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Warning—this post may fall into the category of humblebrag. But in my defense, I intend it more as a shot at others, not as a pat on the back for Michigan. (Upon reflection, that perhaps is not much of a defense.)
Today, I spoke on the phone with a longtime friend (at my age, you don’t call people “old friends,” lest they become irate) who works as a recruiter at a top law firm. His firm is doing a “soft search”—meaning, no posting—for a 1L summer position in one of its offices. He called me with a list of desirable characteristics and asked if I knew anyone who might be a good candidate. I started digging through my memory banks and my notes, and also put my head together with the folks in Career Planning. I sent emails to various potential candidates who met the criteria.
This does not strike me as extraordinary. I did something similar yesterday for a friend who is a judge looking for summer interns. I did something similar a couple of weeks ago for a friend who is a judge looking for clerks. I have personal knowledge of multiple faculty members who do this with great frequency; come to think of it, I get almost weekly emails from one faculty member or his students, in particular, naming success after success in networking with employers. This just strikes me as a day in the life of anyone working in higher ed.
But maybe I need to revise my views to “it ought to be a day in the life of anyone working in higher ed.” Because when I emailed my recruiter-friend to say, “I’ve contacted XYZ people; keep your eyes peeled for their materials,” he responded by telling me that my counterpart at another school (in the same city as the office for which the position will be filled, mind you, making the matchmaking that much easier) declined to help, simply saying, “I don’t really remember my 1Ls by this time of year.”
REALLY??? Why NOT???? Look around you!!! They’re RIGHT THERE. I do not understand this at all. How can you remember the people you admit less AFTER they have enrolled at your school? And may I note, this was not a school with 12 kajillion students. (But even if it were, that should mean only that you know a smaller percentage of students; it shouldn’t mean that your responsibility to know anyone at all is wholly obviated.) Nor is it a school where people aren’t typically interested in working at law firms. Nor is it, despite being very well-regarded, some kind of (mythical, totally non-existent) school where 1Ls easily snag excellent, high-paying summer jobs. Multiple someones at that school certainly would have been interested in this potential opening.
As you can perhaps detect, I am feeling a little outraged, imagining the wasted opportunities for all the students at that school. I will endeavor to find solace and a zen place by thinking about the increased opportunity for the Michigan Law students whose names I have sent on. Meanwhile, let me pass on this piece of advice to those of you choosing among law schools: ask the dean of admissions, “How well do you know the current students?” (Listen critically to the answer, since he or she is unlikely to openly proclaim, “Not at all!”) I’m guessing the admissions dean’s sense of connection is a decent proxy for how the rest of the faculty and staff feel. And unless you’ve already developed your own network of law firm recruiters and judges, the network of law school faculty and administrators can be pretty useful. -Dean Z. Senior Assistant Dean for Admissions, Financial Aid, and Career Planning |
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Every year at about this time, the Admissions Office sends out an email to a portion of our pool. The intention of the email is to shine a little light on our process and bring a little transparency to the proceedings. In the main, it’s our impression that the email accomplishes this. But every year, my best drafting intentions notwithstanding, I am distressed to discover that for at least some portion of the recipients, I have succeeded only in sending them into a tizzy. The sound you hear is my beating my head on my desk, despairing of ever getting this email exactly right.
Here’s the history. A thousand or so years ago, I began working in admissions in the midst of a chaotic season that involved multiple staff maternity leaves, not to mention the Grutter trial, which demanded enormous amounts of my predecessor’s time and attention. As a result of these considerable distractions, applicants that year did not get decisions in the timely fashion they reasonably and naturally expected. That spring, I concluded, after the 10,000th or so telephone call/email asking “Where’s my decision?!?,” that being transparent about the admissions process timeline would be a huge kindness to the applicant pool, and not incidentally might save a lot of time on the part of admissions staff.
So the next year, and for every year following, I sent an email to everyone who had applied relatively early in the season, so that their file had already had at least one round of review by file readers, but for whom, for any one of a number of possible reasons, we had not yet reached a decision. The email says, in essence, thank you for your patience; we are sorry we haven’t yet sent you a decision; we are attempting to strike a balance between making decisions as quickly as possible with making the best decisions we can.
The message seems so straightforward to me, but based on the subsequent emails and calls we get, I am slowly coming to terms with the possibility that this one email’s attempt to shed a little light can’t compete with the overall murkiness of the admissions process.
