Bearing Witness to the Birth of a Dream

by Patrick O'Connor, Ph.D.

High school students have this interesting way of announcing themselves. Most of them stop at the office door, say hello to me by name, and wait to be invited in. Those that don’t do that tend to simply hover, hoping their mere presence will inspire me to look up from my computer screen and see them there. (One or two—all boys—simply walk in to the office and sit down, saying nothing. This only happens once.)

That’s why I was expecting to see an adult when I looked up to see who was knocking on my office door—what 17 year-old knocks? It was one of my high school seniors, a fabulously bright, good-natured girl, who never caused anyone any trouble. She usually didn’t knock; combined with the way she was clutching her books tightly about her, it was clear something was on her mind.

I pushed aside the paperwork that was engaging my time—a school administrator once told me this is way to show someone you are paying attention to them—and the senior started with her story.

“I sent my application into State U, and I still haven’t heard anything from them. I know it’s only been three weeks, but some of my friends have already heard, and I was wondering if…you could check on my status.”

My caseload was insanely high that year, but I remembered this student for several reasons. Her grades were immaculate, and her test scores were about twice the average for State U, so I knew she was going to be admitted, or I was going to have to walk the 80 miles to State U and kick some sense into someone. I also knew that her being incredibly bright was news to her, which meant it was killing her and her awful self-esteem to ask for help like this.

That was all the reason I needed to support her wish. This was a time when we could pick up the phone—a rotary dial phone, thank you—and call the secretary of the admissions office, who would gladly tell me anything I wanted to know about any student, provided I knew the student’s Social Security number. The FERPA police would have a field day with all of this today, but back then, that’s how things got done.

And so it went this time. I told the secretary why I was calling, and my student perked up considerably when I asked her to provide me with her SSN, three digits at a time.

“Let me see” the secretary said, tapping her way through a couple of computer screens, until she evidently found one with the student’s grades and test scores. “Oh my yes, I would think… let me see if they’ve… yes, they read her file yesterday, and we’ll get her welcome letter out in the mail tomorrow.”

This entire transaction took about 90 seconds, and I have to admit, the results were so predictable to both me and the secretary, my heart didn’t exactly skip a beat when she told me State U was smart enough to admit this student. Instead of being a gushing counselor-cheerleader, I hung up the phone and turned towards my file drawer to pull out this student’s record—but in doing this, my back was now to the student. “OK” I said over my shoulder, eager to keep up with the paperwork of her file, “Congratulations. You’ve been admitted.”

The only sound in my office for the next few seconds was that of my pen scraping against the tagboard form in her file, the one where college decisions are recorded. It was broken by a voice even too meek to be hers, and yet it was.

“R-really?”

I turned to see two full tears streaming down her cheeks, and a self-effacing smile that told me, her best dream had just come true. I put down my pen, and we just sat there, basking in the glow of acceptance for a while.

I was always in less of a hurry to keep up with the paperwork when working with students after that. Sure, her grades and scores told me she was going to college, but that was my job, while this was her dream. How often does anyone get to bear witness to the birth of a dream?

Fast forward, and I came home from work one day, where my wife greeted me with some news. “We’re invited to a graduation party. It’s this Sunday, and the invitation is from Lisa, your student.”

I have to admit, the food didn’t appeal to me much—too many vegetables and way too much eggplant. But the look on Lisa’s face made the day worthwhile, and I was humbled by the chance to join her in wishing the very best to the guest of honor. The party was for her daughter, about thirty years after that day in the office. She was heading to nursing school, the next generation in her family to go to college.

My name is Patrick O’Connor, college farmer, dream weaver.