college admissions scandal

A view of Chikweo from Ngusa Hill.

This is one of the many hurdles would-be African college students have to clear: They come from an education system that doesn’t accurately reflect their abilities.

On the other end of the spectrum, wealthy American parents can buy grades, standardized test scores, and admission to elite universities. The most recent example comes from 2019, when 50 rich families were charged with using their money to cheat the system. Want to go to UCLA? Get in touch with soccer coach Jorge Salcedo. For $200,000, he’ll help two kids get in. The University of Southern California is pricier: $500,000 for two girls who’ve never rowed before to be accepted on the rowing team.

The ringleader of all this was William Singer, a college admissions consultant — hey, kinda like me! He and the parents agreed on a price, and then he bribed test administrators and proctors to tweak students’ SAT scores. Another of his tactics: working with a shady psychologist to falsify medical documents claiming students had disabilities so they could have more time to take the SAT. (Meanwhile, kids from the village who’ve never even seen a Scantron test get no additional time or assistance.)

But now that he’s out of the picture, the college admission process is fully transparent and scrupulous, right? Of course not. He’s just the guy who got caught. 

Wanna know what frustrates me most about all this? This whole thing went down the same year that I helped Friday apply to American universities. Some of the same schools and everything. My student’s honest efforts considered alongside all the lies and fraud and privilege. Like a minnow swimming among sharks.

represent the village

Friday and Brooke in 2013.

Unfortunately, MasterCard wasn’t doing the Scholars Program anymore. But I had a suspicion that their experiment had changed the paradigm in higher education. Maybe now colleges were more willing to take a chance on a poor kid from the village, might even be able to see that what initially looks like weakness is actually a tremendous untapped resource.

With a little research, I put together a list of schools Friday could apply to — schools like Duke, Yale, Harvard, Middlebury, and the University of Chicago. Notice a trend here? We were asking for a tremendous amount of financial aid: four years of tuition, room and board, books, spending money, and airfare from Malawi. Any school he applied to needed to have a lot of money.

Would Friday struggle in an Ivy League classroom? Absolutely. His freshman year would eclipse his previous ideas of what constituted hard work. But I believed he could do it. Imagine how much more he could learn if he ate three meals a day. If he weren’t studying by candlelight. If he had the internet and a tutor. If he didn’t have to work long hours in the garden. If his tremendous tenacity and work ethic were focused solely on school.

And just imagine what he could contribute.

Imagine the perspective he could provide in a class about international development. Or at the dinner table. Ivy League schools produce international aid workers and businesspeople and journalists and leaders. Imagine how much fuller their education would be if they learned alongside a member of the population they intend to help. Friday could be an ambassador of the village. He could humanize it, represent it.

Represent the Village. I liked the sound of that.

do something

Friday, Davie (top), and Charles.

I learned that Friday passed his Malawi School Certificate Examination with 20 points.

6 is the best you can do, and a 42 or higher is a fail. Friday did the best of everyone in his class, and there were a few kids who did well enough to apply to Malawian university: Samuel, Charles, and Davie. Everybody else got low passes and fails. Cameron was one of them. It’s to be expected; he faced a lot of obstacles and distractions. The future isn’t as present in Malawi as it is in America.

But a Malawian college education would still be a huge opportunity for the ones who passed. And tuition is cheap enough — maybe $200 a semester — that I reckoned I could raise enough money to pay for at least the first year. Get their foot in the door and figure the rest out later.

Even though I had good intentions, I didn’t want to assume I knew what was best for these people, so I reached out and asked if they’d like my help. As you can probably imagine, they were thrilled that their old English teacher had come out of the woodwork and offered to help them pay for college. Friday seemed especially honored that I was making good on my promise to help him chase his dream of an American education.

I felt guilty that I was only helping a handful of people —all boys, all naturally intelligent. What about my female students? What about people with HIV or albinism or disabilities? There are so many people who need so much more help.

But I don’t know how to foster gender equality in Malawi. (Or in America, for that matter.) I don’t have the resources to address larger social issues like hunger, disease, or disability. I know how to help kids apply to college, though. So I decided to use my knowledge and energy to give a couple people a hand. In turn, they could go on to support their families and hopefully shape their communities.

You can’t help everyone, I’ve learned. But you can do something. And something is more than nothing.  

ambitions

Friday’s last name is Ganizani, which translates literally to “please think.” It’s fitting. He looks like he might be about 10 years old, but he carries himself with the confidence of a bright college student. His hand moves when he talks, like he’s weighing something light in his palm, and travels up to stroke his chin while he searches for the right word. He speaks directly, holding my gaze.

“I want to go to America.”

