Placing the Blame on Me
When I was accepted to Yale, the joy of being accepted was cut short immediately when I checked my financial aid gift and realized it was not nearly enough for me to attend. I spent the rest of my months after acceptance applying to other colleges, fully with the intention of going to Yale, but waiting with the hopes that I would get another financial aid package and be able to go to my dream school. It felt unfair, that my friends who were in similar states of acceptance could accept the offer to matriculate immediately without having to put in as much work. I kept having mental images of gates being closed, that I was given this amazing opportunity but this nebulous concept of money would keep me away. I called the financial aid office multiple times over this process, and in the first few phone calls they were nice to an extent. They didn’t seem knowledgeable of the process but were able to give me the option of appealing the decision. I spent a lot of time then working on gathering materials for an appeal, and constantly stressing about if I would be able to go to my dream school. Second semester senior year wasn’t as fun as I was promised, because the constant stress of not being able to attend.
When I finally gathered the materials for appealing and faxed them my appeal, I didn’t receive a response for two months. After a month, I decided to call the financial aid office to check if they had begun to review appeals. Week after week, the office kept telling me that I would get a letter soon about an appeal. But, these were always prefaced with “you know… the more you call us, the more you keep us away from our jobs of actually getting to your gifts.” Each time I would hear that, it was like a stab with a knife and would only serve to increase my stress, placing the blame on me and my impatience. When I visited Yale on Bulldog Days, one week before the college acceptance deadline, I still had not received my package. Before even registering or meeting my host, I went straight to the financial aid office, asking for an officer to check on the status of my appeal. The man told me before allowing me to speak that “you know… the more you bother us, the more you keep us away from our jobs of assigning you your package.” I burst into tears.
It was only until I cried in the Yale financial aid office that the officer asked me for my name and birthday and checked at the status of my appeal. I was told that they never even looked at my appeal, that it was pushed to the very back of the queue. I was promised at the end of that meeting that I would get a decision by the end of Bulldog days. And I did. But I never even received a word of “sorry, we messed up,” from any of the officers.
When I finally gathered the materials for appealing and faxed them my appeal, I didn’t receive a response for two months. After a month, I decided to call the financial aid office to check if they had begun to review appeals. Week after week, the office kept telling me that I would get a letter soon about an appeal. But, these were always prefaced with “you know… the more you call us, the more you keep us away from our jobs of actually getting to your gifts.” Each time I would hear that, it was like a stab with a knife and would only serve to increase my stress, placing the blame on me and my impatience. When I visited Yale on Bulldog Days, one week before the college acceptance deadline, I still had not received my package. Before even registering or meeting my host, I went straight to the financial aid office, asking for an officer to check on the status of my appeal. The man told me before allowing me to speak that “you know… the more you bother us, the more you keep us away from our jobs of assigning you your package.” I burst into tears.
It was only until I cried in the Yale financial aid office that the officer asked me for my name and birthday and checked at the status of my appeal. I was told that they never even looked at my appeal, that it was pushed to the very back of the queue. I was promised at the end of that meeting that I would get a decision by the end of Bulldog days. And I did. But I never even received a word of “sorry, we messed up,” from any of the officers.
