Just east of U.S. 290’s intersection with U.S. 183 on Austin’s northern edge, where 1960s-era suburban neighborhoods give way to industrial parks and undeveloped land, sits Everest Institute’s Austin “campus”—though the term is imprecise. Everest is housed in a Wal-Mart-sized facility with a Waffle House and a Jack in the Box visible from the school’s front door. Across the highway, hackberries and elms obscure the view of XTC Cabaret. There is no verdant quad on this campus.
The first thing I noticed were the 10-foot faux-Roman columns in the lobby. The receptionist welcomed me with a bright smile and a warm Otis Spunkmeyer chocolate chip cookie. Everest’s Austin location resembles the more than 250 for-profit colleges tucked away in strip malls and office parks across Texas. These colleges enroll some 155,000 Texans, representing 7 percent of 12-month enrollments in the state.
Over the years I’ve arranged dozens of college visits, but none were as easy to set up as my visit to Everest. I found the school’s phone number on the Internet and called. “Hello, we’re having a wonderful day at Everest!” a receptionist answered. I explained that I worked with high school students and would like to visit. I was quickly transferred to an admissions representative.
“Turns out it’s your lucky day,” the representative told me. A group of high school students would be touring the school the following day, and I could join them. As a bonus, the representative would arrange a one-on-one meeting with the director of admissions. All I needed to do was show up at 9 a.m.
The next morning I arrived 15 minutes early and parked at the end of the lot, not far from Waffle House. Walking through Everest’s main doors, the first thing I noticed were the 10-foot faux-Roman columns in the lobby. The receptionist welcomed me with a bright smile and a warm Otis Spunkmeyer chocolate chip cookie. Before I could accept, the phone rang, and she asked me to wait.
“Hello, we’re having a wonderful day at Everest!”
After transferring the call, she handed me an iPod with some short videos to watch while I waited to meet the director of admissions. The phone rang again.
“Hello, we’re having a wonderful day at Everest!”
The videos outlined the six degree programs on offer at Everest’s Austin campus: medical assistant; dental assistant; medical insurance billing; medical administrative assistant; electrical technician; and heating, ventilation, and air conditioning. (Two more programs—business accounting and information technology support specialist—have since been added.) A minute and a half long, each video featured an ethnically diverse mix of attractive people wearing scrubs or business attire, toting briefcases, shaking hands, operating lab equipment and smiling. A lot.
Each program employs the same pitch: It’s fast-paced and hands-on, and leads to career opportunities that are abundant and growing. The message couldn’t be clearer: Everest makes getting a great career easy.
After I finished the videos, Director of Admissions Chris Rios appeared as if on cue. Rios ushered me into a conference room with a drop-tile ceiling and wood veneer office furniture. He wore a trim suit, a closely cropped beard and a comfortable smile. “John,” he said, “I know you work with high school students, and I think Everest may be a great fit for your kids.”
He described Everest as hands-on, short term, career oriented, and “just a lot of fun.” Rios said that Everest would be a great step between high school and a traditional college for my students. He explained that a student wanting to become a nurse could get an Everest certificate and then work in the medical field while studying for a nursing degree.
Rios’ confidence and comfortable manner were assuring, but why, I wondered, would anyone wanting to become a nurse pay Everest $18,000 for a medical assistant diploma when a nursing degree from Austin Community College costs roughly $9,000? With the community college degree you can work as an actual nurse.
I asked Rios about his background and how he came to work at Everest. He told me he had worked in the mortgage industry directly out of high school, eventually landing a job at Ameriquest Mortgage. He left that job, he said, because he felt the company did “unethical things.” Ameriquest, one of the worst offenders of the subprime mortgage crisis, sold mortgages to people who could not afford them, helping trigger the economic collapse of 2008.
Rios also mentioned that he was taking classes at Austin Community College with the goal of transferring to and graduating from the University of Texas. It struck me as odd that someone without a college degree would be directing a college admissions department, but if this was indeed a contradiction, Rios didn’t seem to notice.
After our talk, Rios escorted me to a classroom where an admissions representative named Jenny (she didn’t give her last name) was preparing to give a presentation to a class of high school seniors. Their English teacher had agreed to bring the students in after hearing an Everest recruiter’s pitch during a faculty meeting.
As I entered the room, Jenny greeted me enthusiastically and handed me a thick, glossy folder. Molded plastic chairs and desks filled the space. Jenny, wearing a suit befitting a young urban professional, chatted with the students. I took a seat in the back of the room.
Jenny delivered a buoyant introduction: “I just love my job because I love helping students be successful!” She then asked the students to share their post-high school plans. One mentioned the Army, a kid with a Toy Story book bag mentioned Austin Community College, and a large young man said he planned to attend the University of Oklahoma on a football scholarship. Everyone perked up when the large kid spoke. Even though they were second-semester seniors, most of the students didn’t have a plan for the fall.
Jenny segued to Everest’s offerings. “Don’t feel bad if you don’t know what you want to do after graduation,” she said. “I didn’t either, and that’s why Everest is here!” The classroom was rapt. No half-open eyes or uninterested stares. She told us that our folders contained information about the six Everest programs, and that we would discuss several of them.
“In the back of the folder there is some disclosure information with a lot of good info,” she continued, “but we don’t have time to go over it.”
As Jenny sang the praises of Everest’s electrical technician program, I flipped through the disclosure pamphlet and noticed an interesting detail: The on-time completion rate listed for the program was 4 percent. Completion rates are considered a measure of how well a college supports its students.
Jenny had not asked if we had any questions, but I raised my hand anyway. After not being called on for five minutes, I grabbed my elbow to prop up my tiring arm.
Finally, she called on me.
“Could you tell me more about the 4 percent on-time completion rate of the electrical technician program?” I asked, using a nonconfrontational tone.
Jenny paused, and paused, and paused—the first time the perfectly scripted quality of her speech had faltered.
“Oh, I didn’t know about that,” she finally responded. She paused again. “I think that number is wrong; that number is probably wrong.” She furrowed her brow. “Yeah, that number is probably wrong,” she added again, as if to convince herself.
The 4 percent on-time completion rate was not the only troubling statistic I encountered while researching for-profit colleges. According to the U.S. Department of Education, 72 percent of for-profit colleges produce graduates who on average earn less than high school dropouts. And while for-profit college students account for 13 percent of students in post-secondary education nationwide, they also account for nearly half of student loan defaults. Critics argue that if these institutions were truly preparing students for gainful employment, their students would be better able to repay their student loans.
After Jenny’s presentation, I toured the facility with the high school students. Walking through the quiet hallways, we passed several motivational posters and a small group of students wearing scrubs. I noticed none of the distinguishing markers of a traditional institution of higher education: no student center, cafeteria or library.
At the end of a hallway we entered a classroom furnished with lab tables and a life-sized plastic skeleton. We stood, crammed side by side, while a medical assistant instructor addressed us. The pitch was familiar: Everest is hands-on and a lot of fun. After her speech, she entertained the high school students with gory tales from her time working in a hospital.
At the end of the tour, I received a complimentary coffee mug and a firm handshake from Rios, and was sent on my way. Sitting in my car in the parking lot, I contemplated what had transpired. The surfeit of smil