Access to a nation's top universities for even the poorest of its citizens is a hallmark of a fair and merit-based society, where familial associations and geographic proximity matter less than a student's character, academic performance, and community outreach—in short, his or her readiness to enter an institution of such stature. While I cannot attest to the experiences of all applicants, much less my peers in the U.S., my experience highlights the potential faults of a system that runs counter to this ideal.

I grew up in a mid-sized city in southeastern China. I always knew what I had to do to get into the best universities in China, the same as everybody else: score highly on the college entrance exam. I knew that it didn't matter if I came from a family with average income, lived in a less developed area, or had parents who weren’t alumni of famous colleges. All that mattered was me—what I did, how determined I was, and yes, how smart I was. But in reality, that mattered less than the other factors.

I didn't much like that system as I grew up, when the pressures of school and peer competition forced me to give up so much of what I enjoyed. I griped about doing homework late into the night, going to school on Saturdays (starting in grade 9), and having hardly any time to do what I liked. But what kept me going was that ultimate ticket to a better life: going to a prestigious university. This sentiment is shared by many in China. Education is seen as a pathway to a better life largely because the Gaokao puts everyone on equal footing when it comes to college admissions.

I started thinking about applying to universities in the U.S. in 10th grade. It wasn't that my school grades were bad—far from it. I regularly scored better than 97% of my peers at school. But I wanted to give myself a second option to an equally prestigious school in America. If I could get into a top 10 university in China, I reasoned, it should be possible for me to get into an equivalent one in America. The initial signs looked promising. With just a month or two of intermittent preparation, I scored a 1590 on the SAT. I knew that it meant much less than the Gaokao; perhaps thousands, if not tens of thousands, of students had grades as good as or better than mine, but it had to count for something, right? Otherwise, what's the point of having a standardized test at all?

The following May, after a half year of preparation while continuing my busy studies at school, I got three 5s and a 4 on the AP exams. (The 4 was in English Language and Composition, with which I had no help with whatsoever.) If that didn't show initiative, I don't know what did. I effectively had 10 subjects to learn at the same time and still managed to get good grades.

Contrary to the stereotype of Asian kids studying endlessly, I also had a life outside of academics. I ran a half-marathon this November after months of training, I have been the editor-in-chief of this newspaper since its inception, and I participate in extracurricular activities. Yet, despite my hard work and achievements, I faced a harsh reality when it came to college admissions.

I have thought long and hard about why I got rejected, rather than being deferred, which would be a better alternative. And I will be the first to admit that the problem lies with me first, and with the circumstances I have been dealt second. But I hesitate to say that I would have certainly met the same fate had I had access to the kinds of opportunities students in rich places had.

If colleges are able to consider your achievements on competitions and extracurricular programs that only the most privileged percentile of students enjoy, it will necessarily cause them to devalue the achievements of equally bright and talented students from lower down the social ladder.