CHAPTER ONE
THE BIG PICTURE
“So, what really happens in there?”
It’s a question I’m regularly asked when folks find out I was an admissions director. They want to know what happens behind closed doors. “Do you actually read every application?” “Does the dean always have the final say?” “Do you ever just secretly flip a coin?” (I’ve never been asked this question, but I know at least one parent was thinking it.)
The application process is not transparent. Admissions officers fiercely preserve and protect the privacy of their decisions. As a student applying to colleges I, too, was fiercely curious about what happened behind the scenes.
I had heard that admissions decision making was an art. I had heard it was a science. And some admissions counselors had publicly proclaimed it to be an “artsy science.”
But after becoming an insider, I learned that the process is more of a business. An artsy-science-y business.
* * *
“Why would a student born in July be named October?”1 a committee colleague commented while biting off a Twizzler head.
“Maybe that’s when she was conceived,” another colleague chimed in. “Kind of like when people name their kids after locations where they were conceived. Paris. Brooklyn.”
“Schenectady,” another colleague muttered sarcastically.
It wasn’t my first time at the admissions rodeo, but I was the rookie in the room. I had worked for two years at St. Lawrence University before joining the Dartmouth staff. At St. Lawrence, 60 percent of students were admitted. At Dartmouth, we were nearing the 10 percent mark.
I had been on the job for a few months, learning the ropes of reading. The process itself was straightforward (and similar to other processes at competitive institutions). Every application received at least two independent reads. (The regional admissions officer read the app first, summarizing and taking notes on the file.) Applications with stronger votes were sent for a dean’s final read. Applications with fewer strong votes were sent for a director’s third look. (Those whom the dean or director weren’t ready to admit or deny were kicked to committee.)
In addition to learning how files were processed, I was trained how to read the applications. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Record all grade trends from freshman to senior years. Summarize essays succinctly. Read U.S. citizens abroad in context of their school group. I’d read about a couple dozen early decision applications on my own and was now sitting on the early decision committee. Reading applications had come naturally to me, but voting was a whole other story.
“What do you think, Becky?” the committee chair asked me.
“Maybe October is a family name,” I said with a shrug.
“Not about the name, about her candidacy.”
I liked October. She was a Latinx woman interested in science from a high school where Dartmouth historically didn’t see many applications. “I see the admit.”
“I don’t,” the Twizzler eater disagreed. “She’s strong, certainly, but not a standout in the pool.”
The committee chair nodded his head at the Twizzler eater. “Other thoughts?”
October’s application spoke for itself. She was involved in gymnastics. She was an active school tutor. Her recommenders spoke to her engagement in the classroom. She was a very strong student with multiple interests.
“Then, let’s take a vote,” he continued. “Admit?”
I raised my hand.
“Defer?”
No hands raised.
“Deny?”
Four hands raised.
“The denies have it,” the committee chair wrote as he scribbled down the 1–0–4 vote on a spreadsheet. “Next!”
As I looked around the room, I wondered if I’d ever be as confident in my votes as my colleagues. They were a mix of people who were young, old, skinny, chubby, Black, white, Native, gay, straight, left-handed, and pigeon-toed.2 Some were Dartmouth alumni. Others had graduated from various other universities throughout the country. As much as they were likable, they were also intimidating. (They were NPR-listening, black-coffee-drinking folks. I was fonder of pop music and pumpkin spice lattes.)
Somehow these colleagues had figured out how to be discerning with their reviews. But in my individual application reading, I had voted to admit many more applications than I should have. Everyone struck me as deserving a spot in the class. In committee, I was committing the same crime.
“Now we have Reginald from Philadelphia, a white male, who is his local chess champion,” the committee chair said between bites of Twizzlers.
“That’s interesting.” I smiled. “I haven’t seen many chess champions.”
“I read one yesterday,” a colleague inserted.
“Well, we do have room for more than one chess champion. And there’s more to him than chess,” the committee chair announced as he read the applicant’s summary card projected on the wall. “He’s ranked sixth in class and has impressive talent in languages.”
“Which languages?” another colleague asked.
“Spanish and Italian.”
“As does everyone else in this pool,” the skeptical colleague responded. “Adios and ciao,” he joked.
I cracked a smile. As harsh as my colleague was, he had a point. Many applicants spoke multiple languages. (And as a unilingual English speaker, I appreciated this type of talent. When I was growing up, the only other language spoken in my house was my mother’s “Jersey City.”)
“Well, let’s slow down,” the chair insisted. “What’s he doing with his language talent?”
“It’s hard to say,” a colleague responded. “Nobody really speaks to it.”
“Well, is there anything else the committee would like to discuss before voting?”
“His verbal score is on the low side for our pool,” one colleague added.
“But his math score is nearly perfect,” another announced.
The crowd sat silent for a while, pondering the master card. After a few moments, the chair called for a vote. “Admits?”
I raised my hand. (A chess champion who spoke three languages seemed impossibly impressive.)
“Defer?”
No hands raised. I sheepishly felt silly about my admit vote if none of the others in the room would even vote for a defer.
“Deny?”
Four hands raised.
“Another vote of 1–0–4. He’s a deny. Moving on.”
I was struggling. We were reading applications from tremendously interesting and engaged students, but we only had enough beds on campus for 10 percent of the pool. The rules had been simple. Deny most. Wait-list some. Admit few. But for each one we admitted, there were nine more who seemed just as good. It was The Hunger Games, college edition. Choosing one over another seemed impossible, if not ridiculous.
