I wasn't making it up. None of it. After screaming into the void for so long, others are seeing the light.
What the hell took them so long?
Whatever. Welcome to the party.
The catalyst, of course, was the evisceration of three university presidents at the hands of Elise Stefanik (Harvard '06). I cannot recall another time when congressional testimony was so self-damaging. (The tobacco companies in the 80s maybe?)
But this, this was incredible, the sight of these three women, self-immolating right in front of us, smirking all the while.
I don't need to add any commentary to what's already been said of the three, other than to point out that Harvard's Gay has now also been accused of plagiarism, academia's mortal sin. If true, will even that be enough to get the highly intersectional Gay fired?
Harvard's board is run by Penny Pritzker, of the odious Pritzker family, who are much of the hard cash behind the trans rights movement. Don't expect her to put Gay's head on a spike.
Several hundred Harvard faculty have signed a letter supporting Gay, citing how critical the university's "independence" is. Yeah, get back to me when you don't accept $625 million a year of U.S. taxpayer money, not to mention hundreds of millions more from dodgy foreign sources.
My money's on cowardice, always a safe bet when it comes to university boards. The Harvard board meets today.
I have been blogging, writing, and giving speeches about the ideological cesspools that schools have become for, well, decades now. Yale has been my most frequent target. President Peter Salovey, a de facto character in my novel Campusland, must be thanking his lucky stars that he decided to retire this year. Brilliant timing, Pete!
But really, where has everyone been? The evidence has been right there for all to see for years.
For what it's worth, when I got out of Yale in the 80s, I loved the place, and I still do—that Yale, the one I went to. It was an incredible experience. Was it liberal? Sure, but I never felt like I had to hide what I thought about anything. Plenty of my friends were liberal, and still are. Pretty sure all my professors were liberal, but they didn't punish you for being something else.
Everyone got along. We argued, then we drank beer. Sometimes we did both at the same time. And sometime we just skipped the parts that didn't involve beer.
That Yale is no more. I wrote my last check fifteen years ago, and then actively campaigned to get others to stop, too.
But, but...there were always the kids, your kids, the ones you wanted to go, because you thought they could go to your Yale, or your Harvard.
You had misgivings, and they increased over the years, but you were still in thrall to the place it was. You kept writing those checks.
What you didn't get was that your kids couldn't go to your Yale or your Harvard or wherever, because it wasn't there. It hadn't been for years. Sure, those campuses were prettier than ever, and those Potemkin Village they set up for you at reunions were always nice, but they hid nothing but rot.
The fantasy dies hard.
The checks kept getting signed.
The funny part is, few could write checks big enough. You labored under the impression that your $50,000 check was getting Scooter in.
Wrong. The number these days is $20 million, at least at Yale. (It takes a lot to move the needle of a $42 billion endowment.)
So, while I am glad that the likes of Bill Ackman have woken up, I still have to ask: where the f**k have you been? Did it really take murdered Jewish babies to open your eyes?
Apparently.
By the way, there currently exists a HUGE market opportunity for any college that wants to revert to being, well, normal. Eliminate all your "studies" departments, fire your entire DEI and Title IX staffs, enforce free speech and discipline violators.
This isn't hard.
You'll probably have to put up with some loud protests, but know that's just a sign you're doing the right thing. You'll also have to stop taking federal money, but think how much you'll save firing all those administrators.
Do these things and you will stand apart from all the rest. There is a significant portion of the population dying for this. Money and applications will flow like a river.
I'm dropping another chapter of my new book here, All the Lovely People. This one feels especially appropriate.
Read on if you're interested.
(Note: All the Lovely People is not out yet. I have just submitted it to St. Martin's Press.)
Yale Could Be a Reach
“We’re having trouble with the essay.”
“William means Ginny is having trouble, Ms. Collins,” said Ellie.
“Of course. And please, call me Faith.”
Faith Collins was Lenox Hill’s longtime college counselor. Padma was also in attendance, which wasn’t typical, but board members were always handled with care. This consideration pleased William.
“Yes, well, they all expect you to write about some terrific adversity you’ve overcome,” continued William. “What’s Ginny supposed to say, that she had trouble skiing the back bowls?”
“What William is trying to say, Faith, is that while we’re proud we’ve been able to give our daughters a good life, it now seems like a liability we need to apologize for.”
“Oh no, of course not.”
This was an increasingly common source of angst, Faith knew; the challenge of growing up in a life without challenges. Most Lenox girls took for granted the kind of privilege that few in the world could even imagine. Most had second, even third, homes. Private jets were common.
“I mean look at this,” said William, handing some papers over to Faith. “How are we supposed to deal with this?”
