Each November, I find myself in coffee shops with friends' children, guiding them through college application essays. Reading their work is an incredible privilege—a window into their lives that they sometimes don't share with their own parents. I discover the ethical challenges they've faced, obstacles they've conquered, their vibrant communities, their families, their aspirations. Through multiple drafts, I ask questions and encourage deeper reflection. These young people, who thought they had all the answers, realize there's always more to learn, more to express, more that can be achieved. The transformation from first draft to final submission is remarkable.

This process always takes me back to my own college applications. I applied to nine prestigious universities—Harvard, Princeton, Berkeley, Stanford, Dartmouth, Georgetown, among others. My debate team friends and I were confident, perhaps overly so. We had earnest discussions about whether we'd turn down Stanford for Berkeley, or Harvard for Stanford. When the acceptance and rejection letters arrived, reality hit hard: of those nine applications, only my safety school accepted me. Of course, my safety school was UC Berkeley, which speaks volumes, but I learned a profound lesson in humility that year. I'm better for it.

This brings me to my puzzlement over cases like Abigail Fisher's lawsuit against the University of Texas, which reached the US Supreme Court. Despite being an average student, the University of Texas maintains she simply didn't meet their standards. Yet she's convinced that affirmative action and less-qualified minorities are the reason for her rejection. This case has also drawn Asian Americans into a complex conversation about admissions policies.

Many have examined the legal aspects of this case, and they're intricate. But I'm intrigued by the sense of entitlement that makes her so certain that others are to blame for her rejection.

Fisher claims attending the University of Texas was her dream since second grade, following in her father and sister's footsteps. If that's true, why didn't she work harder to achieve better grades? She had ten years to prepare, to seek tutoring, to expand her knowledge. Even after rejection, why didn't she improve her performance at Louisiana State University and transfer after a year or two? She's certain a University of Texas degree would have secured better job prospects than her Louisiana State University degree. I wonder: How many times did she revise her college application essay? How many people reviewed her work? How many times did she take the SAT? Did she enroll in an SAT prep course to boost her scores? What were her extracurricular activities like? How close to the deadline did she submit her application? If she truly cared deeply, she shouldn't have cut it close—she should have ensured everything was perfect.

In some ways, this reflects what many Asian Americans do—recognizing the disadvantages of discrimination and the glass ceiling, they try to compensate. (Then they're criticized for gaming the system.) I tell my children that if something matters, they shouldn't hover on the borderline. If they truly want something, they need to make sure they're solid. Otherwise, there are no guarantees. They've each learned this lesson through experience.

This sense of entitlement also appears in the Republican Party's bitter reaction to losing the Presidential election. Some suggest they lost because so many women and people of color turned out to vote. But women and people of color are supposed to vote. I don't understand why, instead of blaming others or attempting to manipulate the system, it doesn't occur to them to become a different kind of leader—one who appeals to all the people in this country.