Lucky us

Recently I was visiting a junior boarding school and I had the rare privilege to surprise an applicant by handing him in person his offer of admission and a $10,000 academic scholarship. The timing worked perfectly (thanks to coordination with his current headmaster) that we were able to receive the necessary school documents and get him through admission committee ahead of my visit.

Over my career I have had the opportunity on occasion to tell a student of their admission in person or over the phone before they got our packet, but this may well be the first time I have hand-delivered it. I have to say, it’s an impressive packet. We put a lot of time and effort in the design and presentation of our offer of admission and in our scholarship awards, and when they can be presented together, it looks darn good. After all, the greater the yield from your first round admits, the less you depend on your wait pool and the more selective you can be.

But I think I will remember forever watching this boy open the folder, start to scan the letter, and, like the sun easing over the horizon in the morning, see a smile start to slowly spread across his face. When he hit the key line in the letter that confirmed where he thought this letter was going, his eyes got huge and his smile even bigger and his head shot up like a jack-in-the-box as he looked at me. And then he looked right back down to finish reading the letter. When he was done, he looked up and he said nothing, the bright glare reflecting off his braces sending the message of his delight. I simply smiled back, shook his hand, said congratulations, and went on my way. We had only a minute for this transaction but it was a wonderfully powerful, simple minute.

By complete coincidence, his parents were up visiting that Sunday afternoon. I had the opportunity to speak with them and congratulate them on his offer of admission and his scholarship. When I saw them, they had not yet seen their son or his packet but they later wrote to me, “we were unable to pry the folder from our son’s fingers over lunch.” I love picturing that lunch in my head! It will carry me through some of the inevitable frustrations that always accompany this time of year in admissions.

We are in the business of changing lives by giving students the remarkable opportunities that come with admission to our schools. What a privilege.

Lucky us.

Tebow

So what does Tebow have to do with independent school admissions? I’m not sure I know. But one can’t help but to be caught up in Tebow-fever. It’s the day of the big game: Tebow vs. Brady. (Actually, Denver vs. New England.) And there is not one but two Tebow articles in today’s Wall Street Journal. That’s right: I’m not talking about the Denver Post or the Boston Globe. I’m talking about the country’s leading newspaper on business and economics. Two articles on professional football and on one particular player. And there’s an article in today’s New York Times and probably numerous papers around the country I did not have the time peruse. And there’s a good one posted to ESPN.com I read earlier today.

Personally, I abhor the excess of professional sport. Individual players make more than the payroll of teachers of most schools and probably some small school districts. And they seem to attract fans who would die before they approved a school board budget that would have an annual impact of $100 in taxes but they pay ten times that amount for season tickets to their local pro team. These premier and famous and overpaid athletes are more often than not—much more often than not—poor role models, have questionable values, and fail to use their influence and fame for good. There are exceptions, of course. Cal Ripken comes to mind. Tebow is currently the most well-known of them at the moment.

Did you know he wasn’t even the starting quarterback for Denver this season? That he saw little play at all last year? And now look how far and fast he has come. Impressive everyone is now talking about him given that he spends so much of his time helping the poor, dying, underprivileged, and downtrodden. He flies the suffering and hurting to every Denver game, home or away. And it’s not just a token. He spends time with them before and after the games, and attempts to corral others to do the same. He speaks of his faith, virginity, Baptist parents, and personal values without shame or hesitation. More than without shame or hesitation, he speaks of them with conviction, humility, sincerity, and power.

He’s a one-man brand and he attracts fans and haters alike. (Yup, sadly one of today’s articles was on those who have grown to hate him and anxiously, sadly await some fall or stumble, personal or professional.) But he is very clear in who he is, what he stands for, and in what he believes. He has won countless fans with his clarity and drawn many followers.

If he were an independent school, he’d be full with waiting lists. Long waiting lists. So what can we learn? Yes, many seem to dislike him and can’t wait for him to fail tonight but many adore him. And isn’t that the compelling argument for a strong brand: to strengthen the loyalty of those you seek and help those who are not a good match to go find their own Tebow elsewhere? Good luck to them.

Know who you are. Own who you are. Share who you are. And do it like Tebow: proudly and genuinely. And the right matches will be lining up at your admissions office door.

The great thing about tonight’s game is that whether or not Denver marches forward, Tim Tebow isn’t going to change.

Thank goodness.

A Christmas gift

So I wrote in my last post about the need to make sure we carefully steward our profession and make sure it gets the recognition that it deserves, particularly when compared to our colleagues in the world of advancement and development.

And then the New York Times announces that Jane Fried, Dean of Admission at Andover, has been named the new head at the Brearley School, a most prestigious Manhattan girls’ school. It is a good thing for Jane and a good thing for all of us that a school of Brearley’s stature found an admissions dean worthy of a headship.

