Eric Kester - That Book about Harvard: Surviving the Worlds Most Famous University, One Embarrassment at a Time

It must have looked pretty weird to people driving by: two parents flanking their teenage son as they all made a solemn walk down the driveway. My ashen face and hesitant steps likely made it look like I was walking the plank, or being led by my parents through some bizarre driveway-based version of that punishment. But anyone whos ever opened a college admissions letter can attest that this was far more terrifying.

Mr. Lynch, our neighbor across the street, was out mowing his lawn and began to watch us. He seemed surprised to see me walk up to the mailbox. Already time for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue? he shouted cheerfully.

Part of me wanted to snap at him. I was checking the mail today because I was getting my admissions decision from Harvard, not because I was some sort of obsessive horndog. Besides, the next swimsuit issue was still 293 days away.

I kept quiet, though; my anxiety about the letter had me unusually irritable, and snapping at Mr. Lynch wouldnt do anything to change what was going to be in the letter when I opened it.

I was a decent college candidate (at least thats what I had been told by family members obligated to say such things). But everything I had ever heard about the prestigious university indicated that being good enough wasnt good enough for Harvard. So by the time my parents and I finally reached the mailbox, I had already read the letter in my mind:

Dear Eric Failure Kester,

After carefully reviewing your application, we have determined that we cannot offer admission to you or any of your future offspring. This was not an easy decision*, but ultimately we concluded that it reflects poorly on the Harvard brand to admit a student who would be better served attending a lesser school, perhaps as a janitor. For your benefit weve included a pamphlet to a nearby orphanage in the event that your parents abandon you in shame. We wish you the best of luck in your future, highly unsuccessful life.

*It was.

With the utmost sincerity,

Harvard Admissions

P.S. Your ex-girlfriend was right about you.

My mom reached into the mailbox and pulled out the heap of mail. She then forced me to walk halfway up our driveway before handing over the pile. Getting into Harvard wasnt a life or death situation for me, but still my parents thought it might be best if I opened my letter a safe distance away from oncoming traffic.

Breathing, hearing, and pretty much all other bodily functions ceased to work as I hastily flipped through the mail, starting first with the thin letters at the top. The past two years of my life were flashing before my eyesthe grueling college process filled with SATs, APs, GPAs, and other miserable letters that have left me forever terrified of the alphabet. The stakes were huge: an acceptance letter would mean that all my hard work had actually paid off. And that my parents wouldnt have to return those Harvard T-shirts they bought on my campus tour.

I found the envelope from Harvard near the bottom, and it was thick. Under normal circumstances this would indicate good news; acceptance letters include brochures and other informational material for the new admits, while rejections are normally just a letter in a thin envelope. But I remained skeptical. I figured that, in typical Harvard fashion, the university would make even their rejection letters ostentatious, and I would open the fat envelope only to release a package of fireworks that would explode above my house and spell in giant letters: YOURE REJECTED.

But my mind was the only thing that exploded when I tore open the letter, scanned the first line, and saw Congratulations!

Holy shit, Im going to Harvard!

In my excitement I accidently expressed this thought out loud. But my parents didnt notice; they were too busy cheering. We collapsed into a prolonged three-way hug that made an uncomfortable Mr. Lynch turn off his lawn mower and go inside. My mom ran back to the house to call my grandma and probably the local newspaper, leaving my dad and me to relish the moment.

Im proud of you, son.

He looked at me with misty eyes, and we shared a long man-hug. Now I had banned such public displays of affection back in middle school, when I learned that girls dont have dad hugger high on their list of turn-ons. But this was a special moment. Something miraculous had just happened. I had somehow been accepted into Harvard, and I didnt even play the violin.

While we walked back up the driveway, my dad held onto the other mail as I leafed through the Harvard brochure, excited to get a taste of my new school. It was filled with picture after picture of highly enthusiastic Harvard students engaging in various academic activities. There was one photo of a guy in a white lab coat mixing test tubes of chemicals, then another of a young woman at a blackboard writing what appeared to be Egyptian hieroglyphics. Or maybe it was calculusI wasnt sure.