Tenacity is my foremost virtue, though, so of course my solution to the communication gap is to follow up the email with a blog post! Here is a list of things that the email does NOT mean for a recipient:
1. You are definitely going to be waitlisted. Some people who receive the email ultimately will be waitlisted; others will be admitted; others will be denied. The people receiving the email all have in common two things: they applied before a particular date (which changes every year, depending on how quickly we get applications processed), and as of the morning we send the email, they have not gotten, or been slated for, a final decision. (In fact, about 20 people who got the email this year were admitted by the end of the day.)
2. You are “on hold.” I don’t actually know for sure what this means, because we don’t use that terminology at Michigan, but apparently other law schools do. As I understand it, being on hold means that your file has been read and then set aside, to be revisited at some later date. That is in essence true for some people receiving our email—although not for everyone. But in any case, it’s not a formal status; the “later date” might be later this week, or in two weeks, or three weeks, or every week for the next five weeks. It’s unpredictable.
3. You are a lesser and inadequate candidate whom we don’t really like. Definitely not the case. The majority of the people getting this email fall into one of two categories: someone about whom the file readers had different impressions, or someone about whom I just couldn’t reach a decision. Neither means there’s anything wrong with the applicant. For the first instance, frankly, sometimes one of the readers just misunderstood something. And for the second, equally frankly, sometimes I just get to the end of a reading day and stop trusting my judgment. Everyone looks great, or everyone looks not great. When that happens, I know it’s time to stop reading and try again later. Often, when I come back, I am baffled by the source of my initial indecision.
4. We are yield-protecting, and if you don’t send us some responsive rear-end-smooching communication, we’re going to deny you. In the email, I write that it ought not to be interpreted as a veiled coercive hint for additional information. I mean that. If you want to give us additional information, we will happily take a look at it, and depending on what it is, it might help. But we will certainly admit some people who send nothing, and we will not admit others who send something. “Yield protection” is a complicated topic, but it is one that has nothing to do with this email.
5. I am trying to drive you crazy. Promise, I’m not.
Bottom-line, making these decisions is complicated, and we can’t always make them quickly. We appreciate your patience as we do our best. And in the meantime, chill lemur sez:
-Dean Z. Senior Assistant Dean for Admissions, Financial Aid, and Career Planning |
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LSAT scores from the December sitting were released to law schools yesterday. For many folks in our applicant pool, this was the first time they had taken the test; for them, the release of the scores means that their applications will be completed in short order, and soon, the other readers and I will be cuddling up with their files at home.
For others, though, this test was a second or third attempt. Deciding whether to retake the test is fraught; there is the hopeful promise of a higher score balanced against the reality of a considerable expenditure of time and money, not to mention the haunting possibility that one’s score might actually decrease. I’ve been told by a couple of Law School Admissions Council geniuses who really grasp psychometrics that the phenomenon of regression threat makes retaking particularly perilous once you get to a certain score level, because the odds that your score will go down start increasing. I thought taking a peek at the actual data would be instructive.
But before we dive into the numbers, I am going to be tiresome and briefly reprise my personal philosophy that retaking is often a bad idea. Certainly, in the event of an unexpectedly poor score following some identifiable disastrophe at the time of the test—extreme nausea, a marching band practicing nearby, an abscessed tooth, and family tragedy the preceding night figure prominently among recurring stories I see—a test retake makes perfect sense. The call becomes a little less clear when nothing in particular occurred, but the test score is markedly worse than practice tests; it may seem clear that you can do better, but then again, it’s possible your practice-test environment was flawed in your favor. And when the decision to retake rests solely on an amorphous intuition that one can do better, I’m usually dubious. I think that’s a very difficult sort of self-assessment to perform. Better to put effort into all the other elements of the application than to drive yourself crazy chasing that will-o’-the-wisp.
Exegesis ended. On to the facts.
On average, LSAC tells us, repeat test-takers gain an average of 2.8 points on their second try, and 2.1 the third time; for a little light reading on the topic, check out one of LSAC’s many technical reports. But that average is unnuanced; what I want to know is, how many folks regret the retake?
Now, the number of people in Michigan’s applicant pool who took the LSAT in December for a second or third time is relatively minuscule: 61, out of what I would guess were about 12,000 retakers nationwide. (I’m making a pretty random estimate that 36,000 people took the December LSAT, and historically, roughly one-third of test-takers sit for the test a second or third time.) So, you know, safe to say that our 61 are not statistically significant. But I was interested to see that the percentage of people who went down or got the same score was 45%—and that this was true across-the-board, regardless of one’s initial score.
