This December, Take a Pass on Recruit-to-Deny Admissions

A few years ago, still panting from her modern dance class, a student burst into my office on Cyber Monday to tell me about a “bizarre” email she had just received from a college.

No names. But it was an Ivy with a microscopic acceptance rate.

So I took a pause from the Saks website and we read it together. It was a buttery, sweet-talking, ingratiating recruitment email reminding her that “there was still time” to apply to said college through regular decision. 

We had talked about this particular college once, for less than two minutes, 10 months earlier. We had dismissed it as not a match, and it was a stretch on the admission side.

“This is gross,” the student declared, “like they need another application, and I know I’m not going to get admitted in regular decision. I love my list, and just don’t want to mess with it. And don’t even get me started on their supplement.” 

Vexed, she clutched my sequined Jonathan Adler throw pillow like a life preserver, and asked me what I thought she should do.

“Take a pass,” I said, not missing a beat. “Right,” she said, handing the pillow back to me and departing in a flash of self-empowerment. And we never spoke of it again. A wise and fortuitous response to one of the the slickest perils of the modern admission world: recruit-to-deny admissions.

Recruit-to-deny is a practice in which some ultra-selective colleges (those with acceptance rates below about 15%) work overtime to rope as many candidates into their pools as humanly possible. And then they turn around and deny a vast majority of them. Why? You asked that at just the right time. It artificially suppresses their acceptance rates, and in turn, boosts their rankings, their brands, and their self-serving perceptions of their own prestige. You know: all the important things that really matter in education, and in life. End sarcasm.

Part of the effectiveness of this Gordon Gekko-ish strategy lies in the “new math” of college admission, in which these ultra-selective colleges fill huge proportions of their classes through early admission programs, leaving far fewer seats available for regular decision contenders. Here are some numbers from an ultra-selective college during a recent admission cycle (I have rounded the numbers off slightly for the sake of simplicity):

And you better believe that their overall acceptance rate would be all kinds of higher if it wasn’t for those 44,000 regular decision applications.

The long and the short of it is that no college in America needs a six percent acceptance rate to effectively fill their class with fabulous people. Not one. 

So if you get one of those sugary emails from one of these ultra-selectives – or as someone I know calls them: “ultra-rejectives” – this December, think carefully about why they want you to apply. Here is a hint: it’s probably not you specifically. It’s definitely not your $75. They could just be looking to say “no” as much as they can.

But what if you “love” it? Sorry, boo. I’ve heard that one before. If you really loved it and it was a great fit – and an admit was in the realm of possibility – it almost certainly would have found its way onto your list by now.

But this is a good time to take one last hard, honest look at that list. You should make sure that you genuinely like all the colleges to which you are applying, that they are all good fits, and that you would be happy to attend all of them. Every. Single. One. This is particularly important for your likely schools, as I wrote about last year at this time.

In the end, I admit that it can be hard to say “no,” even if an offer or invitation comes with dicey motives. It takes strength and power and purpose, and a little bit of courage. And a resolute knowledge that you will land in the right place, with the right people, at the right moment – and through the right process.

This is true in the college admission world. And it's true in life. 

When I was 29, I frequented the OG Barry’s Bootcamp in West Hollywood, just around the corner from my apartment. I’ll admit that I was addicted: to the steam, the flashing lights, the ab crunches, the oft-sighted celebrity – the whole gestalt. The bass from Bad Romance literally shook the whole building. It was magic, and being there felt fabulous.

One day, as I was heading out after a particularly brutal class, I was approached by somebody whose name you’d recognize. I sure did. A Los Angeles heavyweight with a brilliant smile and seven-figure bank balance. And a deeply questionable reputation. 

He asked me if I would be interested in dinner.

I remember thinking that this was one of those weird LA moments that usually coalesced into a bad first screenplay.

Except that I also remembered: we always write our own films.

I looked at him and said: “You’re sweet, and I’m beyond flattered: but I’m going to take a pass.”