A is for 'Type-A'

Fellow Harvardians, I’ve got bad news for our collective egos. We can no longer claim to have been admitted to the most selective school in America. We’ve been outclassed—by three-year-olds.

That’s right, fellow H-bomb droppers, we’ve got bona fide competition now—competition to which Yale pales in comparison. Hear the names of these modern-day behemoths of education and tremble: the 92nd Street Y, Brick Church School, Weekday School at Riverside Church.

Don’t laugh—the toddling talents that attend these schools triumphed over worse admissions odds than we. The next time you proudly sport your Harvard sweatshirt around town or console yourself after bombing a midterm by thinking of how many brilliant minds you beat out to get here, think twice. You only had to score well on a measly SAT, drop some big words in an interview, and write an appropriately maudlin 500 word essay. You don’t know how easy you had it.

The star scholars of elite nursery schools went through an admissions hell that makes the college process look easier than a Wellesley girl. These children, who beat odds not one, not two, but three whole percentage points worse than ours triumphed over a battery of tests, including behavioral observation, cognitive evaluation, and written assessments, that make the SAT look like, well, child’s play.

These aren’t the church basement sandbox and Lincoln Log preschools of our childhood memories. The world has changed since then, and nursery school programs with it. In fact, most are no longer called nursery school, but something staid and serious instead—something like “Pre-Primary Preparatory Education.” The rugs and water tables of yore have been replaced with desks, nap time with tests, and hugs and Ginger the pet bunny with grades and a stiff pat on the back. I doubt many of us could have survived such an atmosphere, let alone get in to such a rigorous program. I know I couldn’t.

In all seriousness, I’m scared for these children and I’m scared for their parents. Because it’s not really their fault—it’s the culture that we live in. But, my fellow Harvard students, I’m not so certain that we aren’t part of the problem. In a time when parents hire $4,000 consultants from companies called IvyWise to get their toddlers into a “prestigious” preschool, ask questions about the Ivy League matriculation rate of respective preschools’ graduates, have their children submit 12 to 14 applications, and have their hearts broken when the rejection letters come, we must ask ourselves whether we are perpetuating this perverted meritocracy.

There must be some way to reverse a trend that is so unhealthy for children, a trend that compels parents to overload their toddlers with extracurriculars and private tutors at the expense of playtime. There must be a way to convince parents that paying $17,000 a year in tuition for these pre-schools in order to gain some slight advantage somewhere far down the road just isn’t worth it. There is something wrong with the fact that my brother, who goes to a public school, came home from kindergarten to homework, test preparation, and almost no time to just be a kid.

Perhaps we can start here, at Harvard. We can start by dispelling the stereotype that only those who went to the most exclusive private schools can get in to Harvard. We can start by telling people that the smartest and most engaging students we know might not have even set foot in a traditional classroom at all. But above all, we can tell parents that the happiest students we know did not burn out in early childhood from constant pressure to succeed, to beat ever increasing odds to reach the next rung of the ladder.

As long as this toddler Olympics continues, however, think twice before puffing out your Harvard-insignia-covered chest, over-proud of the fact that you go to Harvard and beat ten other brilliant students to get in. There might very well be someone in that admissions tour group walking by who beat out 15—when he was two.

Brian J. Rosenberg ’08, a Crimson editorial editor, lives in Stoughton Hall.