President Joe Biden recently announced his Supreme Court nomination, fulfilling his campaign promise to recommend a Black woman. But when the search was announced, Twitter was aflame. Ilya Shapiro, newly appointed executive director at the Georgetown Center for the Constitution, wrote that the decision meant a “lesser black woman” would serve on America’s highest court. “[Biden’s] nominee will always have an asterisk attached,” Shapiro wrote in a follow-up tweet that he’s since apologized for. We’re all above nepotism? No — nepotism is found most acceptable when it benefits our white counterparts.
Beyond the obvious example of the Supreme Court’s current demographics, Yale is in legal battles of its own over legacy admissions. Dean of Undergraduate Admissions, Jeremiah Quinlan supports the practice of privileging legacy applicants and in mid-February submitted a written testimony to oppose Connecticut lawmakers who want to end the practice.
According to Quinlan, legacy students make up about 12 percent of Yale College’s student body. These students grew up with Yale in mind. I always gaze at those parents and guardians strolling down Wall Street with their toddlers. Last spring, I saw a boy no more than three years old donning a Yale Blue hat. I imagine what it would’ve been like if I’d had the means to travel to the East Coast, or even have Yale in my orbit before my last year of high school. How exciting it must be to attend college events with your older siblings or hear your grandparents reminisce about their bright college years; to own college merchandise and perhaps view the application process not as one of luck, but a fixed system. Is this confidence not already a privilege?
No, apparently. Yale will tell you that the weight of being a legacy won’t make or break your application. In fact, Yale will tell you that legacy students are admitted because they are smarter, with higher grade point averages and standardized test scores in high school than the rest of the student body. But to consider legacy in admissions is to uphold traditions that haven’t always been inclusive, and are still slow at making progress. It seems paradoxical to be committed to diversity in the student body and advocate for legacy admissions, as the majority are likely white. The percentage of undergraduate legacy students surpass the University-wide enrollment of Black students, which is 8.4 percent. Native students compose significantly less, not even reaching 1 percent.
My first semester at Yale, I wrote an op-ed about a childhood friend who died from gun violence. I wrote that I was not an exception—I was tired of being called the one that made it out. But FGLI and BIPOC students will always be perceived as the exception, because this University was built for legacy students. And it’s the generational wealth of legacy students that have allowed this institution to last.
So what can we do? Debates on whether or not we should abolish legacy admissions will inevitably lead to condemnations of affirmative action and similar diversity-targeted practices—despite the 169-year head start of our white counterparts. Instead, the University should aim resources and the $42.3 billion endowment into community college-prep programs, outreach into low-income and BIPOC communities, and an overflow of funding resources and support for those students if they choose to matriculate here.
Community college-prep programs help students from diverse backgrounds have college in mind, and though they may never see the excess of resources as their wealthy private school peers, the one trait we will always have in abundance is grit. In Baptist terms, we’ll make a way out of no way. High schools like my own, where very few students have attended Ivy Leagues, should be targets in admissions advertising. Besides the table sign-ups for the military and Illinois schools, Yale set up a table at my South Side high school—likely the first time a representative had come in years. It was at that table I met my admissions officer who would become my first-year adviser, a Black woman who reminded me of the home I missed and believed in me when I didn’t have the energy to believe in myself. There are no words that can express how having such support got me through arguably the hardest year of Yale. Finally, resources solely dedicated to FGLI and BIPOC students are crucial for our well-being and longevity. Some of you might have read that and snarled. In your eyes, full tuition and a free winter coat is enough. While Yale’s financial aid and resources are extensive compared to other institutions, more can and should be done. There are FGLI students who must travel home each winter and summer break, a trip that can cost upwards of $1,000 per year. Some classes at Yale require equipment beyond books, and oftentimes students pay out of pocket.
No amount of money will make up for the missed college events because you can’t afford a new outfit or distanced roommates because you don’t have it to go half on a microwave and mini-fridge. The bright college years found on the pages of Yale brochures are not my own. Like the admissions slogan, “Embrace the spirit of and“, there are two different Yale experiences—that of the rich and poor.
If you find yourself somewhere in the latter group, feeling jaded because not only are people rich but they refuse to acknowledge it or think about its implications, don’t worry. You’ll find a group of people, however small, who may or may not get it, but will at least make you feel like, in community with them, you belong.
I pray that’s enough.