This is probably the most common request Peace Corps Volunteers get from their host country nationals, and I believe the correct response is: “Me too, buddy, I can’t believe I ever left that sinner’s paradise!” Ahh, but I was still young and green, and so I took a minute and genuinely thought of how I could help this kid out.

“Maybe if you went to university?” I suggested. It seemed like it could work. How hard could it be?

Ludicrously hard, I found out!

But as luck would have it, I heard about the MasterCard Foundation Scholars Program: a $700 million, 10-year initiative to send 15,000 poor African students to an array of top-tier universities in North America, Europe, and Africa. It was exactly what I was looking for. Friday was too young to apply, but I helped six talented Form 3 and 4 students submit applications. And wouldn’t you know it, two of them got in!

“Well, that was easy!” I said, dusting off my hands.

Ha-ha, just kidding — it was an obscene amount of work. I helped put together more than 30 individual college applications, and then coordinated the passport/visa/travel process for the two students who were accepted. The whole process took 10 months. I remember 14-hour days, frantic bike rides to town to send time-sensitive emails, strategically flirting with immigration officials, agnostic prayers to the universe, and hours, HOURS of sobbing on the floor.

But I also have the memory of Freza’s face when he read the email from McGill that began, “We’re pleased to inform you…”

It might be the most precious moment in my life.

education system

Friday and his classmates on a rainy day in 2013.

As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I taught English at a secondary school in Malawi, a sliver of a country wedged between Zambia and Mozambique. It’s poor[1], and the education system is screwed up. If I may elaborate:

Malawi’s official language of instruction is English, but few of your teachers are fluent. There aren’t enough qualified math and science teachers either, so it’s entirely possible you’re learning math from someone who doesn’t understand it, in a language they don’t speak. On top of all that, it’s acceptable for your teachers to hit you, flirt with you, show up to school drunk, or not show up at all.

You have to memorize information by rote for the one exam administered per class per term. Of course, a 50% is a pass, so pretty much everyone moves on to the next grade. As a result, the classrooms are completely overcrowded: 80, 90, 100 of your peers jostling each other for space. You’re definitely sharing books — there are only 11 literature books for all the students in Form 3 and Form 4. You might also have to share a desk, or if you’re really unlucky, a chair. Or you might not have either. Hope you’re comfortable sitting on a concrete floor for eight hours!

And of course, this all takes place inside a brick building with a corrugated tin roof and not even so much as a ceiling fan. When it’s hot, it’s an oven. When it rains, your teacher is inaudible, and you and the other students who bothered to show up are mostly concerned with avoiding the puddles that spread across the floor.

Your day doesn’t start with school, by the way: It starts with hard physical labor in the field, or with household chores. Then you have to walk, sometimes miles, to school, trying to keep your uniform clean even when it’s muddy or dusty. If you’re a girl, this trip is a gauntlet of sexual harassment; no matter who you are, you have chronic malaria, and HIV is a real possibility. And if it’s the month before harvest and your family’s food supply is dwindling, you’re getting by on one meal a day.

School isn’t free, either. Your mom might scrape together the $8 for your school fees by selling tomatoes in the market for 3¢ each, but then your dad might find that money and go out drinking with his buddies. Bummer dude, you don’t get to go to school this semester.

All of this leads up to one exam, the MSCE, a standardized test that determines your entire future. It’s only administered once, at the end of Form 4. If you fail, you have to go back to Form 3. If you pass, you qualify for college… but you have to compete for limited spots and even more limited scholarships with all the kids from town whose parents could afford to feed them every day.

You could have been the smartest kid in your class, and still end up working in the fields like everybody else.

[1] I use the word poor and not developing because as Dayo Olopade asks in The Bright Continent, “developing” toward what? Toward developed, of course — you know, like America. That’s a pretty arrogant assumption, isn’t it, that Malawi wants to be America? Maybe it just wants to be Malawi with enough food.

The issue isn’t “development;” it’s that most Malawians are broke and don’t have a lot of options beyond farming and selling stuff in the market for less than a nickel. So let’s call the problem what it is. Then maybe we can solve it.

books i read in 2020 (part 5 of 5)

READ THESE BOOKS.

My Life: It’s a Long Story, Willie Nelson: The only country music I like is either ironic or nostalgic, and I know maybe three Willie Nelson songs. But this was such a fun book. Willie Nelson is hilarious and his love for music is inspiring.

The Dirty Life, Kristin Kimball: New York journalist meets a rugged farmer, they immediately fall in love, and she leaves her hipster life behind to start an organic farm with him. The project was totally bigger than they could handle, but they somehow managed to make it happen.

