It Came in the Mail

A parent and a guidance counselor explained the plan for the evening. In each room, there would be a "college counselor." Each would talk for about a half-hour and take questions. You could move from room to room to hear them. A spreadsheet on one of the handouts explained their market niche. One focused on students with ADHD; another represented the University System of Maryland; others were private counselors whom you could choose to later contact and perhaps hire. Their fees were not listed. Like the colleges with their direct-mail campaigns, these folks were trying to market their wares and make us think they had something we needed.

"Successful Admissions Strategies for the Top 100 Colleges. How do you build on your unique assets and begin to position yourself for the upcoming college admissions process?" said the handout from one for-hire private counselor.

Another pointed out that he was a twofer: a college counselor and a therapist. The therapist part intrigued me. Would I need therapy before this was over? It was certainly something I hadn't budgeted for, what with each application expected to set us back about $60. Hiring a private consultant -- with or without experience as a therapist -- would likely cost us hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars.

One private counselor spoke of the need for strategic planning -- something I doubt is imbedded in the teenage DNA. Colleges are beginning to count the number of contacts a student has with the school, he said. Did you visit? Did you e-mail? Did you visit again? Be sure to get in touch with your regional admissions counselor from the college of your choice. Pick summer activities that will "increase the likelihood you will be admitted."

So much for lifeguarding at the community pool, or scooping ice cream for $6 an hour, as my daughter had done between her junior and senior years. Unless, of course, everyone else in our neighborhood is out building their résumés with expensive summer programs. Then my daughter might turn out to be unique because she'd had a summer job that involved actual labor. But somehow I doubted it.

I moved on to another private counselor, who promised to "explain how students can plan and advance winning admissions strategies that emphasize unique strengths, even in the 9th, 10th and 11th grades. Students and parents will learn practical hands-on techniques to get on course, understand admissions trends, avoid common admissions mistakes, and position yourself for the colleges that are right for you. Students and families will learn the 10 'deadly' application essay topics and how to overcome the recruitment and selection methods used by colleges that impair various applicants. Best of all . . . [the counselor] will explain ways you can reduce family tension during the admissions process and enjoy your high school years!"

Okay, I was beginning to get it. First ratchet up our anxiety levels. Then offer "an intensive workshop" that tells us the strategic secrets that will land our children where we want them to be. Finally, offer another secret to be imparted and paid for: reducing "family tension."

As I watched parents circling the consultants, collecting business cards, gathering brochures, I wondered briefly: Is this something we should do? Some friends, especially a couple of divorced women with uninvolved ex-husbands, told me later that hiring a college counselor had helped them defuse the tension between them and their daughters, and added another adult to the scenario whose advice could be deemed knowledgeable. But I wondered, as I wandered from classroom to classroom: Did I need an "expert?" Wasn't the school guidance department supposed to help me with this? Weren't my husband and I worldly enough to figure this out ourselves? Or was there some secret to admissions that only money could buy?

With the prospect of writing freshman tuition checks for thousands of dollars closing in on us, my husband and I decided we would go it alone.

I WAS AT THE COMMUNITY SWIMMING POOL on a hot weekend in June as my daughter's junior year was coming to an end. A woman I hadn't seen since Ariel was in nursery school came up to me. After a quick hello, she asked with a conspiratorial look in her eye: Are you doing the whole college thing?

I nodded, noncommittal, waiting to hear more. After all, I reminded her, she already had one kid in college, so she knew the ropes. And where was he? Ah, the University of Michigan. A great school.

Not good enough, apparently. Her second son should be headed for the Ivy League, "but I don't think his test scores are high enough." But, she added, she and her husband are graduates of an Ivy League law school and other relatives are alumni of another Ivy, "so that should help."