Choose my daughter, yes. But also . . .choose me.
I see that girl on your campus, illuminated by the dappled colors of the stained glass window, her eyes full of wonder at the stacks of books, the green reading lamps, the long gleaming desks. She is there with us on our tour, the girl just like me, who had never seen such architecture, such perfectly placed trees, such peace.
Choose the girl you would have rejected long ago, the bright-but-lost one, the one drowning in a huge urban school with bathrooms so dangerous she does not dare enter them.
Choose the girl who got As on all her papers but who skipped her classes, who scored in the 99th percentile in English and the 20th, sigh, in Science.
Choose the diamond in the rough, choose the needle in the haystack. My fingers are crossed for that girl lingering at the back, with the fraying backpack and the not-right shoes and the crooked bangs and the glasses that are not ironic.
Choose the girl whose numbers don’t add up but whose essay will blow you away.
My younger self
P.S. Also, give me a full scholarship.