brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
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Lucas (not his real name) and I met at a coffee shop in Indian Village halfway between his home and mine. His head was buried in his AP Calculus book, so I assumed he was there to study. It was a few moments before he looked up and inquired if I was there for an alumni interview for Princeton University.
While later he revealed math was his favorite subject, AP IB Calculus BC was only one among many advanced courses in his schedule. Lucas shrugged off the rigor of his classes. “I enjoy it,” he said, adding, “My parents have gone through too much for me not to try my best.” His parents are immigrants from Mexico. As the oldest child in his family, Lucas will be the first to attend college, paving the way for his four sisters while navigating the process without the parental support many peers take for granted. Lucas was soft-spoken and gentle in demeanor. He professed to being shy, yet described experiences taking him outside his comfort zone. Growing up in a mainly Latin neighborhood in Detroit, he opted to attend a predominantly African-American high school, becoming a minority at school for the first time in his life. It was eye-opening, he said, forcing him to confront his own perceptions and ingrained biases. He started a Latin youth council in southwest Detroit, focusing on civic engagement, college readiness and mental health. As an officer for the National Honor Society, he pursued community service opportunities. And to pursue his passion for social justice, he participated in the Youth Dialogs on Race and Ethnicity at the University of Michigan, an intensive residential program in which students from around metro Detroit traverse differences in race, ethnicity and socioeconomic status to address issues of social identity, racism and segregation. I’ve met a number of deserving candidates over my years of conducting alumni interviews. In fact, every earnest young overachiever demonstrated in multiple ways they were up to embracing the challenges a university like Princeton has to offer. Lucas was no exception. Yet it’s a numbers game. Luck and happenstance play as large a role as GPAs and test scores. No doubt this is what led to the recent college scandal exposing parents who exploited their wealth to illegally gain admission for their children to elite colleges. But the problem extends beyond a few morally corrupt parents to the many ways the system is structured to benefit those best positioned to play the odds — white, affluent students with college-educated parents. White people often assume when a non-white person is admitted, presumably usurping a spot from some more deserving white candidate, it’s because their race gave them a competitive edge. This attitude led to the banning of affirmative action at public universities in eight states, including Michigan, yet compare this “edge” to the accumulated advantages of generational wealth — ACT and SAT prep classes, tutors to ensure top grades and admittance to honors classes, consultants to help with applications and essays, elite travel sports, private music lessons, summer enrichment camps, mission trips overseas — the list goes on. No parent should have to apologize for giving their child these opportunities. I ask only they acknowledge them as advantages applicants with fewer resources may lack, prompting admissions offices to seek other ways to open doors for deserving candidates. My niece, who attended an elite independent school in Greenwich, Conn., told me once there were college consultants in her town who, for some astronomical fee, guaranteed near perfect SAT scores. I wondered at the time how one could promise such a thing without cheating or, at the very least, bending a few rules. Her parents couldn’t afford such high-priced consultants — nor did they need to enlist their help; my niece earned admission to selective universities, including her ultimate choice of the University of Michigan, through academic merit and hard work. But when I saw one of the accused college scammers was from Greenwich, I wasn’t surprised. He’s even quoted in a taped phone conversation saying, “Keep in mind I’m a lawyer. So I’m sort of rules oriented.” At what point did he lose sight of his own ethics and decide everyone was doing it so why shouldn’t he? One could point to legal ways of “gaming” the system, such as wealthy alumni gaining favor for their children through generous donations or admissions officers shaving off a few academic requirements for a recruited athlete. At least in these cases, all the students at the university benefit — from a shiny new building or academic space to institutional pride gained from thriving athletic programs. As for athletes, most earned their way through years of hard work and commitment to their sports, competing in a highly competitive recruitment pool for a handful of spots. No one handed them anything. It’s the job of admissions officers to sift through a staggering number of applications to fill not just sports teams, but choirs, stages, art studios, orchestras, clubs and academic departments of all kinds and sizes. In doing so, they may bypass qualified legacies, full-pay students and a pipeline of applicants from east coast boarding schools in search of a shining star like Lucas. Lucas received his acceptance letter at the end of March. Did he get in because he’s a first-generation American citizen, the son of Mexican immigrants and the first college-bound member of his family? Or was he accepted in spite of the obstacles these factors posed? Either way, he’s an admissions officer’s dream, checking the all-important boxes of academic rigor, passion for learning, strong work ethic, integrity, humility, kindness and commitment to helping others. Assuming Lucas accepts its offer, Princeton will be lucky to welcome him to campus next fall. This appeared in the April 18, 2019 edition of the Grosse Pointe News.
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My father’s birthday is this week. If he were alive today, he would be turning 104. As much as we miss him — he was 95 when he died — there’s some comfort in knowing he couldn’t have lived forever. Among the many gifts he and my mother gave me as a child — a safe and loving home, opportunities to travel and experience other cultures, strong connections with our extended family, a love of literature — music was a daily presence. Tucked in the back of our house along one wall in my father’s small, cluttered, book-lined study was a mahogany Steinway & Sons upright piano. It was as old as he was, a gift for his mother the year he was born. He played regularly, usually Chopin, and it was, in fact, a Chopin waltz that inspired me to learn. My interest began as a means to gain my father’s attention. If I sat at the piano bench, I could lure him from the pile of papers to be corrected on his desk to sit next to me, teaching me the two-note song he wrote for my oldest sister, “Fife and Drum,” and later his more sophisticated two-handed composition, “Robin in the Grass,” a family classic. (Ask each of his 13 grandchildren, most of whom know the words — “Nose against the glass / See robin in the grass / Now he’s in the tree / Robin wait for me” — and many of whom can play it.) Formal lessons began when I was 8 and my father was my first teacher. Held Sundays after church, each lesson lasted an hour and included music theory, which I tended to tune out. How much or how often I practiced was up to me. In fact, my father discouraged my mother from reminding me. Music, in his view, was an escape, not a chore. By the time I was in ninth grade — and had mastered that Chopin waltz — my father decided he had taught me what he could and I began to study with Aron Pressman, a retired professor who came to the United States with the Russian Grand Opera in 1921 and founded Russian departments at two major universities. Mr. Pressman was a little intimidating at first, with his strong Russian accent and exacting sense of rhythm, but we developed a mutual fondness that transcended any illusion I possessed talent beyond the ability to perform a difficult Brahms piece competently at my high school music recital. He also established a rapport with my father, who drove me to my lesson each week, opting to doze on the sofa in the Pressmans’ sunny living room rather than drive the 10 minutes home and back again. He claimed it was his favorite hour of the week. I think I knew, even as a child, seated side by side at the piano bench with my father’s hands, as familiar as my own, next to mine on the keys, or when I was older in the car on the way to and from my lessons, those moments with my father were a gift. While I viewed this as his gift to me — as lasting a refrain in my life as the Chopin pieces I still play today — now I understand, as an adult and parent who cherishes the time I spend with my own children, the shared interest and time together also were my gift to him. This appeared in the March 28, 2019 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. |
Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |