Dear admissions counselor,
I’ve made a lot of promises to you.
I’m sure you’ve read about them.
My aspirations outlined in my essays;
my resume and transcript, telling indicators of my potentially bright future.
I’d like to thank you for your time and consideration.
I’m sure you’ve seen far too many essays and applications in your day,
some ridiculously good, some frighteningly bad,
and while I found mine to be relatively strong when I fared them well and pressed submit,
they may have lost their zeal by the time they reached your hands after a long day
of dissecting students' lives.
The truth is, I really know nothing about you, admissions counselor,
but you know quite a lot about me--
my job history, how many A’s I’ve gotten, what my teachers have to say about me, if anything.
I’m sure you have a family--
a wife or a husband and perhaps some kids of your own.
Maybe they’re in college right now, or already navigating the ghost town of adulthood,
but then again, they may not have even begun this process yet,
maybe they're still in diapers or starting middle school,
and you’re just waiting anxiously
for the day when somebody exactly like you
is scrutinizing your daughter’s essays and frowning contemplatively
while they mull over her grades and test scores.
I can’t be certain, but I’d imagine that it’s not very hard for you
to only let your applicants exist as words on paper, because, let’s face it,
it’s easier that way.
You probably want to get home to your family and maybe your dog
after a long day of checking yeses and nos,
of stuffing envelopes with rejection letters or car decals,
admissions counselor.
I don’t mean to waste your time, and I’m not trying to beg
for an acceptance--I like to think that I’m above that,
but if you read my essays again, there’s probably a note of desperation in between
each of the meticulously placed words.
Can you really blame me?
I only wanted to introduce myself a little more accurately--
sure, it’s drilled into your mind that whatever’s in that file
with my name on it is the ultimate assessment of
how I’d do at your school,
and I’m not questioning your judgment, admissions counselor,
because I trust that you’re pretty damn good at your job.
But, you see, it would have been distasteful for me to use the word “damn”
on my application and sometimes I curse like a sailor,
especially during an episode of road rage and
I like to eat plain bagels with butter and honey
and sometimes I dance in the shower when I’m in a good mood
and sometimes I spend money on things I don’t need
like DVDs or Star Wars Band-Aids.
See, none of that was deemed relevant
when I took the fictional seminar on How to Apply to College.
The point, admissions counselor, is that I wanted to be more honest with you,
because some nights I skipped studying for a test
and I probably could’ve reviewed more for the SAT
and there were a few instances that I even went to concerts instead of
doing my APUSH homework and I’ve even ditched school
once or twice because I “wasn’t feeling well”.
I’m sure you’ve guessed at stuff like that.
I mean, no high school student
could maintain a 5.0, fall in love, see all the Oscar-nominated movies,
and save the world without their head exploding, right?
I did some of those things,
and I did those few things all at once without suffering a mental breakdown.
I think that's pretty impressive.
You hold all the cards, admissions counselor.
You’re changing lives,
you’re running this whole show, and I should really be
bowing at your feet.
You have my answer, and you’ve probably had it
for many months now
and I’m really scared and I don’t know when I’ll hear from you next,
but when I do, that’s when I start planning my next move
(literally and figuratively).
Because this fall
I could be at your university
or I could be at any of the others that have already sent me
happy letters and car decals and student store coupons and
skies full of congratulations.
They want me bad, admissions counselor,
but I’m still waiting for you.
You know me.
You know that I'm a pretty smart kid and you know that I want to study journalism
and you know that I’m the oldest of three siblings.
Hell, you even know where I live.
But I’m asking you now to remember how much power you have.
To take a break from playing collegiate God and
recall what it was like when you mailed off your application materials
with your fingers crossed in vain.
I’m asking for you to remember who I am
when I write a book or end world hunger
or beg you for change on the street
and realize that the degree hanging on my wall at home
will, in some small and yet eternally significant way,
be because of you. 