Sommers: "Crazy U" Takes Down College, Inc.
Christina Hoff Sommers writes in National Review:
When Andrew Ferguson attended Occidental College in the 1970s, colleges were already moving away from fussy old requirements like American history, English composition, and foreign languages, and towards the anything-goes curriculum of today. If he was not playing in his rock band, visiting a Zen center, or engaging in "a dozen other forms of fun that had nothing to do with traditional education," Ferguson pursued classes like "Women in Film" and "Our Bodies Our Selves for Men." But it was still the pre-self-esteem era, so when he went to his college counselor for career advice, she spoke bluntly: "You have no marketable skills whatsoever." So, says Ferguson, "I became a journalist."
Ferguson became not only a journalist, but a widely admired writer whose fans include Christopher Hitchens, Tom Wolfe, P. J. O'Rourke, and this humble reviewer. Florence King has hailed him as "the Buster Keaton of the cultural essay."
What happens when Buster Keaton stumbles into the mad world of early-21st-century college admissions? In Crazy U, Ferguson is at his dazzling best, using humor and narrative as portals to very serious subjects. The book is both a hilarious chronicle of his 18-month ordeal helping his not-always-cooperative son apply to college and a devastating exposé of the buying and selling of higher education in America.
There have been dozens of worthy books in recent years about how our institutions of higher learning have "lost their mission." These furrowed-brow tomes are much admired, but rarely read. Ferguson's story, by contrast, is irresistible. His perspicacious discussions of SAT politics, U.S. News rankings, runaway tuition costs, and knowledge-free curricula are woven into an endearing family sitcom. Ferguson says, "If the book seems to veer recklessly between the two poles, between matters of the heart and the big booming issues of culture and politics--well, that's one reason it seemed worth writing." And equally worth reading.
Ferguson's story begins when he finagles his way into a seminar with Katherine Cohen, one of a new breed of expensive "independent college admission counselors." For $40,000, she and her associates shepherd high schoolers through the entire application gauntlet: helping them choose just the right mix of schools, prepping them for the SAT, tutoring them on the application essay, and coaching them for the interviews. Why would anyone pay forty grand for such a service? Because, as a growing number of students are competing for a fixed number of places in elite schools, the application process has evolved into a treacherous lottery. Experts like Cohen claim to offer tips that help applicants avoid the rejection pile.
Ferguson the journalist is appalled by the excess and frenzy; Ferguson the parent is panicked. He listens with dismay as Cohen speaks of the need for high-school freshmen to begin assembling a "portfolio" and to devote their summers to worthy projects. Working at a job is okay; starting a business is much better. One job to avoid is lifeguarding, which conveys "slacker." Ferguson's son (he never gives his first name) had worked as a lifeguard for two summers and was planning to do it once again.
Ferguson falls into "the bottom quintile of the lower upper middle class," a demographic of parents with huge ambitions for their kids but without the means to pay for elite private colleges, let alone fancy admissions counselors. So he resolves to be his son's own do-it-yourself admissions counselor. Ferguson devours insider's guides, visits Internet chat sites, swaps tips with other parents at parties, and slowly becomes an expert.
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