Reflect on a Time...
Ignore for a moment that admissions personnel can tell two sentences in that Arnie Applicant didn’t write their own application essay. “Here’s a Common Application question: “Reflect on a time when you questioned or challenged a belief or idea. What prompted your thinking? What was the outcome?” If “erudite,” “ephemeral,” ‘egregious,’ ‘efficacious,” and “ecclesiasticism” make up 400 of the 500 words, it’s pretty clear that a 17-year-old didn’t pick them. Ronnie Reader slogs through 50 of these compositions every day. You think Ronnie can’t discern in the first paragraph the different authorship styles?
Ronnie may have been born at night, but she wasn’t born last night. She can tell the difference between the prose of a high school senior and that of a parent with an MBA. Again, two sentences. That’s how long it takes for Ronnie to determine that Arnie’s essay was written by someone other than Arnie.
Arnie takes senior English, not Advanced Placement English. Arnie’s mom is a senior executive for a publishing company. I’ll take Arnie didn’t write this essay for $500, Alec. The use of “plethora,” “perspicacious,” “pariah,” and “peremptory” are one generation removed. So is the sentence structure. And the syntax.
Imagine coming home to have dinner with your partner and finding, instead of the person with whom you’d been sharing meals for decades, there was, instead, a marsupial in your living room. It is more likely that you would not perceive that the wallaby was not your spouse and instead say, “hello, Dear, how was your day” than Ronnie would believe that Arnie wrote the erudite essay.
But disregard the “that’s not my hand in the cookie jar, why would you say that is my hand in the cookie jar, just because that hand is attached to my arm doesn’t mean that the hand in the cookie jar is necessarily mine” aspect of a parent writing an essay for their child. Let’s fast forward to response time. Answers for early decision and early action applicants come back in two months. Regular decision kids have to wait until March or April. Kids are admitted to Olde Bricke University. Or not. So there are two simple outcomes to evaluate.
Arnie Applicant gets denied. Mom wrote the essay. Can you see how this scenario—cheating and rejection—doesn’t lead to family unity. Arnie might think, “gosh, if I had written the essay myself, the outcome might have been different.” Ouch.
Alternatively, Arnie may be admitted. The essay is only one part of the application after all. Course selection, grades, and activities—I was vice president of the Moral Turpitude Club—are all considered. Is mom now committed to penning each 500-word theme for Arnie’s first-year composition course? What about Arnie’s term paper for History 301 (The United States from 1877 to the present)? What about Arnie’s senior thesis? Has Arnie’s mom planted a crop she does not wish to harvest?
Admitted or rejected, Arnie cannot mistake that his mom feels that he is not good enough, can’t write essays on his own, might not be college material. Can believing “I’m not ready for college” be far behind? Communicating, “I’m sending you to university, but I don’t think you’ll be successful” is right up there with “you have such a pretty face” followed by a pause. Damning with faint praise, I think Shakespeare said.
None of which is to say that helping students find their voice, speak their truth, write their own admissions essays is a simple process. Helping students get their thoughts and words in order takes a while to go from tedious to elating. At the risk of breaking my arm patting myself on the back, I will only point out that I have been doing this work for over 40 years. I still love watching my students take satisfaction in knowing that they have communicated a side of themselves that is more than just the sum of their grades and scores.
As always, a running analogy may serve to bring the point home: Simple arithmetic confirms that driving 26.2 miles at 60 miles per hour takes under half an hour. Yet any marathon runner will allow that the experience—driving rather than running—is not equivalent. The car ride obviates the sweat, chaffing, blisters, and exhaustion, but denies the exhilaration. (Compare, “yeah, the race truly does begin at Mile 20, but somehow I dug deep, shared every brutal step with my Running Buddy, finished strong with “we almost missed a left turn after the Donut Shop.”) Running is harder but more meaningful than calling an Uber.
Maybe in these post truth days there are worse issues with which loving parents must concern ourselves. Parents writing admissions essays for their children may not be as important as campus safety for example. But you are unlikely this semester to effect legislation regarding firearms. Whereas you can easily stand up and model ethical behavior allowing your child to write their own essay.
In summary. Writing the application essay for your son or daughter communicates that 1) cheating is okay; 2) that where your child matriculates is more important than who your child is; and 3) that you likely don’t have the first idea who your child is and are denying them a very real opportunity to find that voice.
