Applied humor and the college search

The early decision applications are in. Last year, the class of 2007 flooded West College with 2,350 applications for early admission, 591 of which were accepted.

This week, somewhere around 2,300 high school seniors recline in their standard sized wooden desks, having temporarily secured a life without deadlines, left with nothing to do until Dec. 15 except wonder if what they wrote was what Princeton wanted to hear.

Since being accepted to Princeton, I'd forgotten what it felt like to wonder "Is that what I meant?" "Is that how I said it?" "Is that even how you spell it?" Last week, while visiting the tumultuous home of a high school senior in Atlanta, I was reminded.

I arrived on Tuesday, t-minus five days until the deadline, to the flurry of parental proofreading and severe senioritis. As the hours ticked away, the essays were passed around to the non-applicants who curiously examined, analyzed, and ultimately proclaimed the works worthy of acceptance to any college as the senior calmly repeated, "It's done, submit it." "But are you sure, I mean what about —" "Mom, it's done, submit it."

I felt his pain. Three years ago, I was hardly ready to trade my bubble of high school basketball and senior play directorship for that of Princeton University. The application looked like a pain and besides, the time I would have to devote to its completion was obviously intended to be doing better things. Like sleeping. But my parents made it clear: Though it seems far away, college is coming — fast. Pick someplace.

I chose Princeton, and began work on the five essays, mostly straightforward (how many definitions of "Good Character" can there be?). Too straightforward. So straightforward, in fact, that essay number three seemingly begged for a little light hearted humor. Didn't those college books all advise to show your "true self?" Question three: "Put yourself in the shoes of the Admissions Committee at Princeton — what type of applicant would you accept?" Since "smart and athletic, I guess" didn't quite fill the space allotted, I figured creativity was the only other available vein. I said what I felt they actually looked for:

"I would look for students who dedicated their Sundays to reading the Torah in Hebrew to young Jewish children. Students who set aside their 4.9 GPAs to trek to the Ark, cure cancer and solve global warming. Students who kept cousin Elvis' upstairs hideaway a secret, played the missing minutes of the Nixon tapes over dinner, and edited the Starr report in their volunteer after school Boy's Club Young Life Arts Alive organization.

"I would look for students who self-published their autobiographies at age 10, entitled "My Pilgrimage Towards Enlightenment," from the proceeds of their nonprofit lemonade stands, designed their own line of business casual attire, and missed the finals of Miss America because they were answering phones at a telethon. Oh, and that one kid that created the pilot for a New York based sitcom featuring six singles whose lives are hopelessly intertwined. Yeah, I'd want the ones who would call Auntie Landers for advice before buying cousin Rockefeller a Christmas present . . . if I was on the acceptance committee."

My mother, at this point audibly hovering over my shoulder, cleared her throat and asked, "Hon, do you think it's wise if you mock the people who are going to be reading your essay?" My efforts to convince her of the raucous laughter that would fill the admissions room as a big YES letter was sealed in my envelope fell flat, and I'm sure I ended up writing something including leadership, creativity, and personality while my colorful, if mocking, essay gathered dust in the depths of a now obsolete hard drive. So much for "show, don't tell."

So it was during this last week that the urge to craft again reared its literary head as I skimmed essay topics from universities across the country, and the world: "If you were a color, what color would you be and why?" "Come up with your own theology on the philosophy of the word 'gray'" and "If you were a tightrope walker, what landscape would you choose to walk over without a net?"

This time I stayed quiet, keeping my theories and landscapes to myself. Still something inside of me wondered what the admissions council would have thought of my original submission, Elvis jokes and all. And as I sat there watching the senior begrudgingly begin another application, another part of me thought, "I believe I'd be Green. Thanks for asking."

Ashley Johnson is an English major from Florence, Ala.