The search for better data led me to a fascinating chart (no, I’m not being sarcastic; I totally love this kind of thing) of LSAT Repeater Data that LSAC makes available, showing all the candidates in 2010-11 who took the LSAT after having taken it previously. Here we have statistical significance!
As you might expect, the people with the lowest scores were most likely to see their scores go up on a retake: 10,058 people who originally had a score of 141 or below (the bottom 15th percentile) retook the test, and 70% of them had their scores go up. By stark—and I do mean stark—contrast, 68 people with scores of 172 and above (the 99th percentile) retook, and only 37% of them saw their scores go up. In between 142 and 166, between 65% see score improvement upon retake, and at 167 you begin to see a precipitous and steady decline in success, until you end up with only about a third seeing any improvement.
On the one hand, you may think—who cares?!? Only the highest score gets reported, so schools are going to put the most weight on that. It’s worth the roll of the dice. But isn’t that a lot of work to go through for what is likely to be at best a neutral result? (A decreased score can slightly tarnish an otherwise beautiful application, so I don’t think this is entirely cost-free.)
So that’s why I’m in favor of learning to take yes for an answer. If you are fortunate enough to get a score in the top 3% nationwide, seriously consider sticking with it! -Dean Z. Senior Assistant Dean for Admissions, Financial Aid, and Career Planning |
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Come gather round, people, wherever you roam…. Judging from the title of this post and my throwback reference at the end of yesterday’s, it would appear that this is 1960s week at the A2Z blog. But don’t let that fool you; I may be writing retro, but we’re all about progress.
Specifically, in response to the majority of survey participants who indicated a preference for immediate information, the online status check is now revamped and revised to omit what had been a three-day delay between a decision being made and that change being reflected online—and it will now reveal the substance of our admissions decision, as opposed to coyly indicating only “decision.” Just in time for the holidays, when people are often away from their default mailing address! We will, of course, still send out actual letters; I may have been persuaded to loosen up a little, but we’re not talking about a wholesale personality change. I confess, though, that in the case of people to whom we are not offering admission, I worry about adding insult to injury; does anyone really want to see two denial messages from one school? For what it’s worth, it pains me too.
In any event, while the changes required some reprogramming by IT, the bulk of delay between deciding to make the change and actually instituting it resulted from my spending, oh, approximately 20 hours spread over four days (some of the hours were in the middle of the night) to think up the exact best 20 or so words to indicate that someone has been admitted or denied. (When Justice Brandeis said, “There is no great writing, only great rewriting,” I suspect he had a work product with a bit more heft in mind.) But I was heartened that our process change revealed that I am not alone in my obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
As many of our students have told me, given our reluctance until now to post the actual decision status online, it was not uncommon in the past for applicants to try to back-door their way into learning the outcome of their application: once the online status check showed “decision,” some folks would attempt to log into our admitted students website. Because I am a control freak, this made me fret; I wanted people to get the exciting news from the exciting packet I was mailing, not from a singularly lackluster log-in! But I dealt with my anxiety by just ignoring that the practice occurred. Now that we have rendered the practice unnecessary, I thought, for old time’s sake, it would be fun to look at the aggregate data on log-in attempts. And that’s how I learned that there are other people out there whose capacity to spend excessive amounts of time on tasks that others might dispatch quickly, or not engage in at all, rivals my own. Looking only at the data through November 1, I was fascinated to see that, of the 502 people who had tried to access the admitted students site prior to being admitted, 73 did so just once; 273 did so 10 times or more; 50 did so 50 times or more; 6 tried 100 times or more; and one dedicated individual tried 215 times. I promise, though, that I will await the end of the admission season to look up identities. And if Mr./Ms. 215 turns out to be in the entering class, I’m going to present him/her with a customized T-shirt. (Mind you, getting the wording right will probably take me a month or so.) -Dean Z. Senior Assistant Dean for Admissions, Financial Aid, and Career Planning |
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As I recently remarked to a student, I hate to brag. And as I then immediately corrected myself, Oh wait. No. I love to brag. Celebrities, doubtless because they are very talented, can pull off a humblebrag in a tweet. I need more space.
