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In the fall of 1987, my parents drove me from Ardmore, Pa., to Evanston for my freshman year at Northwestern University. At that time, people on campus would sometimes refer to Northwestern as the "Harvard of the Midwest." I certainly understood the message. Northwestern was a highly selective, very expensive university that offered students a path to success and leadership.
So why was I admitted?
I graduated near the top of my high school class at an exceptional public high school. I had taken a range of Advanced Placement courses. I had been active in athletics, student government, clubs and community service. I wrote what I thought was a compelling application essay, and I suspect I received strong letters of recommendation.
Still, Northwestern did not have to admit me. There were more applicants with records like mine than Northwestern could accommodate. An argument against my admission was that I was a low-income, first-generation student who might be expected to require additional services. I was going to require a substantial amount of financial aid, and there was no chance my parents would be making a generous gift to support the university's priorities.
Of course, there was something else about me that was probably relevant. I was an African American applicant.
I'll never know how my race factored into Northwestern's decision, but I'd be naive to think that the admissions office saw an African American student with a strong record and excellent academic preparation and didn't see an opportunity to advance the university's diversity goals.