It Came in the Mail

By Miranda S. Spivack
Sunday, April 2, 2006

As the parent of any teen will tell you, the barrage of brochures from colleges marketing themselves can be like something from a horror movie

The slick brochures began pouring into our mail slot in the fall of my daughter's junior year of high school, not long after the PSAT scores came in.

I examined them carefully, checking out their design. They didn't look much different from the mail touting the opera, the circus, MasterCard and Comcast. The only difference was the product--rolling green campuses filled with elegant neo-classical buildings and happy-looking students-- and the price tag. Tuition, room and board and other expenses at many of these colleges can reach up to $45,000 a year.

"Be yourself," urged the large white envelope from Alfred University, "a vibrant living/learning community" in western New York that charges out-of-staters about $32,000 a year.

"Seize the day and plan for your future!" said the postcard from McDaniel, a small, $35,000-a year private college in Westminster, Md.

"Special Invitation. Space is limited. Respond today," announced Washington University in St. Louis, inviting my daughter to come visit. The $44,000-a-year college is touted by U.S. News & World Report as one of the nation's hot schools in its much-watched annual ratings issue. In the coming months, Wash U would send my daughter more than 15 different pieces of direct-marketing literature.

Initially, the arrival of these brochures gave me some comfort. How nice, I thought. Ariel has options.

I was naive. My family and I were about to be plunged into the college admissions process, a vortex that can test the sanity of even the calmest parents. Not that there are many of those in my neighborhood. I live in Bethesda, where legions of highly educated, affluent mothers and fathers fear any misstep that could harm our children's chances for a pedigree from a highly selective college -- the all-important first step in achieving our version of the American dream. To watch the college chase at our daughters' high school, Walt Whitman, and many others in the Washington area, to experience its tension, you would think life as we know it would end if our children didn't make it into one of a very small number of top schools. Much of this tension is self-inflicted. But it is almost impossible to avoid, exacerbated by the relentless way colleges market themselves, and by the entire industry that has grown up around the often maddening and confusing admissions process.

The "top tier" colleges play a numbers game. They want to attract large amounts of applicants, so they can demonstrate just how selective they are. In other words, they need to reject as many kids as possible. Numbers that show that many apply but few are selected can get a school labeled "hot" by U.S. News & World Report or one of the other college guides. Hot schools often attract more alumni dollars. And that can bring new labs, more books for the library, a nicer athletic building. And, of course, more applicants.

If this sounds like a racket, that's because it is.

IT'S HARD TO SAY EXACTLY what makes a college appealing to students. But few schools these days are willing to leave much to chance. Bob Sevier, a vice president of Stamats, a company in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, that helps colleges market themselves, estimates that most schools spend about $1,500 per admitted student before the kids walk in the door for their freshman year. That's a lot of direct mail and flashy Web site designing. Others say Sevier's numbers are low, and believe the per-student rate for luring applicants is far higher at many schools.

Edward Fiske, a former New York Times education editor and the author of popular college guides for students and parents that bear his name, traces the marketing of colleges to the mid-1970s, when the college-age population was stagnant and schools were eager to fill dorm rooms with paying customers. "That was the beginning of all this marketing hype. They were looking at the declining number of high school graduates," he says.

The hype is likely to intensify in the next 20 years, says Sevier, but in most parts of the country it will be aimed at students far different from the hothouse darlings of the Washington suburbs. Sevier, whose firm works with colleges such as Ohio State, Arizona State and Troy University in Alabama, says he is helping many schools position themselves for the demographic changes on the horizon. As the last children of the baby boomers reach college age, the number of traditional applicants is expected to fall, though the number vying for the same few spots at the same "hot" schools is likely to stay the same or even grow.

"Only one in five high school graduates goes to college full time and lives in a dorm," Sevier explains. "All enrollment growth in the next generation is going to be from students of color, adult students, commuter students, nonresidential students at residential colleges and part-time students. The percentage of full-time students who will live in a dorm isn't increasing. For colleges to grow that, they have to literally snag someone else's share."

It's easy for colleges to measure the success of their marketing efforts. Applications jump -- or at least don't drop. But why should I care how many kids apply to any given school? What does the number of applicants say about how good the teaching is, or how large the classes are, or how successful a university's graduates are? What does it really mean when figures show that, for the entering class in 2004, Wash U processed 19,822 applicants but admitted only 4,400? Or that about 4,500 students last year decided that Pomona College was the place to be, though the school admitted only 970 of them?

In a survey of college admissions departments published last year, the National Association for College Admissions Counseling reported that the most important quality for new staffers was their "aptitude for marketing and public relations." The ability to crunch data came in second. The ability to detect a college application essay written by a parent or a hired expert -- priceless, but, sadly, not part of the survey.

Marketing colleges is a tricky business. The schools need to work their way into a family's collective psyche and offer some justification for why tuition has skyrocketed well beyond the inflation rate. They tend to target affluent Zip codes, where they can find paying customers by presenting themselves as standouts of one sort or another. Colleges often tout their U.S. News & World Report standings. Photos on their idyllic brochures sometimes include shots of places students might like, even if those places are miles -- yes, hundreds of miles -- from campus. Several years ago, Virginia's Mary Baldwin College, about 200 miles from the Atlantic, used a photo of Virginia Beach in its marketing literature.