Don’t get me wrong: I have zero desire whatsoever to be a head. Except for one year, my office has always been in close quarters with the head’s office and I’ve always had good relationships with my heads. So between conversation with and observation of the head, I know it’s not a job for me. A wonderful friend and head once told me if it’s not burning in your belly, don’t pursue it. It’s not worth it. But if I wanted to be a head, I would want to know that I wouldn’t be immediately discounted because I was coming up through the ranks of admissions.

As admissions deans and directors, we work with all sorts of students and families, spanning ages, grades, races, backgrounds and circumstances. After all, any family a head must work with, we worked with first. Like a head, we understand the business side of a school. We manage sizeable admissions and financial aid budgets, navigate Board politics, work with outside vendors and contractors, and closely track institutional revenue and understand its role in the overall budget. We juggle demanding schedules, keeping evening and weekend hours, and are more intimate than we’d probably like with human resource law and policy.

And, like no other than the head, we know the entire school community, programme, curriculum, and campus. No other job than head or admissions dean is expected to know pretty much all there is to know about an institution. Can your third grade teacher speak to your AP offerings and results? Can your accounts receivable clerk detail fine motor skills appropriate for kindergarten? Does your English chairperson know how many varsity sports you offer—and in what league(s) you play? Thankfully, they don’t have to know the answers. But you do! And you, your staff, and the head are probably the only ones who do.

So, I give thanks to Jane and to other admissions directors before her who have made the transition to head for forging the path for those who wish to travel it. Admission dean is a great proving ground for a headship and it is gratifying to see a school like Brearley agrees.

Congratulations, Jane. Thanks for the Christmas gift.

The next generation

What happens if you get hit by a bus this afternoon? Or, more realistically, hit by a Volvo station wagon driven by the parent of a child to whom you denied admission? Is there a member of staff remotely ready to step into the office of the dean or director? If you were to leave tomorrow—via ambulance or of your own choosing after winning the lottery—would there be any internal candidates for your post?

When the Admissions Leadership Council, on which I proudly serve, met this fall in Arizona, we were tasked with thinking about what our industry needs. My thought at the time—and it’s been rattling around my head ever since—is that we are not doing much as an industry to nurture, encourage, and raise the next generation of admissions directors. We do well bringing new hires into the fold and there are some opportunities for directors on the other end, but what about the middle?

For rookies, TABS offers the summer Admission Academy and SSATB has the Admission Training Institute (ATI) just before their annual meeting in September. For those at the director/dean level, SSATB also offers Senior Symposium. There is also the Essex Institute for Enrollment Management and the Crow’s Nest Institute, which are summer programmes aimed at more senior and seasoned professionals.

But what about those in the middle, those at the Assistant/Associate Director level? For them to be successful and able to remain yet move up in our profession, they need their own professional development. If we are not careful to support and treasure those we have, they may get their professional development by changing employers and seeing how things are done outside the gates of your own school and under a different dean.

It is a common cry among admissions directors that our profession needs professionalizing and that we need to demand/earn the respect (and pay!) our colleagues in development and advancement enjoy. One place to start is to take our own middle managers in the office more seriously and do what we can to make sure that we are raising the profile of the profession one assistant director at a time, both within and without our schools. Rather than shrink away, I would imagine they would welcome more responsibility, trust, and opportunity to spread their wings.

It’s a win-win-win. Win #1: you can alleviate someone’s workload (maybe yours!) by entrusting some duties to this person. Win #2: they feel good about being trusted and the opportunities to grow within your operation and may stick around. Win #3: when it’s time for them to move along (into your job or to another school), you have contributed to the next generation of our profession.

Win-win-win!

No (bad) surprises

My last two posts were rather related—the first time I’d done that. And I’m here to tell you that I think this one is now a third in the series. It is not intentional but it is how I’m thinking these days. I must be doing something right, however, as Admissions Quest picked up my blog and highlighted it during the TABS Conference last week in Boston. Thanks, Admissions Quest!

I have been writing about denying admission to candidates—either because they are a bad fit for our schools or because there is far more demand than spaces, and difficult choices have to be made. Saying no is rarely easy and never fun, even when it is the right thing. For my whole career, however, being denied admission is something I have tried not to have come as a total surprise.

Nobody likes bad surprises. Nobody.

Of course, there is a difference between my effort to convey information and feedback that should lead to no surprises and a family’s willingness or openness to hearing said information. Like when we were children, parents sometimes metaphorically cover their ears and wail nahnahnahnahnah (is that how you spell that??) in order to not hear what you are telling them.

There are a number of things we can do. First, while nobody likes to be held to cut-offs, we can certainly publish on our websites or in our materials the range that a typical admitted student might have for a GPA or test score. We can be upfront about the number of applications we expect or have historically received relative to the number of spaces available. We can disclose legacy or sibling policies, the role of athletics in decision-making and even where we place our institutional priorities for enrollment.