Last week, the National Law Journal ran a piece on the latest initiative by Law School Transparency; this time, the organization is asking law schools to provide it with copies of the report NALP generates for each law school in the summer, based on data the schools provide in February for the preceding graduating class. Although the ABA recently announced changes that will expand the data it collects from law schools, LST doesn’t believe that the changes for this year go far enough. The NALP report, they believe, will fill the gaps; it contains a great deal of extremely useful information that addresses many of the questions that have been raised in the last couple of years of spotlights being trained on law school data—most particularly, the questions of how many graduates are employed as JDs, and the question of what “N” a given median salary is based on.
It’s a terrific idea, and I only wish we had thought of it. Oh wait. We did. In February 2011, in fact—which, by my math, is ten months ago. And our data go back five years, which is actually more than what LST has requested. A little historical perspective is an important tool when you’re trying to assess the impact the post-2008 economic upheaval has had on a given institution. Our efforts earned us a shout-out in the NLJ piece as one of the law schools that “have begun offering job and salary data on their Web sites that go beyond the minimum required by the ABA.” Represent.
But enough bragging. One thing I have learned in discussing these issues is that the data we on the inside think are interesting and significant may not be the data the observers on the outside think are interesting and significant. So work with us. Lay it on me, as they used to say in the 60s. Tell us what you want to know! -Dean Z. Senior Assistant Dean for Admissions, Financial Aid, and Career Planning |
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A plurality of responders to my survey prefer letters with notes, which is a result that makes me feel good about me, about you, and about the world as a whole. But … the results also show that a majority of responders want some kind of instantaneous answer, although the preferred format varies. So we in Admissions have food for thought, and I've already scheduled a meeting for Monday to start brain-storming how we can accomplish this. I'm thinking the answer will be reprogramming the online status-checker in some fashion; that's the recommendation of our IT person, who shudders at the possibility of sending the wrong email to the wrong set of people. If she shudders, I shudder. (Every time we read one of those stories about admissions email mistakes, everyone in my office who sends group emails has to self-medicate and get therapy.)
But let me just say right here that the solution is not going to be a telephone call. First, I have all the anxiety I've already spelled out. Second, I have hard data backing me up: Twice as many people in the "I am applying to law school" category preferred letters to phone calls. And the two endeavors are mutually exclusive; it takes me roughly three hours a week to sign offer letters, and calling would take between five and ten. A girl's gotta get some other work done, too.
Still, I have on occasion made offers by telephone, particularly when it's getting late in the season and time is of the essence—or when there's some serendipitous connection. I think in particular of the afternoon when I went out for beers with some current students, one of whom asked me to keep an eye peeled for the application of a friend of his. Now, honestly, telling me while I'm drinking beer to remember to keep an eye peeled for a particular application is perhaps not a fail-safe plan, but as it happened, the name was unusual and I remembered that I had in fact sent him an offer letter earlier that day. So it seemed like a good idea for the student to call his friend and hand the phone to me so I could convey the good news. Once we'd gotten past the "No, seriously, who are you?" part of the conversation, he said, "It sounds like you're calling from a bar." It was at that point that I thought, "Hmm. Maybe this isn't such a good idea, after all."
Although perhaps that just suggests the appropriateness of a second survey, so we can drill down on who, among the people who want telephone calls, thinks it's fine to get their call from a bar, and who prefers instead that I call while, say, running on a treadmill, or petting a cat. I draw the line at petting a cat while running on a treadmill, though, because that's also when I sign letters, and I only have two hands. Also, the cats have registered their displeasure.
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The other day I read an article about my colleagues at the Michigan Medical School making me look bad by being all competent with the social media situation. They are always breaking the curve, admissions-wise, doing things like randomly mailing out fleeces and sending e-birthday greetings. The part that really got me was this: “Officials at the Ann Arbor school have hit the road and hand delivered acceptance letters to students in Dallas, Boston, Washington, DC, and East Lansing. Admitted Ann Arbor applicants also have received in-person acceptances.” Frankly, this struck me as almost appalling. I can’t really remember the dean of admissions who admitted me to law school, but I remember the one from my undergrad vividly; visualizing her standing on my doorstep to give me news of my admission makes me also visualize having a heart attack. That lady was really scary (in a good way. But still. Scary.).
