No Admissions Scandal At My Alma Mater

Reading the sleazy news about Hollywood elites and wealthy moguls ensnared in the recent college admissions scandal left me chuckling.  Uber rich parents are accused of doling out fat checks to a swindler who arranged for their entitled children to weasel their way into a fancy universities.

It was amusing because not one of those spoiled brats attempted to connive their way into my alma mater Wharton County Junior College in Wharton, Texas, located halfway between Houston and Victoria. I am certain the WCJC president would have loved to have his palms greased.

In 1964 when I enrolled at WCJC, a pulse and a high school degree were your ticket to admission.  Of course, you had to plunk down $500 tuition per semester.  With inflation, out-of-state residents now must come up with $4,214 for each semester.  Chump change for an actress, even a lousy one.

No one at WCJC cared about your SAT score.  Thus there was no reason to conspire to have someone to take the exam for you.  I don't remember my SAT number after all these years.  But it was probably about the same as my height.  Not very impressive.  SAT scores count for zero in life. 

A two-year associate degree from WCJC does not have the same cache as say a Harvard diploma.  But I bet there are a few Ivy Leaguers with philosophy degrees checking groceries at HEB.  WCJC graduates are armed with an education that allows a person to actually build a career.

When I was on the Wharton campus, I recall feeling sorry for high school classmates whose parents' bulging bank accounts allowed them to waltz into Princeton, Yale, USC or Penn.  These unlucky schmucks had to dress up for class.  At WCJC, creased blue jeans were considered formal attire.

Imagine the grade competition at those toady universities.  Pushy parents nagging their kids to graduate in the top ten percent of their class to land a Wall Street job.  At WCJC, for many the goal was to escape with a diploma.  Graduation was my ONLY goal.  Well, outside of dating a cool girl.

Privileged young people might be concerned about the nightlife in Wharton, population 8,769, compared to Boston, hometown of Harvard.  Wharton had a vibe Boston would envy.  The Dairy Queen was less than a mile from campus.  Mexican restaurants outnumbered WCJC professors.

Campus life was understated indulgence.  WCJC had Western Week, the social event of the year. The school arranged for free yellow buses to take students to WCJC sporting events out of town.  Often students were dismissed from classes to attend a pep rally in the cramped gymnasium.

You don't get pampered like that at Brown or Columbia.  For an average semester tuition of $45,200, you are required to attend class, eat gourmet meals in the posh student dining facility, shell out fees for every imaginable item and join a snooty fraternity or sorority.  Sounds really boring.

I would wager the sons and daughters of those snobbish parents never worked a day during college. Many WCJC students, yours truly included, had jobs to pay for their education.  The discipline to attend classes, study and work was a life lesson they don't teach at those uppity colleges up North.

Since there was only limited dormitory space on campus, virtually every WCJC student commuted to Wharton.  The parking lot was filled by 9 a.m., not a BMW, Mercedes or Cadillac in sight.  Students were lucky to have transportation and their cars often were missing a taillight or side mirror.

Another benefit of WCJC was the size of the student body.  There was a smidge over 1,600 students on campus in 1966, the year I graduated.  It is not an exaggeration to claim I knew most of them.  You can't made that boast if you are but a grain of student body sand at a large upper crust university.

It was this coziness that helped me find the girl of my dreams at the community college.  She was a freshman and I was a mature sophomore.  Three years later, we were married.  Fifty years have passed since that day on June 1, 1968, and I thank God everyday for WCJC bringing us together.

So you see, it is not necessary to spend a gazillion dollars, cheat, and commit fraud to get your precious offspring into a quality community college.  The institution may not impress your friends, but it is not where you begin life that counts.  It is where your journey ends that matters most.