It was a printout of the Yale application. William had highlighted an essay question which read
The lessons we take from obstacles we encounter can be fundamental to later success. Recount a time when you faced a challenge, something that really forced you out of your comfort zone. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?
Both Padma and Faith knew this was a question, in one form or another, on almost every college application. In 2023, the Supreme Court outlawed affirmative action in the famous Harvard case, but left the door open a crack by allowing universities to consider candidates’ “life experiences.” This left admissions departments to decide for themselves just what constituted life experiences they were interested in. For many, this meant soliciting personal tales of victimization at the hands of a discriminatory culture. Affluent white applicants gainfully tried what they could, documenting every mildly unpleasant interlude in their own short lives, real or imagined.
This approach was of little use to the Sandersons.
“Our consultant says to write some nonsense about when Ginny’s aunt died, but Ginny hardly knew her,” said William.
Faith winced at the reference to an outside consultant. College counseling was her job, but increasingly parents were hiring expensive outsiders as well, ones who promised the moon and seldom delivered.
“We hear they’re going test optional,” said William. “Ginny got a…what was it, Ellie?”
“A 1520.”
“But now, what? It doesn’t matter?”
“Will, I’m sure it matters,” said Ellie.
“I think I know what’s going on,” continued William. “Get rid of objective standards and it frees schools up to pick kids just on their personal narratives. Am I wrong?”
He was not, thought Padma, but she could hardly say so, nor could she admit she was entirely in favor of the shift in policy. “I think it’s fair to say that colleges are just trying to do what we here at Lenox Hill have done, which is to make opportunities available to a wider set of applicants,” she said.
“And we’re all for that. We all value diversity. But I’d also like my daughter to get into Yale.”
“Well, about that…” said Faith.
Here it comes, thought Padma. She was perfectly willing to let Faith be the heavy. William Sanderson needed to be managed. Truth be told, she was kind of looking forward to it.
“We’ve been actively talking to the admissions people up there,” said Faith. “You should know it’s going to be a tough year.”
“Ellie, in case you don’t speak college counselor, that’s code for bend over in the shower and open your wallet.”
“I’m sure Padma and Faith are doing their best,” said Ellie, disquieted by William’s aggressive posture. It wasn’t like him.
“William, Ellie, you are both highly valued members of the Lenox community, and you’ve been quite generous” said Padma. “I should ask, though. Is Yale officially Ginny’s first choice? She hasn’t shared that with us.”
“It…will be,” said William.
“Honestly,” interjected Ellie, “my own view is that there are lots of places she could be happy. The Ivies aren’t the only schools that offer a good education.” William looked at her like she had two heads. “But Ginny’s our daughter and if she decides on Yale than that’s what I’ll support. It’s her decision.”
“Of…course,” said Padma. “And we’ll do what we can.”
“When did this process become such an ordeal?” said William. “I don’t remember this from my day at all.”
“It’s true, things have evolved,” said Padma, trying to project a warmth she decidedly didn’t feel. “This process can be as stressful for parents as it is for the kids. Sometimes even more so.”
“Ginny’s great-grandfather was Class of ’38. She’s fourth generation.”
“Yes, we know, and Ginny is a wonderful applicant. But these matters of legacy, well, they just don’t carry the weight they used to.”
“So, for the sake of argument, what’s the number?”
Padma, of course, knew what William meant, but decided to play dumb, even though she’d specifically prepared for this moment. The cynicism of the conversation carved tiny pieces out of her soul. “The number?” she asked.
“Yes, the number. What are they looking for in New Haven to make this happen?”
“Ah, I see. Well, they did suggest certain levels of support that would be warmly received.”
“And they are?”
“Five million would—“
“You’re kidding,” said William.
“Five million will get a candidate’s folder a serious second look.”
“A second look? What does that even mean?”
“It’s somewhat ambiguous, deliberately so, but it definitely improves one’s visibility. In our experience it means that an applicant’s folder will get read twice.”
“How nice,” said William. “Five million for an extra five minutes of their time. A million dollars a minute. New York law firms have nothing on the Yale Admissions Department!”
William now felt decidedly stupid for the apparently meaningless $10,000 gifts he’d been making annually to Yale for years, thinking he was paving the way. Last year, he’d upped it to $25,000.
“What’s the real number?” he asked.
“Excuse me, but what happened to merit?” asked Ellie. “Shouldn’t Ginny’s record count for itself?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Padma. “And remember, we don’t have complete transparency. Yale will do what Yale will do. It’s fair to say that priorities have…evolved.”
