Lucky To Be Here

I have a snapshot of myself from the spring of ninth grade, posing next to the John Harvard statue with a giant smirk on my face. I wanted it documented on film that Harvard and I were not a good match.

My father and I had decided to spend my spring break visiting relatives in Massachusetts and along the way drop in on some prospective schools. We were three years early in the process, of course, but in my high school people were already talking about college. I had pretty definite ideas about the kind of school I was looking for--small, single sex and rural.

There were a couple of those schools in the western part of the state that I had my eye on, but on the first day of our trip we ended up in Harvard Yard. My father, who is a Law School alum, said he wanted to come back to campus briefly to see his Alma Mater. Somehow, I was lured to the Yard for a visit before heading off to visit the colleges I actually wanted to attend.

Two years later, I took the Harvard tour again, following the advice of my college counselor. Suddenly, I began to look at the campus in a new light. The encouraging words of my counselor made admission suddenly seem within reach.

This time, I walked up Widener steps trying to imaging myself going up there laden with books for my daily evening of study. Slowly, I fell in love with the campus and was determined to attend.

However, my early application was deferred admission, and I was waitlisted in the spring. Though I outwardly put on a brave face, cultivating school spirit for another college, I was completely crushed. When an acceptance letter from Harvard arrived in late May, I enrolled immediately, but did not feel quite up to par with the rest of the entering class.

Once I arrived at college, I avoided talking about my former wait-listed status at all. Admission to Harvard always seems so effortless to other people, so I tried not to let on exactly what went on before I arrived here.

In spite of my efforts to forget the events that had led up to my admission, the cover of the New York Times Magazine caught my eye on Sunday. The cover shows four sullen teenagers, with the caption: "At Van Nuys High in California, these four seniors applied. One got in."

The story is a scrutiny of the Harvard admissions process, which is portrayed as a crap shoot. The credentials of the four students are equally impressive; the reader does not know which one Harvard favored until the end of the story. The multi-tiered process of folder reading, rating, and voting on applicants was explained in great detail.

Even knowing this formula, though, it is not immediately clear why one of these four students was chosen over the others. If even the admission officers--such as Robin Worth, who said that for every class they admit, they could build another that was just as talented from those who are not accepted--think the process is random, many of us are left to wonder why we were the lucky ones. Certainly, as a formerly wait-listed student, I think about that a lot.

Last week at a party, a friend from another school mentioned casually that I had been wait listed. Two of my Harvard friends gasped, and said "There aren't many of you here." But then the conversation moved on, and no one seemed to think twice about it. After dreading that moment for years, I realized that no one thought that it was my own shortcoming--just evidence of an enigmatic admissions process.

While I am still angry that getting into college must be cutthroat and unnerving, the experience still makes me feel very fortunate to be here. The fact is, with the committee accepting only one out of every 17 applicants these days, we should all feel that way. Next fall, we should welcome the class of 2000, and commend them for their hard work, their great credentials, and their good luck.

Corinne E. Funk's last column of the year will appear during Reading Period.