Sometimes (a lot of times, who are we kidding?) things get under my skin. If someone doesn’t wave when I let them in my lane, I’m offended. If people don’t smile back at me when I walk in a waiting room, it ticks me off. If the gas pump doesn’t flash a “thank you” across the screen after I fill up, I get angry. But cheaters are the worst of all. I can’t stand anyone who breaks the rules to get what they want. I simply can’t tolerate it.
So while I try not to get wrapped up in the news of the day because that’s just a quagmire of stress that unfortunately I have little control over, I’m mad — furious actually — about the college admission scandal that broke this week. You know the story, a bunch of super wealthy parents paid to have their children admitted to prestigious schools and falsified information, including test scores, to do it. It’s despicable, and it hits a big nerve for me.
When I was in fourth grade, I made the decision that I wanted to be a journalist. I also decided that I wanted to go to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill because it was one of the best J-schools in the country. It was also in my home state (in-state tuition), and they had a kickass basketball team. Ever heard of Michael Jordan?
From then on I did everything in my power to make sure I was accepted to Chapel Hill. I was the editor of my high school newspaper. I went to writing camp. I went to Governor’s School. I did a zillion extracurriculars, and I had good grades with the exception of math (and chemistry). Heck, I was even nominated for Miss Senior, which was an actual thing (and honor) at my high school. But then there was the SAT, and I completely bombed it. I’m a terrible test taker and knowing the stakes involved with this particular test did not help matters at all.
I was wait-listed at Chapel Hill and eventually denied. I found out that I didn’t get in the day I returned from my Governor’s School reunion, where I learned that all of my other friends had been accepted. I was so upset that I kicked a slit in my bedroom door. Even though mom had the door painted, the slit is still there.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt disappointment like that since. Sure I’ve had my heart broken more than once, but this was different. I had done my best, and my best wasn’t good enough for my dream.
That fall I sucked up my pride and enrolled in my safety school, determined to transfer to Chapel Hill. I employed the same tenacity and rigor that I did in high school, and two years later I was a junior transfer at Chapel Hill. Other than my children, this is the accomplishment I’m most proud of because I did every bit of it myself.
I called counselors at Chapel Hill while I was at my other school and asked for advice on what courses to take. I did that, not my parents. I studied. I made the grades. I did that, not my parents.
Did I have an awesome GPA at Chapel Hill? No, but I learned a hell of a lot, and those lessons serve me well to this day. As painful as it was being rejected as a freshman, it turned out to be a wonderful thing. It gave me time so grow academically so I could handle the workload of the journalism school. It also taught me the value of hard work and never giving up on your dream.
So when I hear of super wealthy parents who already have the means to give their children every legitimate advantage in the college acceptance game grossly crossing the line of what’s right and wrong, it infuriates me. No matter how much money you have, we all know what’s right and what’s wrong. Falsifying test scores and doing elaborate photo shoots of your child pretending to play a sport they don’t play is inherently wrong in anyone’s playbook. Because you’re wealthy doesn’t exempt you from the rules — or the punishment.
We all love our children, but the biggest gift you can give your kid is allowing them to fail. I’m grateful that my parents paid for my college education. There were no loans or scholarships. And I’m grateful that they encouraged me and supported me, especially when I called home in tears because I didn’t do well on a test. But I am most grateful that that’s where their involvement with my education ended.
My parents didn’t write my papers, bribe my professors for good grades or donate a wing to the library so I would be accepted to the journalism school. I wrote the papers. I made the grades, good and bad (economics was a disaster), and I got myself into the journalism school. It is a gift that keeps on giving, and I’m so proud my parents gave it to me.