The Last Girl, Nadia Murad: This is a hard book to read, but ultimately hopeful. Nadia Murad is a brave, strong Yazidi woman who went through hell at the hands of the Islamic State. Her story left me thinking about resilience, wondering what justice looks like, and with a greater respect for the U.S. military presence in the Middle East.

Redeployment, Phil Klay: The first story punched me in the gut and I was hooked. Short stories about Marines in Afghanistan — not for the faint of heart, but it will leave you with more compassion for people who’ve seen combat.

Animals in Translation, Temple Grandin: This book starts off and you’re like… is this a book about slaughterhouse best practices? Then it’s about autism in childhood, then there’s a story about standing up to B.F. Skinner, then a subtle dunk on psychodrama followed by a detailed breakdown of primal emotions as brain processes and I’m like I LOVE YOU TEMPLE GRANDIN!

Did you know McDonald’s is partially responsible for more humane animal treatment? Or that our ancestors may have learned music from birds and social structure from wolves? That a parrot named Alex taught himself how to spell? This book is nothing but fun facts linked together in a pleasantly non-linear narrative without even a whiff of poeticism. I can’t recommend it highly enough.

books i read in 2020 (part 4 of 5)

Good Reads

Coyotes, Ted Conover: Undocumented immigrants crossing the southern border and making it work in America. Turns out Coyotes (aka people smugglers) are just hustlers like the rest of us. And that undocumented immigrants get a really raw deal.

Reefer Madness, Eric Schlosser: Drugs, sex, undocumented workers: They’re a part of the American economy too — maybe even 10% of the GDP, according to Schlosser. Learn more about drug laws (they’re unfair), Mexican strawberry pickers (they have to walk bent over all day), and porn (the American porn industry essentially started in the trunk of Reuben Sturman’s car).

Educated, Tara Westover: Oof, there’s a lot of child abuse in this book. But it’s also an inspiring account of a brilliant mind and the power of education.

Barefoot Gen, Keiji Nakazawa: A weird anime graphic novel about Hiroshima. Take-home message: Think for yourself!

Annihilation, Jeff Vandermeer: I’m not usually into sci-fi, but this was a fun read. There’s a bunch of female scientists in a beautiful but forbidding landscape with an underground tower and a spooky plant-alien language. 

Running Into Time, Douglas Black: CONFLICT OF INTEREST ALERT, my boyfriend wrote this. It’s a story about growing up set in a crumbling acid trip, and has these wonderful asides about all the reasons society is fucked up.

Assassination Vacation, Sarah Vowell: Sarah Vowell is delightful, and this is an enjoyable history lesson.

Cast Away, Charlotte McDonald-Gibson: This didn’t make my Absolute Favorites list because it’s really sad, but it’s still definitely worth reading. Get ready to empathize with refugees. Also, Eritrea sounds fucked up.

Deep Creek, Pam Houston: A beautiful (but also sad and fucked up) book about a woman making it work on a ranch in Colorado.

Liner Notes, Jillian Marshall: CONFLICT OF INTEREST ALERT, my sister wrote this. It’s about Japanese classical, pop, and underground electronic music, and what they all say about global capitalism. But it’s also about navigating a new culture. I liked it so much that I actually tolerated reading it on a Kindle (shudder). Fortunately, it’s getting published by Three Rooms Press this year, so you can go out and buy a hard copy.

The Rules Don’t Apply, Ariel Levy: Oof, sad memoir full of infidelity, miscarriage, and hardcore alcoholism.

Not That Kind of Girl, Lena Dunham: Lena Dunham reminds me of the Mountain Goats inasmuch as she’s really honest about personal experiences. This means when it doesn’t resonate, it’s like… wow, you’re kind of fucked up. But when it does, you’re like, HOLY SHIT HOW DID YOU KNOW? My biggest issue: Dude, sorry you gave a jerk a blowjob, but pointing out that he’s shorter than his girlfriend isn’t an insult and comes as a surprise from someone who claims to espouse body positivity.

books i read in 2020 (part 3 of 5)

Cool Ideas

When I was a kid, I hadn’t developed a sense of taste yet, so I just read whatever I picked up from beginning to end. In 2019, I realized I’d gotten picky, and I wondered what I might have missed out on by giving up on books that didn’t immediately grab me. The answer is, cool ideas. I can’t say these are the Best Books Ever, but they got me thinking, about…

In Praise of Shadows, Jun'ichirō Tanizaki: Cultural notions of cleanliness.

Bhagavad Gita, Eknath Esarwan transation: What it means to be a good person.

Excursions, Michael Jackson: What home means.

Yoga: The Spirit and Practice of Moving Into Stillness, Erich Schiffman: How to move.

