Rotten Ivy: The College Admissions Scandal Through the Eyes of an SAT Tutor

A lot of people were surprised by the range and scope of Operation “Varsity Blues”, where parents, SAT proctors, university coaches and others conspired to get the kids of the wealthy into the colleges of their choice by various underhanded means.

I guess I wasn’t that surprised. I used to be an SAT tutor.

Several years ago, I did a stint working at a test prep company in midtown Manhattan. We helped students get ready to take the SAT and the ACT, the latter of which is quickly gaining popularity in this part of the country. We also provided college admissions guidance. From soup to nuts and from alpha to omega, we would make sure a teen was prepped, pressed and packaged into the perfect candidate for the Ivy League.

Acceptance into a “good school” and, particularly, one of the Ivies, was the ultimate goal. It was more important than getting a golden ticket in a Willy Wonka chocolate bar, more crucial than getting on the last train out of Paris before the Nazis marched in. It was everything. And, it wasn’t the kids who were the contestants in this academic Hunger Games, it was the parents.

There’s one phone I will never forget from my time at the tutoring company. Early in the morning, I answered the phone at my desk to find a hysterical mother on the other end. She was on the edge of both tears and hyperventilation.

We were her last hope, she said.

I looked at the receiver quizzically. Last hope? Was this Princess Leia calling?

She was desperate, besides herself, at her wits end.

Her daughter, “Hannah”, wasn’t getting the good grades in math that she and her husband wanted to see. She wasn’t failing, but the terms “up to scratch” couldn’t be applied to her grades, either. The mother’s deep fear was that her low math grades would pull down her overall GPA and then Hannah wouldn’t get into Princeton.

That Hannah would go to Princeton was not just this mother’s wish but an expectation. Just as she expected her daughter to share her biological DNA, she expected her daughter to go to Princeton. Full stop.

The mother tearfully explained that she had gone to Princeton, as had her husband. That’s where they met. Furthermore, both of their fathers had been Princeton grads. So, naturally, Hannah wasn’t allowed to buck several generations of tradition by failing to get in and legacy entitlements will only get you so far these days — more’s the pity.

I was very glad we weren’t on Skype so she couldn’t see me roll my eyes at her. Talk about the very definition of the expression “First World Problems”. And, to think, other families on Earth are worried about lesser things like how to feed and clothe their children.

I assured her that our company could help. All of our tutors were trained and experienced. With one-on-one tutoring, we could get Hannah’s math grades up.

I started to get specifics. I asked what grade Hannah was in. I expected that she was in tenth or eleventh grade.

No. Hannah was eight. Eight years old.

This woman sincerely feared that the academic resume of her eight year-old child was already ruined because of lackluster math grades in third grade.

Lady, Hannah is performing poorly because she’s got a nutcase for a mother.

I actually didn’t say that. But, I thought it so loudly, I was sure she could hear me.

I, too, am an Ivy grad (not Princeton). But, if my parents had put such pressure on me before I even started wearing a training bra, I would have been in an asylum before I could fill out college applications.

So, yes, the stress and competition to get kids in to desired universities is very real and very pervasive among parents. As crazy as this mother was, at least she stuck to legal means to boost her daughter’s scores. Some people aren’t so scrupulous.

Even now, I think of that poor little girl who, even today, still isn’t old enough to college. She has a few years yet to go.

Part of me hopes you make it, Hannah. Part of me hopes you get that golden ticket to Princeton and all will be well.

A bigger part of me, however, hopes that, when you turn eighteen, you say screw it to all that. You dye your long hair in unicorn colors, sling a guitar on your back and drive out to the West Coast in a rickety van to form an indie rock group.

Either way, be at peace Hannah. You deserve it.