(This is a follow-up of my previous post on applying for a PhD.)
Seven months of drudgery later, I hope that this will be the final admissions season I had to go through.
Now, it's time for a reflection.
Out of the forty some professors from various US institutions that I reached out to prior the application deadlines, 18 of them had replied, and 8 of them were willing to meet. There was an even spread across full tenured professors to newly minted assistant professors.
(The irony: half of those 8 meetings came from the one program that had offered me admission for master's studies. The conversations with the professors went well, since we shared a lot of research interests, so I thought I had a good chance of getting in again for PhD; I was rejected without even getting an interview.)
The responses fall into these buckets:
8 of "I'm happy to meet and talk about my research"
3 of "You've piqued my interest, but let's just exchange a few emails since I'm busy (or on sabbatical)"
2 of "Let's talk after you've gotten an offer"
2 of "Sorry, I'm not taking anymore students, but good luck"
2 of "No, thanks, please go away"
1 of "Oops your email went to my spam folder, I'm just seeing it now"
Frankly, a 20% success rate isn't too bad — salespeople would be overjoyed if they can get one out of thirty to reply to their email.
Still, it seems that most professors don't want to meet with prospective students, presumably because they are already swamped with obligations, and their current students do deserve more of their time. Although, given that it my email came from an unfamiliar address, I suspect that many them couldn't be bothered and just ignored my request.
My qualifications had likely effected the outcomes the most: I do have a few years of professional experiences and a master's degree from a reputable program, but my research track record is rather thin.
This isn't so much as a self-deprecation as it is a matter of fact. PhD programs are primarily intended to produce academics, and prior research experience is a big indicator of whether the applicants are prepared to conduct a significant amount of independent research. Thanks to the many hours I spent designing user interfaces for hard-to-please clients, I'm used to working under pressures — but this story doesn't translate well into my CV. Compared with applicants who have worked closely with established researchers and have co-authored publications, it's no surprise that I was rejected by most schools.
Adding to the difficulty is the promising advancement of AI, which is attracting more and more undergrads who are betting on a lucrative career in tech. Unfortunately, however, the large number of applications also floods the application pool of certain fields, which drowns out other applicants. For example: in the rejection email I received from a computer science program (that has a prominent presence in the AI field), they wrote that they had received over 2,600 applications for only a few dozen openings... A 1 to 2% acceptance rate is a surreal statistic for PhD admission; up until a few years ago, the average rate was only about five times that amount.
(My conjecture is that there will be more aspiring researchers and makers joining forces to keep the AI innovation going, which will displace more workers from their employment due to advancement in AI technologies. Consequently, this will drive more older adults to return to grad school to acquire "AI-proof" skills and start new careers.)
Overall, I expect that the competition for graduate schools will only become fiercer than it is now.
This is one of the diversity statement prompts I had to write for:
"Demonstrated significant academic achievement by overcoming barriers such as economic, social, or educational disadvantage... Potential to contribute to higher education through understanding the barriers facing women, domestic minorities, students with disabilities, and other members of groups underrepresented in higher education careers..."
But here's the reality: most people from underrepresented communities wouldn't have completed their undergrad education in the first place, let alone having a good enough academic profile to bid for graduate admissions at top institutions.
This is doubly true for international students, where academic excellence and language proficiency are only half of the puzzle; cost of attendance is the larger half. American university tuition rates are already unaffordable for many locals, but they are that much more expensive for non-residents — and since most foreign students don't come from money, they have to bet on risky alternatives, such as taking out high interest loans.
Setting aside socioeconomic factors, the admission process still disproportionately favors candidates who come from academic families (or have close family members who've received a graduate education). Having an insider's knowledge of how academia operates puts these candidates well ahead of others — not just at the time of applying, but from the very beginning of one's college career. In order to build a compelling profile, students need to accumulate as much research experience and partake in as many projects as possible, thus the earlier they start and the more guidance they receive, the better prepared they will be for grad school.
But without an excellent profile or connections to the school, the process is akin to a lottery — only a lucky few will end up getting offers.
In the end, I doubt that practices such as requiring diversity statements are helping to address the fundamental lack of diversity in academia.
(Speaking of diversity, I'm always reminded of that time I interviewed for a university librarian opening.
I was invited to talk in a room full of white female librarians; I happened to be the only Asian in the room, and apparently the only one whose mother tongue isn't English. Imagine my hesitation when they threw "how would you improve the diversity of this institution" at me... For a moment there, I was really tempted to just stand in silence and point a finger at myself. Instead, what came out of my mouth was a politically correct but bland answer.
I didn't get the job. I should've just go with the pointing move, at least that would've made for an amusing story.)
How would it be a proper reflection if I hadn't complained at all? Here we go:
Given the vast number of applications that high-ranking schools receive (which is still increasing year after year), it's not possible that their admission committee can go through all of the application materials. How can a few dozen people — while working a demanding job — sift through thousands of letters and resumes in a few weeks of time? College professors are some of busiest people:
... your advisor probably has 5-10 hours (on top of teaching, travel, committees, and interactions with other students – this is why all faculty seem to exhibit varying degrees of brain damage).
It's probably not that different from job applications: a majority of us were filtered out by administrative staff or computer processing, only a small portion of the files arrived at the faculty's desk for a careful look.
For the hours it takes to put together a compelling package, students receive almost no feedback on the outcome of their applications. Did I get rejected because my target advisor already have too many students? Was I offered an admission because of something I wrote my letters? I honestly don't know. Considering the steep commitment of a PhD degree, the whole arrangement seems bizarre to say the least.
(The one good thing was that I didn't have to waste time and money on yet another standardized exam; I have had enough of these.)
Anyway, let's close this one on a happier note — I did receive an offer that I'm thrilled with! More on this later, so stay tuned.