"Let's just say it was not a quality piece," Julie Barefoot says carefully about one "supplementary" submission she received as assistant dean of admissions at Emory University's Goizueta Business School. "This guy without terribly strong credentials to begin with included a first draft of his novel-30-some pages." It wasn't even really a novel, she notes, but "a slightly altered autobiography about a guy who'd overcome some adversity and eventually gone on to business school. It was poorly written and pretty schmaltzy, and made us question his maturity and judgment."
Another Goizueta hopeful came up with the clever idea of setting the school's name to bad rock music. "It was truly terrible," recalls Barefoot. "He was singing 'Goizueta, Goizueta, you're the school for me,' or something like that. And he wasn't doing it ironically. At least not that we could tell," she laughs. "Unless you're really good at making something campy, don't even think of trying it."
Dan Sullivan, a former admissions officer at UC Berkeley's Haas School of Business, couldn't agree more. "One: As admissions officers, we slog through thousands of applications in a few months; it's unrealistic to think we're going to spend an hour listening to somebody's homemade CD. And two: What if we do and we hate it?"
Divine Rights
"One guy I interviewed was definitely quite enamored with himself," says Sullivan. "He sat back and acted like I should do a sell job on him, but was so aggressive I had a hard time getting my questions in." But what came next made his jaw drop, says Sullivan. "His cell phone rang, and he took the call rather than turning it off. I had the strong sense he'd staged the whole thing. After talking for a minute or two, he told the caller he was in the middle of something, then turned back to me, without apologizing, and proceeded with the interview." Far from impressing him, says Sullivan, the candidate came off as a jerk, and not a very bright one at that.
Jennifer Miller, former assistant director of admissions at UT Austin's McCombs School of Business, has witnessed similar acts of hubris. "Applicants may know someone they think is important-a CEO in a big company or a state legislator-and they'll get him to call and demand an interview on their behalf. It has no effect."
Animal Control
There's such a thing as being way too forthcoming in application essays, say several admissions officers. "We're certainly interested in people's lives and families," says one officer, who asked not to be identified. "But some take that concept the wrong way. An essay option we have is to complete the thought, 'My family background is unique because..…' One applicant went on to talk in graphic detail about how, when he was a little kid, his father would drown the chipmunks or gophers that were messing up the yard—in front of him and his siblings. I did not need to know that," she says firmly. "I finally figured out the point he was trying to convey: that he really admired his sister, who came up with a humane alternative for dealing with the animals. But it wasn't even effective on that level, because it's not like he came up with the solution."
Leave Literary License to Writers
If only more B-school hopefuls listened to E. B. White: Do not overstate. Avoid fancy words. Use figures of speech sparingly. "People try so hard to impress that they often come off as pretentious or end up with an essay that's overwritten or overwrought," groans Sullivan. "It can be pretty painful to read. One classic is choosing a topic that's common, even mundane, and writing it to death, as if their experience were earth-shatteringly unique. The paean to Mom and Dad comes to mind: I remember a couple of applicants practically deifying their parents, when there was nothing at all unusual about them or their child-raising skills. And you know what?" he adds. "Just because the school says there's no limit on essay length—that doesn't mean there's no limit."
Barefoot recalls with distaste those essays that took an autobiographical turn. "People should avoid poems and talking about family dysfunction," she says, "unless they can really eloquently convey how they've resolved something and how that applies to their decision to go to business school. Some take one of Goizueta's essay choices (beginning 'I've always wanted to…') and turn it into a poem," she adds. Which, as Barefoot puts it, results in something between Shel Silverstein and a fourth-grade writing exercise: "I've always wanted to cure cancer, I've always wanted to climb Mount Everest, I've always wanted to be an astronaut."
"Send up the Champag … I Mean Candidate"
When Dan Sullivan was suddenly transformed into "Professor Sullivan" and told he was booked in the presidential suite at one of Seoul's top hotels while on an interviewing junket, he was charmed, puzzled, and then alarmed. He turned down the posher accommodations after finding out from a hotel manager that one of the candidates he was about to interview was the nephew of the hotel's owner, whose assets formed a good chunk of the Korean economy. After becoming progressively more annoyed when the candidate didn't show up at the appointed time, he finally got a call saying "they" would be up in a minute—"they" being the applicant and his lawyer.
"When they arrived, we stood awkwardly in the doorway of my room, the lawyer doing all the talking and the candidate just smiling and nodding," says Sullivan. "It soon became clear that the lawyer had been instructed to sit in on the interview." Sullivan says he had to practically push the lawyer out of the room and insist on interviewing the applicant himself. "I've never seen a more egregious example of overbearing behavior," says Sullivan. "And the young man didn't even have a clear idea of why he wanted to go to B-school. He didn't understand most of my questions, and answered them with monosyllabic grunts. Normally, it takes about 45 minutes to get through all your questions; mine were exhausted in 10 minutes."
But They Have a Buffet...
Denny's coupons may tempt 'em in the provinces, but they probably won't fly in New York. Or Atlanta. Or Austin, for that matter. To thank Miller for help in navigating her application to McCombs, one prospective student sent the admissions officer a $50 gift certificate for the squat-and-gobble where she worked. Others simply box up the food and mail it in: "I've been bribed with everything from Godiva chocolates to muffins," says Linda Meehan, assistant dean and executive director of admissions and financial aid at Columbia Business School. "One guy sent our committee an enormous number of organic muffins, which we brought into one of our meetings. They were, hands down, the worst muffins anyone had ever eaten," she laughs. "Ironically, he was admitted anyway."
My Little People Will Contact Your Little People
Attention to detail is good. Too much attention to detail could signal a psychiatric disorder. "One candidate created a whole spiral-bound booklet with little people representing himself and others he'd encountered throughout his life," says Barefoot. "He used stick figures and interspersed those with photographs. It could have been terribly hokey and [have] backfired, but it was pretty well done. I think the key was that he was clever enough to pull it off, that he did it rather tongue-in-cheek and knew it was campy—whereas some others don't."
Fate Ordains It
Another applicant played off the family business to up his ante. "This fellow sent a bunch of fortune cookies with messages giving his credentials and making predictions about his future," says Meehan. "Like, if he was admitted, Columbia would benefit greatly. Or, after he graduated, he would become the next CEO of such and such a company. They were written in both English and Chinese, showing off the candidate's ability to write and speak both languages, and they arrived in little Chinese take-out containers. As I recall," she adds, "the cookies were homemade and were greatly enjoyed by the committee."
Graven Images
Tangible memory aids seem to have raised the profile of one B-school hopeful. "Probably the candidate I remember best," says Kelly Davis, former assistant director of admissions at Wharton, "is an international student from India who had worked in the former Soviet Union. He was very charming, but to make sure I remembered him, he gave me two icons that represented who he was." At the end of the interview, says Davis, "he handed me a handcrafted Indian elephant and a set of Russian nesting dolls, and said, 'So that you will remember me.' I did. I had them the entire time I worked there."
Not so for a couple of jars of salsa—but only because it was so good it was scarfed immediately (and, wisely, sent separately from the application). "This guy was running his own business selling salsa," says Davis. "We tasted it, and it was excellent—spicy, sweet, chunky. He did well," she points out, though not in the salsa biz. "He's running a magazine."