But money still talks, thought William. He recalled how one wag called Ivy League universities “hedge funds with schools attached.” They were nothing if not effective fundraising machines. “Which brings me back to my original question. The number. For the sake of argument, what are they actually getting these days?”
“I don’t know that they like to get too specific about these things, but the number twenty million did come up. If you want to remove as much uncertainty as possible, that’s the number.”
“Those greedy sons of bitches.”
“And usually admittance in those circumstances involves taking a gap year so the applicant doesn’t get counted in the official U.S. News data. They call it the Z-list.”
“William,” said Ellie. “You can’t possibly consider this.”
“Well, there’s always another way to play it, El,” said William. “I think you know what I mean.”
“No,” said Ellie. “We’re not going there, either. This should be based on merit.”
“But you just heard that it’s not. I don’t know why you have to be so stubborn about it.”
“Is there something we should know?” asked Padma.
“It’s nothing,” said Ellie. “I apologize.”
“Then we’re back to money,” said William.
“Or maybe Ginny goes somewhere else?” said Ellie. “There are lots of good schools out there. I’m hearing wonderful things about SMU, and there’s Michigan, or maybe somewhere smaller like Middlebury.”
“Sandersons always—“
“Go to Yale, I know, but, for God’s sake, William.”
“There’s an easier way, Ellie, and you know it.”
“No,” said Ellie.
Padma wondered what William could possibly mean.
“If it’s helpful,” said Faith, chiming in, “the Yale pledge can be paid in installments.”
“How nice of them,” said William.
Of all the facets of her job, dealing with parents like William Sanderson was the one Padma hated the most. She had seen his type many times, men who think things should be given to them by the simple fact of their existence. Men who drifted upward by virtue of their birth.
When Sanderson’s name was floated for the board, she had done some research. His firm, Bedrock, loudly trumpeted its “values,” but many on the left felt it was a cynical ploy, and that their commitment was skin deep. Sanderson dutifully parroted those values in the media, appearing frequently on Bloomberg and CNBC, but Padma’s instincts told her that Sanderson’s own commitment to those values was entirely situational.
She had quietly lobbied to keep him off the board, but Sanderson’s half million dollar pledge to the capital campaign secured his spot. His saving grace, though, was that he was a coward. That was Padma’s take having watched him the last year or so. This made him pliant, at least on matters that didn’t concern fucking Yale.
Sandersons go to Yale. My God, was it possible to be any more entitled? Spending precious political capital to get Ginny Sanderson into Yale was not on Padma’s list of professional priorities. The path had been cleared for the Ginnys of the world for far too long.
But Sanderson was on the board, a board she had to occasionally placate. Or act like it, anyway.
The thought amused her. The board really had nothing to do with running the school. For the most part, all she had to do was attend quarterly meetings and tell them how well everything was going and what a special place Lenox was and how special the girls were. If there were aspects that weren’t special—and there always were—they really didn’t want to hear about it anyway. People like William Sanderson didn’t serve on school boards to solve problems or do any actual work.
So, for the most part, the Lenox board served Padma’s purposes. Sanderson and the others gave her a wide latitude to run things as she saw fit, assuming they were any paying attention at all. And Padma knew why, too. The school held the ultimate trump card, the one William Sanderson was pushing so hard on: college recommendations.
Parents never saw the final letters. They were enormously important because they couldn’t be gamed or fabricated or bought like so much else in the college process. And at Lenox, all recommendations had to be personally approved by her. She had seen to that. A simple tweak of an adjective or two could sink an Ivy applicant. “Brilliant” became “intelligent,” or “outstanding” became “above average.”
Padma had also tightened up the language in the parent contract, giving her the power to banish problematic families like the Ellisons. That got approved in a single email to Duncan with the proposed contract attached. She doubted he even opened it. No doubt the fate of the Ellisons had sent shivers through the community.
And so, they all danced to her tune.
But her meeting with Sanderson really stuck in her craw. Sure, board members expected preferential treatment, and they usually got it. That’s the way things had worked for generations. But Padma didn’t like William Sanderson, not one bit. If ever there was an embodiment of the WASP old boy network, it was he. There were others out there, others like Barbara Selkirk, who would do more than just warm a board seat and look the other way. They would join her in the fight.
She would bide her time. Barbara had already recommended a few names and Padma was smart, certainly smarter than Sanderson. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself to put things right. What kind of opportunity? She wasn’t sure, but she’d know it when she saw it.
The Sandersons had taken up enough of her time, so Padma went online to check the Sentinel. Padma almost never read the Sentinel, considering the paper to be a reckless purveyor of alt-right propaganda. But right now, it served her purposes.
And there it was, Dina’s article.
