By Sarah Ball

Sunday, May 9, 2004; Page B02

It was somewhere between picnicking in the California sunshine and sitting (or splashing) through four hours of obligatory "bonding" activities that I had an epiphany: This was not just an admitted-student weekend at Stanford University that I was attending, as I had originally thought. No, this event, specifically designed to convince hundreds of prospective freshmen (or, in Stanford-speak, "pro-fros") like me to enroll, was nothing but an overblown sales pitch -- complete with glitzy packaging, superficial presentation and the ever-peppy salespeople.

Like any respectable car salesman, the Admit Weekend student staffers had hit hard and fast when they saw me coming. "Everybody, let's give a warm Stanford welcome to Sarah Ball from Alexandria, Virginia!" one undergrad screamed into a microphone upon my arrival at check-in. Dumbfounded, mortified and struggling under a load of luggage in front of more than 100 people, I barely had time to catch my breath before I was inundated with maps and schedules for a full day of activities. After being reminded that I was to meet my Ro-Ho (room host) at 5 p.m. sharp for dorm activities and a night's lodging, I was lassoed with a name tag on a string lanyard and sent scooting on my way.

One campus tour, a picnic lunch and two special seminars later, I found myself sitting in a circle with eight other pro-fros passing around a roll of toilet paper. "Take as much as you think you'd need for one day of camping in the woods, and count how many squares you have!" chirped our group leader. The point was oh-so-predictable: In summer-camp fashion, we were required to say one "interesting thing" about ourselves for each square of toilet paper. Our leader must have seen the are-you-kidding look on my face as I clutched my wad of 36 squares; despite the high-fives between a few guys who had taken one square each, she imposed a five-fact limit on our speeches.

Any high school senior can tell you how harrowing the college admissions process is, but even more distressing is deciding which school to choose. Hours spent agonizing over flawless applications are quickly converted into hours debating between top choices, which in turn become hours visiting each campus to find that "perfect fit," an elusive entity that the college guidebooks promise exists for every student.

I confess I'd never expected to find myself at Stanford Admit Weekend. My acceptance was nothing short of shocking. Here was a school I'd applied to on a whim, that lost one of my teacher recommendations, that doesn't grant applicants interviews (which I considered to be my strength), and that sent us all a gushing e-mail citing the "high level of excellence" of this year's applicant pool (one girl anchors Jamaican television; another kid makes microchips using a "molecular pencil"). The odds of being accepted, I had concluded, were decidedly not in my favor.

So when I got that fat envelope and read my cheerful red-and-white invitation for Admit Weekend, I was both incredulous and intrigued. I felt I owed it to myself (and my parents, who were very enthusiastic) to visit what so many people I knew called the most "laid-back," "uhh-MAY-zing!" and "anti-Ivy" school around. I envisioned a great time; I pictured myself mingling with the country's best and brightest, interacting and conversing about our interests and intentions for the future. Maybe I could attend a Human Biology class with the molecular-pencil person; perhaps the Jamaican Katie Couric would go for an afternoon jog with me.

How naive I was.

Following the icebreakers and the scavenger hunt that led me splashing through six fountains on campus, I was ready for a break, and wondering: How could I tell whether I liked the atmosphere of this excellent school when I was too busy being force-fed admissions-manufactured opinions? Forget the stale name games and the dorm-specific cheers we all learned -- where were the unscheduled conversations with new acquaintances? When could I ask questions of current students and not receive a contrived answer? Not only had the activities thus far been utterly ineffective at convincing me to enroll, they also seemed designed to prevent me from having an honest, unvarnished look at campus life. Surrounded by the army of energetic Ro-Hos in customized "Admit Weekend '04!" shirts, in the midst of all those terracotta roofs and palm-studded plazas, I felt more like I'd gotten lost on the way to the Don Pablo's restroom than anything else.

The real kicker came when I returned to the dorm post-scavenger hunt. It was 9 p.m., and most other admitted students were attending ethnic-themed parties. Asian Americans and Pacific-Islanders had "Chill Night" at Okada, the Asian dorm; African Americans, Chicano/Latino/Hispanics and Native Americans, respectively, were invited to do the same at other "theme" dorms. Lesbian/gay/straight/questioning/transgender students were invited to a separate social event at something called Café Q. Each group planned to discuss the issues facing minorities on the Stanford campus. I didn't fit into any of those groups, so I found myself at loose ends.

It's almost eerie, the way a racially diverse campus life is automatically equated with a happy, functional campus life. A diverse undergraduate population is undoubtedly one of Stanford's many attractions -- especially if you ask the admissions staff. But it seems to me that lauding diversity is futile if the various ethnic groups are encouraged to stick to their own. Potential friends I had made between icebreakers were now gone, having sushi at Chill Night. The point, I'd thought, was to coalesce and learn from each other.

So I sat letting my sunburned, fountain-dampened self drip-dry in a dorm lounge that was nearly empty save for a few of us socially awkward white kids . One sat at the lounge piano, banging out Chopin's "Raindrop Prelude" without pausing between repeats. He hadn't moved from the piano since before dinner, and mysteriously didn't respond when I cheerily tried to talk about composers. Another guy, sitting next to me on the couch, rose to go to the bathroom and asked in nasal monotone that I "make sure no one steals my hot chocolate." No one else said a word.

I'd had enough.

Twenty minutes later I was in a cab on my way to stay with my dad at a hotel in town. So much for bonding.

I know that admitted-student bonding fests aren't unique to Stanford. Lots of schools host pro-fro-geared events, melding activity fairs, concerts, dry parties and seminars featuring celebrated faculty members to create an appealing snapshot of campus life. But there's bonding, and then there's bonding. Chanting cheers in the fountains, doing skits in the dorm lounge, even wearing your weekend meal card strung around your neck for "safekeeping!" -- there is a time and place for these things. When you are rushing a sorority, perhaps, or when you enroll in first grade. But when you are trying to schedule your first four years of semi-independence as you embark on an exciting, challenging and very, very expensive adventure . . . well, I for one would at least like to know the real deal.

That night, as I sat on my duffel bag waiting for my cab, a Ho-Ho (house host) approached me. "Are you . . . okay?!" she asked me. I looked up at her Stanford T-shirt; a huge coil of silvery tinsel encircled her head. My interest was piqued -- maybe this was it! She could tell me the straight facts, and assure me that the reality at Stanford wasn't dividing up by racial groups or conducting senseless scavenger hunts. Maybe she'd even tell me something she didn't like, or how she had adjusted to college life. . . . "I mean, you just look so down! We just wanted you to know how very, very, verrrrry happy we all are here on the Farm -- I mean, my freshman year has been like summer camp, and. . . . "

Ahem. Maybe not. I pasted on my last smile of the day, and assured her that she had helped make my decision very, very easy. Ten hours later I was on a flight back home. Two days later, I sent my regrets to Stanford.

A word of unsolicited advice from the pro-fros? Play it straight, tell us the truth, ix-nay the Kumbaya sing-alongs, and we in turn can think about writing you that $40,000 check.

Author's e-mail:ballsy85@hotmail.com

Sarah Ball is a senior at T.C. Williams High School in Alexandria. She will be attending Duke University in the fall.