So I can’t quite see going that far lest it turn out that I too am scary; not knowing CPR, it would just be irresponsible. But maybe I’m just stuck in a rut. Maybe I am unreasonably ignoring good suggestions. Just yesterday, for example, I was urged to call people to let them know they’re admitted. Phone calls are a far less radical suggestion than in-person visits, but I nonetheless recoil a bit. What do I do about the whole voicemail thing—leave a mysterious “please call me” message, or just drop the bomb? And what about the people who I reach at work and the person in the next cubicle doesn’t know about the law school intentions? And what about the people who just really hate talking on the phone? Or the people who are asleep? I once called an applicant with some good news only to have his mom answer the phone and start a bit of a screaming match with him about whether or not he needed to come to the phone. It all seems so potentially awkward and fraught.
Yet… I recognize that it is not impossible that I should innovate. There’s a fine line between a groove and a rut; maybe I’m merely stuck in my ways. So let me climb on this social media bandwagon and crowdsource the question: Weigh in and let me know your views on the best way to find out you’ve been admitted to law school. (The survey is anonymous; you need not worry that I will actually show up to your house just because you say you think it’s the best way to learn about an admissions decision.) |
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Last night was the occasion of our first snowfall in Ann Arbor. I am told that enterprising law students took study breaks to make the most of the relatively paltry offering:
Now, I have been repeatedly accused of denying the existence of snow—of, in general, pursuing a misguided recruiting gambit to falsely portray Ann Arbor as a balmy clime. This is an inaccurate characterization. The position I have taken, and will continue to take, both publicly and privately (I am, after all, mildly famous for sticking to my talking points), is merely that winter does not suck. Corollary claim: Ann Arbor winters are not actually as extreme as winters get. I recognize that neither belief is universally held, but I adhere to them sincerely.
My reasons for sanguinity about winter weather range from self-interest (I like turtlenecks, and people think I am weird if I wear them in the summer) to philanthropy (Californians are well-served by spending a few semesters in what we euphemistically refer to as a four-season climate, so that they can develop a little perspective, and perhaps build up a little karma lest their otherwise lifetime lack of winter coats enrage the fates). And whatever suffering I feel I am enduring in February—because, to be sure, winter is one thing in December and something else entirely by February—the primal happiness I feel as the quality of light changes and the days get warmer more than compensates; in the words of one Michigander poet, “[t]he state joy is spring.” But mostly what I think about winter is—whatever. It’s winter. What’s the big deal? To quote Professor Miller (to be uttered with a disbelieving snarl): “What are you going to do, choose a place to live because of the weather?” He’s from Green Bay, I should mention.
Lest you think I am delusional in my acquiescence- to-welcoming attitudinal range, or if you personally haven’t yet worked your head into a similarly accepting place, let me lay before you the input of a random (some might say motley) assortment of the dwellers of Hutchins and South Halls as to the merits of the season now upon us:
•The satisfying sense of smugness that accompanies knowing how to drive in winter weather.
•It gives you excuses to skip things that require you to go outside.
•The fires begin to roar in every coffeehouse, restaurant, student lounge, and other space so equipped. (NB: Space so equipped includes the new student lounge in South Hall.)
•Walking on poorly cleared sidewalks develops balance, which is essential to overall fitness.
•Chicken paprikash at Amadeus.
•Observing minor but prevalent spills into snowbanks = pure Schadenfreude. (C'mon, people are really well-padded in the winter.)
•I sleep much better in the winter; I love sleeping when it’s cold.
•The hot chocolate flows like waterfalls. So too does the soup, and chili.
•An excuse to transform useless, cryptic, handwritten class notes into holiday decor by trimming them into delightful snowflake patterns to string around your room.
•Less skin damage from UV rays.
•Boots! The seasons between boots and Birks are so awkward.
•The snow-kissed, ruddy complexion is a welcome departure from the otherwise transparent skin and dark purple bags under the eyes. (Ed. note: This may be specific to law students, or perhaps generalizable to grad students writ large.)
And none of this even touches on winter sports—innertubing! ice skating! cross-country skiing! snowball-blasting!—or the opportunities for romance that blossom thanks to the deterioration of personal-space barriers accompanying cold weather and puffy coats, not to mention the bonding engendered over occasional weather-related emergencies. (I know of at least one law school love that was cemented when someone pitched in to help a classmate dig her car out of a snowdrift that topped the roof. Now they have two kids.)