Oglethorpe University in Georgia sent my daughter several postcards, emphasizing the warm weather. "Increase your knowledge. Maintain your tan," said one. "You know what they say about college students that don't get proper exposure to the sun? Well, let's just say it's not pretty. At Oglethorpe, you get the best of both worlds: a great education and a really great place to live."

Sheldon Steinbach, general counsel of the American Council on Education, which represents more than 1,800 public and private colleges, blames some of the direct- marketing excesses on the media, which lavish too much attention on the so-called top tier schools. "People who are writing these stories either went to those schools or are desirous of having their own children go there," he says. "You can go to a whole lot of schools that have a decent education, and they are good for you, too."

But they need to make sure you know about them. Marketing is one way to do that. Judy Hingle, director of professional development for the admissions counseling organization, argues that marketing widens opportunities for students, many of whom "would never hear from anybody," and otherwise would have no idea about the array of colleges and universities available to them.

We weren't in danger of that in my Zip code, as the cards, letters and brochures poured in from Drexel, Mount Holyoke, Oglethorpe, Macalester, Oberlin, Smith, Wellesley, Swarthmore, Vassar, New York University, Maryland and Saint Mary's, among others. Eventually, my daughter would receive 30 pounds of direct mail -- filling three large boxes. So would most of her friends.

Some of the brochures didn't come from colleges but from SAT prep companies and college admissions consultants. These are people who want to market my child to the schools she'd like to attend. College admissions consulting is a growth industry on the East Coast but doesn't exist almost anywhere else, Sevier says: " 'What preschool did you go to?' is just not a question you get in Iowa."

AN E-MAIL DROPPED INTO MY INBOX one day last March, announcing a college night to be held at nearby Walter Johnson High School. I wanted to gather more information on the process my daughter was about to start. So I headed for the glass-enclosed cafeteria at WJ, notebook in hand.

When I arrived, there were already more than 100 people present, mostly parents, but some with their children, huddled together, speaking in low tones, waiting, apparently, for The Word.

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."

I found myself thinking back to her son when he was 4. A cute kid. I couldn't remember much more, but I did remember thinking the parents were kind of laid-back, back then.

"Is the Ivy League a good fit?" I asked her, genuinely wondering. Big classes, lots of teaching assistants, big-name professors off making big bucks as consultants, intense competition among students scrambling for every inch of recognition.

"I am not sure it is for us," I said. "My daughter is looking all over, but especially at small liberal arts schools."

I got a look of confusion from this overwrought mother. I had the sense that she had assumed that my daughter would look at the Ivies, that there was this shared vocabulary, but, suddenly, I was not speaking her language. And it made me wonder: Was our family heading in the wrong direction?

MY HUSBAND, STEVE, AND I GREW UP in what was clearly a simpler time. He applied to five colleges and picked Reed College in Portland, Ore., far from his New Hampshire home. I applied to three and went to Sarah Lawrence, just outside of Manhattan, a half-day train ride home to Northern Virginia. There wasn't much to it. We took the SATs without first taking a prep course, and we filled out the applications by ourselves, with almost no parental involvement.

I doubt any families in our neighborhood would dare take that route now. College applications, more than ever, "have become a family affair," Steinbach says.

Ever ask teenagers as they begin their search why they want to attend a particular school? You are lucky if they can tell you for sure whether they want to go to college in a city or a small town; whether they want a football and fraternity scene, or something a little more cerebral but still fun. My daughter thought she wanted to study languages and international relations, and continue to play field hockey. I was impressed she knew that much about her goals.

While many seniors need time to figure out who they are and what schools would be right for them, selective colleges often put the heat on them to apply early. This is known as an early-decision application. The deal is, you tell them when you apply that you will definitely come. That's very attractive to colleges; many now admit one-third to one-half of their freshmen classes that way. For students who need to compare financial aid offers, it's almost never an option. So the system tends to favor the students from wealthier communities, such as Bethesda. No wonder that, by the middle of my daughter's junior year, many of her classmates and their parents were already zeroing in on where to send an early-decision application.

While we eschewed the paid consultants, we did go with Ariel to speak with her high school guidance counselor. Then either Steve or I took her to visit several campuses that she wanted to see or that we thought she should check out. In the fall of her senior year, still uncertain about which colleges she liked the best and which ones would accept her, she applied to several schools. We helped her keep track of reams of paper -- transcript requests, teacher recommendation packets, application deadlines -- but she did the bulk of the work herself.

A few days before winter break, Ariel learned that she'd gotten into the University of Michigan, which has rolling admissions. We were thrilled, even as the financial calculations were whirring in our heads. I told her she could stop applying to other schools -- as far as my husband and I were concerned, she'd scored big. But she wasn't sure she wanted to go to such a large school. She finished up a couple of more applications to smaller schools, where she could study international relations and play field hockey.

A few weeks later, she got into the scholars program at the University Maryland and into Dickinson, a small liberal arts college in Pennsylvania that has a strong international program and offered her a spot on the field hockey team. She was still waiting to hear from a few more, but I could feel myself relaxing. It had been a tense year.

Then, in January an attractive green, white and blue brochure arrived in our mail slot. It was from Wilson College in Chambersburg, Pa., one of the few remaining women's colleges in the country. And it was addressed to our younger daughter, Maya, who is in ninth grade.

"Become a Wilson Woman, Independent, Confident, Successful," it said on the cover. "Expand your horizons. Cultivate Your Potential."

I started a new file.

Miranda S. Spivack is a reporter for The Post's Metro section.