Welcome To Madison Avenue

By Susan Tifft

After 25 years in the business, Richard Steele, director of undergraduate admissions at Duke University, thought he had seen them all. The eager ones. The teary ones. The ones who would do anything to get into the college of their choice. But last year a member of his staff ran across a genuine original. "Is there anything else I can do to strengthen my case?" Jennifer Tangora, a high school senior, inquired at the end of her interview. The admissions officer looked over her application, which was crammed with high grades, solid recommendations and documented achievements. "Seems to me the only thing you haven't done is paint your room Duke blue," she mused, alluding to the school color. Soon thereafter the photo arrived -- of the smiling applicant, brush in hand, apparently painting her bedroom a deep lapis hue. Needless to say, Tangora is now a Duke student.

Such gimmicks would have been unthinkable even a decade ago.Today they are as much a part of the December-through-April application season as anxiety attacks and gnawed nails. Admissions officers at the University of Pennsylvania have received a handcrafted boomerang and a Monopoly game with the names of the properties changed to campus sites. At Stanford, a would-be freshman submitted an oil painting of the admissions officers; another delivered a life preserver with a plea attached: I HOPE THIS KEEPS MY NAME AFLOAT IN THE POOL OF APPLICANTS. "We get baked goods. We get balloons," says Daniel Walls, dean of admissions at Emory University. "Students even camp out under counselors' windows."

These frantic appeals are fueled by unprecedented competition for college admission. The rush began in the early 1980s, as schools realized that enrollments would slump when the first of the "baby bust" generation turned 18. To ensure full classrooms, they began beefing up their advertising and recruiting efforts. The result has been a flood of applications, with many students filling out eight or more. The boom has been most apparent at the 50 to 100 top-ranked colleges. "It seems as if 75% of the kids are applying to 25% of the schools," says Lee Stetson, dean of admissions at Penn.

The reason is largely economic. Parents and students think they will get a higher return on their $16,000-plus annual investment from a brand-name institution such as Yale, Caltech or the University of Chicago than from a lesser-known school. But these same colleges are trying to attract students from diverse ethnic, racial, geographic and economic backgrounds, making the admissions hurdle still higher for the majority of white middle-class applicants. One measure of the competitiveness: last year the University of Pennsylvania rejected 35% of those who scored an extraordinary 1,400 or more on the Scholastic Aptitude Test (SAT).

Faced with such grim statistics, students are mounting marketing campaigns that would put Procter & Gamble to shame. Videotapes that advertise a student's creativity are especially popular. Five years ago, Bowdoin College in Maine received just two; last year it got 100. The variety is astonishing: tap-dancing routines, karate demonstrations and music videos. Not all audiovisuals are helpful, however. When an applicant to the University of California at Santa Cruz submitted a taped comedy routine with sexist and racist jokes, admissions director Joe Allen was so offended that he eliminated the student from contention.

Increasing numbers of teenagers are turning to private SAT cram courses that can cost as much as $800 and claim to boost scores 100 points or more. "Over the past five years, our revenues have doubled," boasts Stanley H. Kaplan, chairman of a nationwide test-coaching chain that bears his name. Summer courses at Ivy League universities or prestigious academies like Phillips Exeter are also popular. These platinum-plated extras, plus fees for applications and trips to visit campuses, can add up to a staggering sum -- and all before the tuition bills start to arrive.

To take the guesswork out of making such an investment, some parents hire independent education consultants. For fees that can top $2,000, these self- styled experts assess a student's strengths, draw up a list of recommended schools, conduct mock interviews and make sure all materials are filed on time. "It takes a lot of pressure off parents," says one Rye, N.Y., mother. "And it's a tremendous relief for my daughter as well."

But the growing dependence on outside advisers worries many teachers and administrators. "It used to be that the student applied to colleges," says Hugh Chandler, a high school guidance counselor in Weston, Mass. "Now it's the parents and the outside consultant." Even the most personal part of the application -- the essay -- is putty for professional packagers. This fall < Matthew Tucker, a high school senior from Wilton, Conn., wanted to write about his cross-country cycling trip, but his consultant considered the subject too prosaic. At her suggestion, he switched to juggling, one of his hobbies. "She didn't write my essay," Tucker says. "She just helped me to get a good idea." And, he admits, to "find the right words."

Many educators question the distinction between advising a student on his essay and composing it for him. Others fret that students may become so used to molding their personalities to suit the college market that they will lose touch with who they are and what they believe. Says Thomas Anthony, director of admissions at Colgate University: "The new approach robs the kid of working his way through a major life choice."

In addition, the growing use of high-priced private coaches and special prep courses may put less affluent applicants at a disadvantage. "It is certainly unfair to the poor," admits a mother who paid $1,000 for an outside counselor. "But without it, my daughter's chances at Brown and Stanford wouldn't be nearly as good. It was necessary."

But was it? Admissions staffers insist they are not swayed by come-ons. Yet most admit they are amused by the gimmicks, particularly if they are creative. Last year, in an attempt to get off the waiting list at his top-choice college, Scott Hart of Pleasantville, N.Y., sent the admissions staff a brochure with pictures of his life and a witty summary of his high school career. He got in. And even unabashed pandering can sometimes have a positive effect. Robert Voss, director of admissions at Worcester Polytechnic Institute, received two giant chocolate-chip cookies, his favorite, from an applicant. The cookies are no guarantee of admission, he says. "But they differentiate the kid from the pack. I will remember him."

As the hype intensifies and the costs of the admissions race soar, is college acceptance -- like so many other aspects of American life -- becoming a matter of packaging over substance? "The whole process is not unlike the selling of the President," says William Mason, Bowdoin's admissions director. But most high school students find the question beside the point. "You're subject to the system," said a world-weary senior. "So, you've got to play the game." Roger Ailes could not have said it better.

With reporting by Michael Mason/Atlanta and Janice C. Simpson/New York