Snowman say relax. And consider that Dean Caminker’s planned construction phase 320 is for the post-global-warming Quad to look like this:
-Dean Z.
Senior Assistant Dean for Admissions,
Financial Aid, and Career Planning
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Winner of the most-frequent-question award with regard to the mechanics of law school admission is: “What should I write in my personal statement?” Often, the underlying anxiety is something along these lines: “My life is unfascinating. Nothing earth-shattering has happened to me. I have achieved nothing momentous. I have nothing to say.”
The bad news is, this fear is likely well-founded. But the good news is, it doesn’t follow that you have nothing to say. And you don’t need to resort to fiction to do it.
(In fact, I actually think that having something hugely noteworthy that you want to write about can be at least as much of a curse as a blessing. Particularly if the noteworthy subject matter is on the order of what gets coded in the admissions biz as “obstacles overcome,” it can be difficult to hit the right tone. It’s easy to sound victim-y, or to lapse into oversharing. But that is a subject for another day.)
As an initial matter, take comfort from the fact of your ample company. Truly, most people crowding the hallways of law schools—let’s call them the 99%—have had largely uneventful lives. Hardly surprising, with a mean age for entering law students of 24 and change; it may be a conceit of age, but I think it takes most people some time to accumulate life drama. In any event, one thing is clear: a pedestrian life story does not, itself, keep you out of law school.
Now, focus on the purpose of the personal statement. It essentially functions as an interview—your chance to have a five-minute monologue with the Admissions Office, explaining why you should be admitted. There are a lot of different tacks you can take with that—generally, some variation on the theme of what you expect to contribute to the law school community or the legal profession—and while the mere fact of the endless possibilities can be daunting, you can at least be assured that since it’s all about you, you certainly have available the information you need to craft it.
But from my perspective, the topic isn’t the key. Certainly one of the best personal statements I have ever read was about oboes. That may not sound compelling, but it was masterfully handled (and PS, it gave me a lifelong respect for oboists). And I am quite confident that in any given week’s pool of applications, I can pull out ten personal statements addressing the same general topic. Easy examples: how Peace Corps, or military service, or Teach for America, or an LDS mission, prepared one for law school. The particulars, however, will be vastly different, and thus so will be the extent to which the essay succeeds. Gertrude Stein wrote, “Everybody’s life is full of stories. Your life is full of stories; my life is full of stories. They are very occupying, but they are not really interesting. What is interesting is the way everyone tells their stories.”
Tell me your story. -Dean Z. Senior Assistant Dean for Admissions, Financial Aid, and Career Planning |
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This morning I saw a piece in the National Law Journal relating that 41% of law school admissions officers surveyed (128 of them, presumably from 128 different institutions, so a healthy 60+% of law schools) “said they had researched an applicant using a Web search engine.”Another 37% “said they had looked up an applicant on Facebook or another social networking site.”
Now, online discretion might not seem like natural discussion fodder for a person who has authored blog posts about going to Rick’s and Necto, but I spotted a particularly interesting tidbit in this article: reference to a distinct survey (both administered by Kaplan Test Prep), finding that 77% of October LSAT takers “objected to admissions officials considering their online personas.” It is somewhere in this metaphorical geographic vicinity that I locate the gaps in my comprehension of the Youth of Today.
I remember talking roughly a decade ago with a student who was complaining about this general phenomenon. She said that whatever she posted on the Web was not intended to be viewed by everyone, just certain someones. How was she supposed to have known that such-and-such objectionable person was reading her blog? “But,” I responded in baffled confusion, “it’s called the 'World Wide Web.' Isn’t that, like, adequate notice that the whole world can view it???” To the best of my recollection, she and I never did reach any kind of rapprochement. Now, I do more or less get the point; while some may argue that the Web is simply a giant, speedy version of a library that changed nothing fundamental, the fact is, no one used to routinely dash off to the library to research law school applicants. So the Web in fact changed everything, and in a way that will cause some people to get burned as we all evolve. But still. Come on. This outcome was not, as we like to say in the law, unforeseeable by a reasonable person.
Ten years have passed, and the communication gulf persists. Yet I would note that, when mentioning that I never look at Facebook and its ilk, I am frequently urged by the Youth of Today to do so; our own students, now that they’ve run the gauntlet, are eager for Admissions to vet would-be-future-alumni in exactly this way. So I would suggest that Kaplan go back to the 77% in another year and re-survey. They may object now, but they may become converts to the merits of cyber-sleuthing once that whole law school admissions thing works out.
