I thought I had months or years until I really needed to buckle down. It wasn’t until the summer after my junior year that the time of apprehension came to me. I commenced the rite of passage. Lack of sleep, headaches, and anxiety were the terms of initiation. The goal was narrowly-defined: a fat envelope from a specific college.
College admissions is a monumental ritual, or so my own educational context has it seem. Filling one requirement after another, I realized that my grades, standardized test scores, letters of recommendation, extracurricular activities, and personal essays would be due in the matter of semesters. I felt the assistance from my high school guidance counselor was not enough. I sought books that urged me to find the school that’s most in line with my “personality.” I stared at lists that put numbers on each college based on its alleged reputation and number of students it rejects. I signed up for letters that promised to judge me as a person based on “holistic” measures. I studied the pamphlets that told me to share “my story.” Based on numbers and two essays, they told me, they’d make some inferences about my personality and identify “the real and complete me.” They’d dig my guts out in search for some extraordinary thing—the “compelling story” that would distinguish me from the others in my demographic.
I panicked a week before the deadline as my essays still remained as rough drafts. It was painful even to see others completely shell-shocked by the SATs. People around me squeezed themselves for each decimal of their GPAs. I hated the self-induced mental pressure for thinking of an essay idea that would astound the admissions committee. I hated the fact that every seventeen-something is prone to associating their success in life with the name recognition of the college the attend. I did question my choices and my place. If I were somewhere else in the world, the application process would’ve required me no more than to submit a single transcript to a centralized system, like in Canada, the UK, Australia, India, or Thailand. In some places like Austria, Switzerland, and Belgium, I would’ve enrolled in any public university after simply passing the high school exit exam. These thoughts, however, were fantasies. There was a line to be drawn between occasional doubts and sustenance of a low self-esteem. Education is indubitably necessary for all, but the role of the rite differs from one individual to another. For some they believe it to be an obvious next step; for many it is a stepping stone into adulthood; for others it is a threshold out of poverty.
As I prepared myself for judgment, I undertook a ritual of reconstruction as I shred myself and my past into pieces and stitched them back again. I was afraid I would become a Frankenstein monster; I feared that I would lose sight of the purpose of the undertaking. The experience was intimidating, because it dwelled on myself. I was asked to share my passions, my inner values, and even to verify my authenticity, but they were, at best, shy of being an insipid reflection of who I supposed I was. But I still clung to writing those essays due to the blissful feeling of introspection. The writing was scrappy, but I learned to embrace my thoughts and feelings—not to the basis of their beauty but that they were valid and mine. It was strangely empowering to explaining my passions and to confirm my will to pursue my dreams.
As the frenzied season winded to a close, I waited patiently for judgment. College admissions in the U.S. has turned into a game of admission in which students tacitly compete in the form of numbers and achievement records, from who attained the highest standardized testing score to who possesses the most impressive extracurriculars. Yet I didn’t detest the existence of the college application process. After all, the admissions process is what you make of it and it was, for me, a chance to move upon the next chapter of life with meaning. It was an opportunity for self-awareness and a discovery of what is meaningful and valuable for me. I took away a better understanding of my interests, values and how I would serve them with higher education. In retrospect, the fire and brimstone are just blurs. I was only afraid of confronting my past and my limits. The real judge was me.