THE BRIDGE TO COLLEGE
Reader Love
By Robert A.G. LeVine
Some colleges say they embrace it, while others vehemently deny its impact on admissions decisions. Undoubtedly, when humans read subjective materials like essays and recommendation letters, human nature happens, especially when the college uses a holistic method for evaluating applicants. There’s an emotional term that is used to describe the moment when they accept a candidate into their hearts and minds: “Reader Love.”
One admissions professional explained to me the spark-like imperative of the connection. “That feeling is pretty instant. When students actually tell me about who they are and how they’ve come to be, that’s when I’m hooked, that’s when I’m in.” Another told me, “Reader love is that magic that perks you up, the inexplicable, elusive quality or element that is a mystifying part of the student, and also a part of how you’ve read that student.”
But what is it, and is it really inexplicable and mystifying?
Let’s first accept what many do not: reader love is unavoidable. When humans read, their frailties and strengths affect the quality of that read. Words are subjective, and without objective guidelines, what flows from the words is also subjective. You cannot avoid it. If you are tired, you will read something differently than when you are rested. If you are in a good mood, you will read differently than if you are vexed. If you are rushed, your work is different than if you have time.
The trick for any applicant is to make the readers fall in love with you. There is competition inside the admissions offices, between admissions reps and also between the committee and the college’s institutional priorities. Each person wants their favorite candidates to be chosen, and they often have to fight to get desired results. If they don’t love you, they won’t fight that hard for you. Like I always say, admissions is much more like dating than you can ever imagine.
Before explaining how to generate reader love, allow me to be clear about its import. As a general rule, it is more applicable to private colleges (which commonly utilize holistic factors in their evaluations) than in public universities (which, as government institutions, are more prone to objective “fairness”). Second, one can roughly gauge the effect of human nature by counting the number of essays, recommendation letters and interview reports required by a college. The more subjective pieces, the greater distance from the objective indicators. One essay will have less effect than will ten writings.
So how do you generate reader love?
Assuming that you have good content – that your message is genuine and appropriately addresses the essay prompt – two “techniques” will enhance student writing. The first is something we call “borrowed imagery.” The second is “voice.”
Borrowed imagery means that the reader can actually visualize what you’re writing. Admissions professionals have huge workloads, and with only a few minutes to review any application, they read FAST. They’re skimming. We need them to absorb the information, and helping them see your story in their heads makes a critical difference.
Many writers over-focus on verbs, adjectives and adverbs, which we call “pretty words” that don’t really transmit information. If you want them to see something, give them a thing. The only things that are things are called “nouns.”
At UCA, we say “detail wins.” Detail allows people to visualize because it gives them something to see. You probably don’t see much when the word is “passionate.” But what about “elephant” or “bridge” or “camel”? While you are seeing that camel in your head, I ask: does it have one hump or two? Dromedaries have one hump; Bactrian camels have two.
Just a bit of detail makes a world of difference. One of our students wrote this sentence: “My friend was sad, so I bought her some candy.” Notice the difference when we asked for detail. “My friend was sad, so I bought her some Skittles and Kit Kats.”
As for voice, notice that I did not say “grammar.” Admissions professionals do not grade applicants on grammar (although they will fall out of love if you are excessively sloppy). Focus on sounding like you, not like Shakespeare or Maya Angelou or Ghandi. Be genuine, authentic, age-appropriate and conversational. Loosen up a bit. We utilize the “Speed Draft” method of typing fast and not stopping to correct mistakes; you cannot get your flow when you keep stopping. Recently, we’ve had some students dictate their essays so that their writings sound more like their real selves. It works.
Yes, build a great resume, but remember: few of us fall in love because of a resume. We care about our loved ones not only in spite of their imperfections, but also because of them.
Robert LeVine is the founder and CEO of University Consultants of America, an independent educational consultancy assisting students around the world with applications to colleges, universities and graduate schools. For more information, call University Consultants of America, Inc. at 1-800-465-5890 or visit www.universitycoa.com
FAMILY MATTERS
Communities and Milestones
By Anu Verma Panchal
A few months ago, I had the good fortune to stand by my parents’ side as they celebrated a significant milestone, their golden anniversary. One of my favorite parts of the event was that in addition to uncles, aunts and cousins, we had with us their closest friends, the extended “framily” that had helped my parents recreate a sense of home and family when they were thousands of miles away from the place of their birth.
Circa 1980, with a toddler and 6-year-old in tow, my parents moved to a little town in Zambia called Kabwe. They knew no one and nothing about this new country beyond my dad’s offer letter and one phone call with a relative who had once lived in Africa.
But on their very first evening, there was a knock at the door. It was a young Malayalee couple with two little boys our age. Hearing that a new family from Kerala had arrived, they had stopped by to welcome us. From that one introduction, my parents were immediately absorbed into a group of friends.
The same thing happened every time we moved towns. The news of our impending arrival reached before we did, and we were pulled into existing Malayalee social circles. Our weekends were spent at each other’s houses, uncles in safari suits swilling whiskey, aunties in sarees holding deafening conversations while we ran around and played. As the years passed, my parents grew into the veterans who welcomed new families and organized the elaborate cultural events that gave the community a sense of home away from home.