The Self-Coached Climber, Dan Hague and Douglas Hunter: Anatomy, physiology, and goal-setting. Best quote from this book: “One young climber found inspiration in a rap lyric and said, "C'mon sucka!" to himself as he launched into difficult crux moves.”

Retirement Heist, Ellen Schultz: How rich people try to screw the rest of us over.

books i read in 2020 (part 2 of 5)

Eh

These are the ones that were forgettable, missed their emotional mark, or didn’t have much to say.

The Boilerplate Rhino, David Quammen: Essays about environmental biology. You’ll learn some interesting facts and then promptly forget them.

Wind, Sand, and Stars, Antoine de Saint-Exupery: Honestly, my main problem with this book was that my copy had a lot of typos; I think the press was shady. The stories are okay, it’s well-written enough but… I just wanted it to be The Little Prince.

The Yoga Sutras of Patanjala: Fun summer reading!

House Made of Dawn, N. Scott Momaday: Alcoholic Native American dude fucks up his life and watches his culture die. There were a couple beautiful paragraphs, but it was mostly just depressing.

The Man Who Ate Everything, Jeffrey Steingarten: A love letter to food that’s about 200 pages too long.

Mrs. Moneypenny’s Career Advice for Ambitious Women: Honestly, kind of adorable, and there’s some decent advice in there. Haha god, if I were a dude, that would be such a condescending thing to say.

books i read in 2020 (part 1 of 5)

Around the end of 2019, I realized I didn’t read much anymore. When I did read, I usually forgot the book within a few weeks. So I decided to change that. I took out a stack of interesting books from the library and started reading before bed every night. I promised myself that if I started a book, I’d finish it. Here’s what I learned:

• Reading is fun and enriching!

• It’s also a natural sleep aid.

• Good books are obviously fun, but there’s a satisfaction in seeing a bad book through to the end.

On that note, I want to share my reactions to all 35 of the books I read this year, starting with….

The Bad

The Songlines, Bruce Chatwin: It’s a classic of adventure literature, and the main characters are like… cowboy anthropologists, I guess? But all the Aborigines talk like children or mystics, and the narrator has this irritating habit of introducing the women’s tits and waistlines before he gets around to their names.

Genesis (Memory of Fire Trilogy, Part 1), Eduardo Galeano: It’s beautifully written and I appreciate the concept of re-envisioning the history of the conquest of the New World, but…  it’s also 336 pages of people getting burned by hot pokers.

Neither Here Nor There, Bill Bryson: I like Bill Bryson. One Summer: America 1927 deserved to be 528 pages long. I liked what he wrote about the Appalachian Trail enough to forgive him for not actually hiking it. His prose carries you away. But in this book… he just gets drunk by himself in various European locations and ogles women’s boobs. Which must have been fun for his wife to read!

The Wallcreeper, Nell Zink: The kind of book the Times would describe as “feral” and “rambunctious.” It’s supposed to be about a pair of bird-loving eco-terrorists. It’s actually about a woman who cheats on her husband and then gets butthurt when he cheats on her, and then she tips some boulders in a river and feels sorry for herself. Because people like reading books that make them feel like shit?

The Rum Diary, Hunter S. Thompson: There’s one female character*. She’s a nymphomaniac who talks like a baby. In retrospect, I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me that Hunter S. Thomson is an alcoholic misogynist.

*Actually, that’s not true. The protagonist bangs a bunch of nameless women and, in an act of true heroism, narrowly avoids banging a woman he refers to as “my pig.”

Where the Crawdads Sing, Delia Owens: Ostensibly, I might like this story. Strong, independent woman meets sensitive ornithologist and they fall in love (but not without a few missteps, including an unsolved murder). But like… the main character is an orphan who raises herself in a tarpaper shack after Maw runs off and Paw dies, and… I mean, come on! Someone would have called child services, right? And if they didn’t, she’d probably have developed a mental illness from isolation. And you know there’s not a shower in that tarpaper shack, so how is her hair so perfect? And if Delia Owens describes her as “wasp-waisted” one more time, I’m gonna slap her. Can you imagine what that would look like?

Anyway, Wasp-Waist somehow becomes rich off the sales of books of paintings published by a small university press, which… is… nonsense. Then, if you can believe it, she has a misunderstanding with Birdman, so she tries to date this guy who basically has Date Rapist tattooed on his forehead, and then he mysteriously dies, and Birdman comes back and they live happily ever after. The last line of the book is, “As Birdman thought about his lost love, he gazed out over the water… where the crawdads sing,” and I screamed in fury and hurled the book into the sun. There should be a law against books that end with the title.