“Kate from Georgia is our next candidate,” the committee chair announced. “She’s a white female double legacy who placed twenty-first in a national competition for students interested in Greek literature.”
“What did the readers say?” a colleague asked.
“She’d add to the class in that she wants to major in classics. And her essay about being a left-hander and advocating for more left-handed school supplies was well done.”
“I’m convinced,” a colleague commented. “We could use another classics major, and the double legacy is a bonus.”
“I don’t know,” another colleague piped in. “Her recommenders say she’s stronger in the sciences. Her lowest grade on her transcript is in Latin, and her Latin teacher’s recommendation doesn’t say much.”
I studied the master card on the wall. It would be hard to deny Kate. She was ranked ninth in her class, had decent testing, and was involved in many activities. She was checking every box.
“Let’s vote,” the chair announced. “Admits?”
Two hands raised. Mine followed slowly.
“You’re an admit, Becky?” the chair committee asked.
“I guess.”
“Don’t guess. Vote.”
I contemplated my decision for a moment. Kate was amazing, certainly, but I didn’t find her as appealing as others I had voted to admit. Perhaps it was time to be a bit more discerning. “Then, I’m a defer.”
“So am I,” another colleague said.
“As am I,” the committee chair announced. “The vote is 2–3–0. She’s a defer.”
“Her parents won’t be happy,” a colleague who voted to admit muttered.
I took a deep breath. My change of vote determined this (nearly) perfect young person’s future. My vote.
“Let’s take a ten-minute break,” the chair announced. “We’re going to be here awhile.”
I had decided to enter the admissions profession because I wanted to help people. I wanted to help them find their dream college. I wanted to help them navigate a difficult admissions process. I wanted to admit them.
I was now in the business of denying. I knew that a career at Dartmouth would mean rejecting a lot of applications. I wasn’t naïve about the caliber of intellect required to keep up with the pace of Dartmouth’s curriculum; however, seeing the strength of the pool made the rejections preposterous.
These kids were young Einsteins. And Winfreys. And Ginsburgs. They were going to change, save, and better the world. Each application brought something interesting to the table. Still, we could take only one in ten. The black belt or the prima ballerina? The teen Jeopardy! contestant or the newspaper cartoonist? The lead Sandy or the lead Danny? It was all too much.
“How’s it going?” Tina, a more experienced colleague, asked me at the water cooler.
“Okay.” I shrugged, not wanting to admit I was in over my head.
“I remember my first committee. I wanted to vote everybody in.” She laughed at herself. “That was before I knew the secret to good admissions decisions.”
My desperation for insight was likely leaking from my pores. “The secret?”
“Our decisions are about the whole of the college. Not about any one student.”
“I don’t understand.” I shook my head.
“All of the students we’ve seen today are standouts nationally. But we need to select the standouts in our pool.”
“Okay,” I said skeptically. “Then how do I recognize a standout in our pool?”
“Pay attention to the college profile. Find the students at the crossroads of the strongest tangible and intangible qualities. Those are the students who will make Dartmouth even more competitive.”
“Do we need to be more competitive?”
She looked at me with a smirk. “Every college wants to be more competitive.” She filled up her water bottle. “The more competitive pool we become, the more competitive pool we will attract. Remember, Becky, admissions isn’t personal; it’s business.”
Business. The word left a sour taste in my mouth. I wasn’t there for business. I was there for the people. I was there to change lives, grant opportunities, and recognize the next great talent.
But Tina had a point. While other colleagues publicly made the selection process sound magical, whimsical, and downright dreamy, Tina cut to the chase. We didn’t have room for everyone. We didn’t even have room for a quarter of the students in the pool. We didn’t have room for all the Brazilian American students or all the field hockey goalies or all the history buffs or the chess champions.
Admissions officers were there to create a future class that would enhance the current campus community. At Dartmouth, and at many colleges across the country, admissions readers had to consider three priorities of the institution:
Increase diversity on campus. Our office valued diversity in the admissions process both to ensure opportunity for marginalized students and to enrich our community with individuals from various races, ethnicities, genders, and backgrounds. As officers, we reviewed all applicants in the context of their resources and social advantages. If given the opportunity, we’d act affirmatively to admit students who were not only talented in the classroom but also underrepresented on our campus. In our opinion, it was not only the right thing to do, but it was best for our college.
Maintain our selectivity. Strengthening our academic profile (and upping our standardized test average) was critical in proving our elitism in the rankings. It seemed the harder it was to get into a school, the more valued it was nationally. (Up until 2018, U.S. News & World Report used admissions data as a point of reference for its college rankings. Today, it considers “expert opinion” as a factor, likely leaning on folks’ perception of the selectivity of these schools.)
Consider the needs of the college on a macro scale. We needed the smart (enough) child of the philanthropic billionaire for the development office. 3 We needed the football quarterback and the women’s crew coxswain. (I’ll speak more on athletic recruitment in chapter 16.) We needed VIP students with clout. 4 (Malala! Malia!) And we needed legacy 5 students to appease our alumni base. (Our policy during my time at Dartmouth was to give legacy applicants an extra review in the process. I strongly suggest that students with legacy ties clearly document these connections in the “family information” section or anywhere the question is asked.)
Copyright © 2021 by Rebecca Sabky
