This magic is real, but it is also dangerous, because I actually know so much less than I seem to my students to know. I do not know who they should become. I do not know what they will succeed at or whether “success,” as they currently conceive of it, would make them happy. Of course I have a few guesses and predictions, and some of them may be of use to graduate admissions committees. (Even there, as a reader of many such letters, I have my doubts.) To the student herself, however, these educated guesses threaten to take the place of the vague and fuzzy representation they have as to what I think of them, what I hope from them, what they have to do to make me proud. I can’t clarify the situation without invading Mental Agnes’s turf, and that would be a big mistake. [...]
Just as it is not my job to decide whether my student is the best candidate for the position—that’s up to the recipient of the letter—likewise it is not my job to make the comparative assessment that would underwrite the student’s choice of letter-writer. There are limits to what I owe in my capacity as letter-writer, and these limits are crucial to protecting my more important job as teacher. [...]
The kind of positive feedback sought at a letter request cannot mean much, precisely because it has been asked for; what matters has been freely given all along, and it has taken the form not only of approval and encouragement but, more importantly, of spontaneous reactions such as excitement, interest, curiosity, surprise, joy, amusement and, yes, pride. The real feedback is wrapped up in the aspirational fog.
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