We can provide tactful feedback to parents, placement directors or consultants after we have received information or met an applicant that s/he “does not appear to fall within the norms of the typical student” to whom we offer admission. I have gone so far as to contact a family and shared that something I have in front of me indicates that the admissions committee would have a difficult time offering their child admission and give them the opportunity to withdraw from consideration. (And, no, I don’t give a damn about my deny rate that I’m forced to parade in front of those who revel in such petty things. Allowing a family to graciously withdraw and focus their efforts elsewhere is the humane thing to do.)

As I said before, parents can choose to hear none of this. My experience, however, is that they will have heard it, even if only subconsciously at first. I always put some time and space between an unhappy family who has just received a denial letter and when I will respond to their call or email. That time and space typically allows them to calm down, reflect on the admissions process and information they had, and usually (although not always!) admit to themselves that a denial of admission should not have come as a complete surprise to them.

Usually.

Saying No

[Disclaimer: if you’ve never worked for a highly-selective school, you may find this post annoying but take it as a way of seeing that the proverbial grass is not always greener on the other side.]

It is always interesting to me what response—if any—a given post will generate. Needless to say, not much gets posted in the comments section of the actual blog but I do get some feedback from friends and colleagues who email me directly.

The last post about deciding what is best for the student versus deciding what is best for the school got me more feedback than I expected, and from a couple people who have never responded. I wasn’t even sure they read the blog but I guess they do. Several people mentioned it is the hardest part of the work we do.

From my humble perspective, I respectfully disagree.

I had the honor and opportunity this summer to spend some time with the Head Master from Eton College in England and Mrs. Little. We spoke of a number of things, professional and otherwise. But on the topic of admissions, we agreed that our greatest challenges came from explaining to the parents of a perfectly acceptable candidate why their son (Eton being all boys and all) was not being offered admission. Those are the most difficult conversations: when you agree that the applicant is more than qualified, when you can point to no short-coming or area in need of improvement, and simply must blame the numbers. Parents and applicants are left deflated and at a loss. In the end, it would actually have been easier for them if we could point out some flaw or some insufficient score or grade, so they have something to cling to or blame. Or fix.

But the hardest part of this job is when no such flaw or grade exists. The hardest part is when if you had 20 more spaces, the child in front of you is one you would haven taken without hesitation. All you can do is comment to the parent about institutional priorities that have nothing to do with their child and remind them that their interest, in part, stems from the highly selective nature of your school and the cap you put on grade sizes.

I remember the year we had more sibling applicants for a particular grade than we had spaces. Forget disappointing, frustrating and/or angering complete strangers. The Admissions Committee had to decide which current families we were going to disappoint, frustrate, and anger. It was a most difficult decision as all the candidates were known to us, at least through their siblings and parents. It was subjective, personal, and heartbreaking. We had to work hard to be objective and reasonable. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was very difficult work and challenging conversations but it was also personally rewarding to be part of a team of colleagues who genuinely and sincerely wrestled with what was best.

That’s what makes it the most difficult job we have to do in our profession: saying no and explaining that no to an otherwise deserving child. When your door says director or dean that is one of things you and only you can do, or should do. You have to look a family in the eye, try and understand, and prepare to take on whatever reaction may come.

As I said in my last post, it’s our job. It’s just not always pretty.

Tricky balance

In this recent post on The Choice, Pamela Horne from Purdue University says that awarding merit aid is about helping the institution, not rewarding the student. It’s nice to see that kind of honesty. It is true at some level, isn’t it? Institutions set aside scholarship funds in order to reward students…whose enrollment benefits the institution.

It’s the tricky balance we aim to strike in admissions and scholarship. Is our job to do what is best for the applicant or for the institution? Sure, it works out great when the applicant who really wants that offer of admission is a student you’d love to enroll or the applicant (and/or their parents) who thinks they are deserving of a scholarship is actually deserving of a scholarship.

That’s the easy work.

But what happens when you don’t think offering admission would be best for the applicant or best for the institution? Or best for both? What happens when what would be best for an applicant—namely to get out of their current situation and into one of our excellent schools—is not what would be best for our school?

On the surface it sounds harsh but the reality is that we are not serving our schools (or our current students for that fact) if we offer admission out of pity, out of false hope, or simply because we like a kid and/or their parents. If that kid is going to struggle, if we are not able to meet their needs, or if we feel we can not be partners with the parents, then we have to say no for the sake of our school. And for the sake of that applicant.

Inappropriately admitted kids are a drain on resources, are taxing to teachers, and can negatively impact the experience of our other students. Furthermore, inappropriately admitted applicants can result in that student having academic if not also personal set-backs. Issues of confidence and self-esteem are quite tender and fragile at certain ages. And when that kid does not return for a second year, we have set them up to move on to their third school in three years. Not healthy. Not helpful.

Who doesn’t want to help kids? Who wishes they could find appropriate homes for all applicants? Who hates being the mean guy or the bad cop? We all do. But we do it because it’s our job.

It’s not always pretty.