she have enough academic credentials, the right laundry list of extracurriculars? Had she done anything in her life that made her special? I knew the answer to that one from her application, and it was no. But how many 17-year-olds could say yes?
For these applicants, I suspect, preparing their college applications was an introduction to a requirement they would face -- not only for this exercise in admissions -- but for the rest of their lives in a culture where presentation carries so much weight.
What emerged in these essays were uncertain, anxious kids trying to impress the faceless admissions staff who were going to scrutinize and weigh their entire being. Those essays were a better indicator of the real students than the exceptional academic performances so many displayed; they revealed applicants who were afraid of offending, of picking the wrong subject and tone. And with such conflicting advice about what the "correct" essay is, why not write whatever seems tamest and nonthreatening? Maybe the application process itself and the anxiety associated with it was -- temporarily, I hoped -- lopping off the applicants' rough edges and individuality.
I wish there were some way to tell them that strategy backfires, for it doesn't give an admissions reader any way to measure the intangibles: the curiosity, imagination, and motivation that are necessary for success. I tried as best I could to be fair -- another slippery word. My thumbs up or down was never given easily, and a dean would review my decisions. No one else in the office took the task lightly either, as was clear when the entire staff met to discuss students about whom there was disagreement. But finally, we had to make a decision. We judge the academics and extracurricular activities, and try to get the tip-top students, but to measure the intangibles of character and ability -- vitally important factors -- we can only read between the lines.
I finished my admissions stint with some first notions confirmed: No cut-and-dried method, no formula, will yield an outstanding freshman class. But I'm left wondering, is there -- was there ever -- any way of seeing the quality of mind behind the credentials?
