To Stanford via Menlo

My parents and I agreed that Menlo College would provide a fresh and math-free academic start. I completed the Menlo College application and sent it in after the end of the first semester of my senior year. Two weeks later, I received a letter inviting me for an interview at the college. At that time, Menlo was all male. My father drove me down to Menlo Park and spent time talking to the staff when I was being interviewed.

Instead of an office, the interview was conducted as a senior administrator and I walked around the campus as he took notes while pointing out various buildings and landmarks. We headed to his office as the interview was winding down. In the office he asked if I had decided what courses I would take. I said that I’d prefer English, Spanish, Western Civilization and biology. He checked my high school transcripts and said, “You should do well. The courses you’ll be taking are pretty much standard freshman requirements for Stanford, Cal, and most universities. Questions?”

“When will I be notified if I have been accepted?”

“Now,” he said.

“Really?”

“I have that authority. Some advice: think of yourself as a snake…”

“I hate snakes.”

“I dislike them too,” he said. “Back to my snake analogy: snakes shed their skins; should you apply yourself there, you may shed your high school grades and let them wither away. Think about it: a new blemish-free skin. Your thoughts?”

“An excellent analogy. However, I was thinking Menlo could be my personal renaissance: coming out of the dark ages that were my high school years.”

“That works too,” he said with a smile. “I’ll see you this September. Enjoy the summer.”

“Thank you,” I said.

My freshman year at Menlo was a godsend; my first academic year without arithmetic or math. The old snake skin was behind me. I enjoyed the course work; my peers and instructors considered me to be at least somewhat intelligent. I was surprised what a good attitude could accomplish.

My favorite course was Western Civilization that was modeled after Stanford’s. The course was centered on western history but also included philosophical and artistic development. Several years later, Stanford dropped the course after a demonstration on the campus that chanted “Hey, hey, ho, ho, Western Civ has got to go.” And go it did. Western Civilization courses had become an early victim of political correctness. I suspect the courses that replaced Western Civ placated the students, the faculty, and the administration.

There was little social life at Menlo; dances were infrequent. There were occasional mixers at Mills College across the Bay in Oakland. Without access to a car, dating Mills women was impossible. So I studied a great deal.

The weekend’s highlight was around Saturday midnight when I would walk to the Round Table Pizza on El Camino Real and have a medium sausage and mushroom pizza. The bartender drank a lot; by Saturday midnight, he was relaxed and somewhat confused. As I became a late Saturday night regular, he would serve me beer by the small pitcher without asking for identification. He had a German surname name and was fascinated by the country’s history that fascinated me as well. We talked a lot about Germany. I would return to my room, sleep until noon, and start studying again after lunch.

The Stanford interviews were toward the end of my freshman year. Although I had done well, I didn’t consider Stanford; that was for valedictorians and National Merit Scholars. My biology teacher took me aside and said, “I understand that you haven’t applied to Stanford; the interviews will begin soon.”

“There is no point; I’ll never be accepted.”

“The worst they can say is no,” he said. “You’ve done well here. We have Stanford applications on hand. What do you say?”

“Well, my SAT scores are lopsided; a great verbal score, a terrible math score.”

“Have you decided on the colleges that you’ll apply to?”

“No, I’ll come back here next year; by then I’ll have that ironed out.”

“What will you major in?” he said.

“History.”

“I have a Stanford course catalogue. Come by my office after lunch and I’ll loan it to you and show you the course requirements for a history major. I’m pretty sure that you can make it through without taking any math. One more thing, it’s easier transferring as a sophomore than as a junior. As a sophomore, you’ll fit in better.”

After our meeting, I made a copy of the Stanford application and drafted most of the application’s questions. The application included an essay; I have forgotten the requested subject. I drafted and typed the essay and asked my English teacher to proof it. He replaced a comma with a semicolon. “A little dry,” he said, “but it fits the bill.” He laughed, “Stanford is difficult to get into, but the course work is less demanding than Cal’s.”

“You went to Cal?”

“And damned proud of it.”

“Of course,” I said.

My Stanford interview was the last one late on a warm Friday afternoon. The interviewer was Rixford Snyder, the Dean of Admissions. Before that position, he was a history professor specializing in Central European history; in other words, the German-speaking Europe. As I had determined that I would never be accepted, I was relaxed and answered his questions succinctly without trying to sell myself. Mr. Snyder got around to my math grades; I told him that, since I would major in history, a math course was not required and pointed out the appropriate section in the course catalogue. I was surprised that he seemed somewhat surprised.

I got the conversation around to the German historical trends that may have led to the rise of Adolf Hitler. I had read several books on that subject, the latest being The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William Shirer. Snyder agreed with many of Shirer’s conclusion, but not all of them. The conversation was easy going; Snyder was relaxed and leaned back in his chair. He seemed to enjoy my questions; I certainly enjoyed his depth of knowledge and cogent conclusions.

There was a knock on the door. He looked at his watch, “Gosh, we’ve been talking for over an hour. This was supposed to last for a half hour or so. He opened the door and had a brief conversation. To me, he said, “Well, this has been stimulating. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself wherever you may land.” We shook hands and that was that. I didn’t revisit the interview or give it much thought.

Early that summer my mother was out shopping, and I was reading in the living room. I heard the mailman at the front door mail box. I went to collect the mail and found a fat letter from Stanford. I assumed it was a rejection letter that must have gone into considerable detail. A rejection letter is one thing; a detailed rejection is quite another. I put the letter on the coffee table and stared at it. I opened the letter; I had been accepted.

I called my father and told him the news; he was thrilled. “Steve, when your mother returns, please come down to my office. Oh, and bring that letter with you. You know, I’ve been telling people that you’re a late bloomer, and I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so.”

“Guess so? Is there something wrong?”

“No, just surprised. I’ll see you shortly.”

Mom was thrilled after reading the letter and gave me the keys to her car. I met my father in his office, he read the letter, and we went across the street for coffee. “Steve, you must be as thrilled as I am. Why didn’t you tell me you had taken a Stanford interview?”

“Since I was sure that I’d be rejected, I didn’t see the point.”

“Something is bothering you; out with it,” he said.

“I read somewhere that Jordan is the ninety-ninth most common American surname. Stephen is fairly common. I think there’s been a computer foul up. The smartest boy in, let’s say Bakersfield, could be named Stephen Jordan. So Stanford accepted the wrong person. That’s what I think.”

“Steve, you always tend to sell yourself short; for Christ’s sake, cheer up. Oh, tell your mother that we’re going out for supper this evening.”