It's application season for high school seniors with college plans, which means my son has written his autobiography, 150 to 600 words at a time, for universities across the United States.
Cooper has shared the origins of his career aspirations (nuclear engineering because he's passionate about clean energy sources), ability to overcome adversity (two learning disabilities), how a belief system was challenged (unanswered prayers and questions about God in the wake of his father dying), appreciation for diversity (captured, in part, by his cafeteria table group), what makes him a solid investment (ability to design and complete a large project, as illustrated by his Eagle Scout rank in Boy Scouts), an activity he intends to continue pursuing (running) and his favorite color (not really, but it's blue).
And now, with all the admissions applications and most of the scholarship applications turned in, we wait for other people to make decisions before he can make his.
So far, Cooper has been accepted at one of the four schools he's applied to. The second school feels like a sure bet. The third is a little iffy, and the fourth is a huge reach.
I'm not worried about where he'll go. He's acquired resilience and a strong work ethic. He advocates for himself. Wherever he lands, he has skills to be successful.
If he's rejected by some of the schools, I'm fine with that, too. As a teacher who works with students identified as gifted and talented, I've seen the results of young people placed in the wrong program. If you're able to eke your way in to a curriculum that's not designed for you, you're likely to struggle from the first day, and it's often difficult to catch up. A veto based on data is usually what's best for both parties.
Still, there's a bit of tension in the waiting. At this point, there's nothing more Cooper can do to influence decisions. Four years of academic work plus extracurricular choices, test scores, essays and recommendation letters have been submitted. How those admissions folks piece together a freshman class now — well, it's a bit of a mystery and not in our control.
No matter if he calls Raleigh or Ann Arbor, Houston or Auburn home this time next year, his sister and I are mostly concerned with how we'll fare when he's gone.
At 6-foot-4, he's my go-to child for fetching items from the attic and changing light bulbs. He's the household tech expert. He runs errands without complaint.
He's more than a reliable helper, of course.
If given the choice between riding with me or riding with Cooper, Katie chooses her brother every time. He plays his music loudly, he sings a little bit louder, he dances at stoplights. He makes her laugh nonstop.
He discusses politics and pop culture, sports and Scripture with ease. He is slightly mischievous, usually in a manner that causes no harm.
Every morning when he walks into the kitchen, he asks, "Momma, how did you sleep?" And every afternoon when he comes from school, he asks, "Momma, how was your day?"
It's going to be tough to let this child go.
In her new autobiography, Becoming, Michelle Obama writes of her own mother: "Her goal was to push us out into the world. 'I'm not raising babies,' she'd tell us. 'I'm raising adults.'"
Those words are a poignant reminder for me, as Cooper is poised for the world beyond Frisco. We've been working toward these days for more than 17 years. My son's story has a strong foundation, and there are countless more chapters to come. No matter the setting, adventure awaits.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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| One more campus tour, November 2018 |
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