And all around town – and across the South Asian diaspora – others were doing the same thing. In Tamil, in Bangla, in Hindi, they created communities that served a familial function for each other. Community building seems to be in our genes. Or, as a friend once told me, “We’re like goats ... we can only travel in packs.”
During the college years and in my early 20s, plugging into the local desi community was nowhere close to being a priority; in fact, I reveled in the freedom from it. It was irritating, even, to see the insularity that I imagined permeated those associations. Why move to another country and only hang out with the same people? Why not at least try to assimilate?
It was only when I became a parent that I found myself searching, maybe even yearning, for some small level of connection. I wanted my daughters to learn Bharatanatyam like I had, wanted them to celebrate Hindu holidays and go to the temple occasionally. Does that mean that I want my communities to be restricted by ethnicity, language or religion? Certainly not. I am blessed with close “framily” from many backgrounds, and I enjoy Gasparilla as much as I do Onam and Navaratri.
Yet I am grateful for the generations who came before we did and established everything from the Tampa India Festival to the India Cultural Center so that we now have the option to dip a toe, an ankle or our whole selves in cultural life if we so desired.
A week before my older daughter was due to leave for college, I took her on one of our habitual visits to the Hindu temple here in Tampa. By a happy coincidence, the pujari on duty that day was the same one who had presided on the day that we had taken her on her first temple visit when she was a 6-month-old baby. “You’re the one who carried her to the front of the room when she was born, and now she’s starting college,” I told him. He beamed. “Look at that!” he marveled.
Look at that indeed. That kind of continuity doesn’t just happen. It’s the result of hard work from a lot of people who came before us, many of whom we’ll never even know. The roots they put down gave us the luxury to pick and choose how much we want to hold on to, because some variation of it has been preserved here for us.
LIFE STORY
A VULNERABLE YET SO ENDEARING INDIA!
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By Nandini Bandyopadhyay
The bleak, dusty streets, crowded with the masses. Haggard stray dogs, their legs rickety and their fur matted and grimy. Little bits of filth and garbage piling up in the alleys, surrounding the overflowing bins. I had seen them many times before. This was not new, but this time it was different.
The incredible white marble mausoleum rising out of the mist. An inverse-towering arrangement of geometrically precise stairs in an 8th-century stepwell. Thousands of people selflessly cooking, cleaning, and serving to feed the poor. I had seen them many times before. This was not new, but this time it was different.
This January, I went to visit India, like I have been doing for the last several years after moving to the USA. This was not new, but this time it was different. Five of my American friends were coming with me.
Some of my Indian friends had been skeptical and told me that it was a crazy idea. They had been eager to point out the pitfalls; my American friends wouldn't be used to the crowds, they could get sick, or they could just end up disgruntled and overly critical of India. Other friends were excited for me, and one of them even bought a ticket for the same trip, just to be a part of this experience.
It was a seven-day trip, and my friends and I experienced a host of emotions. The sight of the Taj Mahal in the early morning, as the morning mist added a certain mystique, left them awestruck. In every city we visited, artisans were carving solid wooden doors inlaid with bone sculpting intricate tables from marble, or painting huge blocks of fabric with vegetable dyes. On the other end of the spectrum, stepping into the Gurdwara’s industrial kitchen, with hundreds of men and women preparing and serving food for free to thousands, was humbling in a different way. To most of the world, India is often associated with a huge population and abject poverty, but once you behold this kind of selfless service or seva, one’s perspective is completely changed.
Looking back on the trip now, I realize that I was like a watchful mother and India was this brilliant precocious child who was disorganized and unpredictable in ways more than one. She dazzled me with her brilliance at one moment, and saddened me with her indifference the very next. I felt the need to protect her, like any mother would. When I overheard two strangers whispering about the abject poverty and decrepit homes in the poorer suburbs, I bristled even though I knew they were right. But when someone spoke to me about the beautiful fabric, or the jaw-dropping architecture, or the artistry, my heart was full of inexplicable joy, just like any mother’s heart would be.
I had often explained the whys and hows of India to my children. I told them stories and read them poems about India. We watched Indian movies, they learned Indian music, and I cooked Indian food. So when they visited India, they knew what to expect. But this time, with my friends, the prep time was measured in hours, not years. And maybe that’s why I felt so protective about India. It’s not that I was ignoring her inherent issues; I was actually more aware of them, as I was looking from a different perspective, from a visitor’s point of view. India is always going to be my motherland, and I always will feel loved and protected there. On this trip, the roles were reversed. Suddenly, I felt myself stepping into those huge shoes, trying to love and protect her just like any mother would do for their child.
This trip to India was not new, but it was different. Coming to India with my American friends pushed me to see a unique perspective, which made India feel more vulnerable and yet so lovable.
Nandini Bandyopadhyay of Tampa has a master’s in Comparative Literature and has been published in both Bengali and English.