In any event, I do think there is ground for at least some consensus even across the admissions divide, if terms are defined. While I’ve never looked at Facebook et al., I have certainly “researched an applicant using a Web search engine.” When I can’t figure out what an applicant’s employer does, I will look it up; ditto extracurriculars. My favorite example of the need for online elucidation is with regard to an organization called “The Moustache Society”; about the third or fourth time I saw this listed on a resume of someone from the same small Midwestern liberal arts college, I was compelled to research it. That’s how I discovered that it wasn’t a gathering of facial hair aficionados but was in fact a domestic violence charity. I’m pretty sure that subsequent applicants who are members of the Moustache Society should be glad that I resorted to Google in this instance. But that’s because this kind of research can’t hurt anyone; it is designed just to shed a little light, and since the alternative is for the admissions officer to think, “I don’t know what the hell any of this means,” and thus write the candidate off, it in fact is likely to provide a benefit.
But yes, I have also “researched an applicant using a Web search engine” (I just love that phrasing) with the end result that the applicant’s chances went down in flames. One example: A couple of years ago, an applicant described a medical device of her own invention, designed to help her little sister, who suffered from a chronic illness. I was blown away; the applicant said she was about 12 at the time of the invention, and this achievement struck me as evidence both of an amazing degree of empathy for the age, as well as a prodigious talent. But since I’m no engineer, I wanted to get a sense of the utility of the invention and the degree to which it was being used. So I did a little research. And that’s how I discovered, entirely unexpectedly, a number of articles making it clear that the candidate had not in fact been the inventor; her identically named mother had been. That candidate did not get admitted, and I would strongly disagree with anyone who said that my use of the Web in that instance was inappropriate.
I can think of other arguably reasonable ex parte uses of the Web. What about when applicants direct us to particular URLs, in which their achievements are extolled? Is it unreasonable for an admissions officer to then look for other online discussions, conceivably taking a less positive tack? Or what about an applicant who, in providing details of past criminal misconduct—as required on all law school applications—is so vague as to suggest to a reader a risk of deceptiveness? Is it inappropriate for an admissions office to then attempt to ferret out details online?
At the other end of the spectrum of reasonableness, to my mind, would be a reliance on the portrayal of an applicant by a third-party acquaintance. Visiting the Facebook page of an applicant’s pal and reading an account there of some shenanigans, and then using that information as dispositive, seems wholly unjustifiable and unfair. (This scenario reminds me of a well-intentioned, completely uninformed lecture my husband tried to give our children about their online personas early in their teen years. He began with, “Don’t ever post pictures of yourself with your name attached, doing stuff that’s illegal.” He became increasingly distressed as they educated him about the extent to which other people might be posting the pictures; he backpedaled into, “Don’t let pictures of yourself get taken,” and eventually concluded with, “Just don’t do anything bad.” Excellent advice.) I think of it in evidentiary terms; that kind of information simply isn’t reliable, and shouldn’t play any role in objective decision-making.
Perhaps the governing principle is control—for an admissions office to rely on information that has been posted by the applicant, or to use the Web to ascertain the veracity of a claim in the application, will typically lead to outcomes that are fundamentally within the applicant’s control. Don’t post crazy stuff; don’t lie in an application about your achievements or misdeeds. The danger, of course, is that once an admissions officer gets online, searching can quickly go off-course. I may think it is wholly unjustifiable and unfair to rely on certain online information, and yet, once I’ve seen it, it can’t be unseen. Admissions officers need to be cognizant of that risk, and need to attempt to avoid it.
While opinions are going to abound about appropriate line-drawing and practice in this realm, it is clear beyond cavil that it’s going to occur. So be careful out there. -Dean Z. Senior Assistant Dean for Admissions, Financial Aid, and Career Planning |
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Surely the most important part of any writing venture is the title, right?
While there were a million reasons to resist the Communications Office’s
importunings to write a blog, the first and most enduring was my inability to
think of a good title. The best I could think of was just to recycle the
title of my sole post-law school law review article, which is pathetic under
any circumstances—but even more so if you know that it was my husband, and not
I, who came up with the title. But inspiration finally struck. A2 is the locals’
sobriquet for Ann Arbor, which cleverly avoids
connotations and trademark issues. And Z? Well, that’s me. |
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