Spurred by a “Why are you in college?” discussion I held with my Penn State composition students one day late last semester when rumors swirled of potential state education funding cuts and tuition hikes, an enthusiastic freshman journalism/English major from outside of Pittsburgh came to my office to “talk about her future.” She’s a good writer, works hard, talks a few times per class. She got right to the point: “Can I get a job with an English degree?”
I wanted to tell her not to worry about the college-to-job equation, that she’s in college to broaden her mind, to question, to grow intellectually -- all the learning clichés that hold true. And anyway, what gets a person a job? Solely a degree typed on a resume? The direct skills learned within the major? The subtle, everyday-acquired social and organizational and problem-solving skills? But it is pompous and insular for me to expect my students -- most 18 or 19 years old -- to consider scoffing at this simplified college-to-job equation and just learn for learning’s sake -- meaning, maybe, that hard learning now should lead to a solid, dare I say, happy, future. Be it as it may.
After all, I can relate. I began college in 1999 as a business major because that was the box I checked off on my college application. I slogged through a year of accounting and management classes that I couldn’t get interested in. My sophomore year, on a whim, I took Literature of the Jazz Age and Introduction to Creative Nonfiction Writing, and I found myself thinking about these classes outside of the classroom: I imagined Langston Hughes’s character Simple rambling down a busy Harlem street; I felt driven to write at length about my experience as a counselor at a fledgling summer camp for children from low-income families. In short, literature and writing just clicked for me. So I filled out a change-of-major form, following what I guess I could have defined as my…fervor. (Let’s not use the “passion” word yet.) I was, then, an English major.
But while I was getting into the major, it seemed like everyone else was getting out. William M. Chace, former president of Emory and Wesleyan, writes in The American Scholar that from 1971 to 2004 humanities majors at universities dropped from 30 percent of students to 16 percent, while English majors dropped from 7.6 percent to 3.9. Coincidentally, business majors increased from 13.7 percent to 21.9. It was not easy for me making the jump in major. Business, while tedious to me, did feel practical, safe. I perceived some sort of direct path to a company, but I also never seemed to care to read The Wall Street Journal or think about business ideas or controversies that interested some of my classmates. The English degree was exactly not safe, some might say even impractical, but in my new classes I felt more secure than I had in years. Did I think about a job? No. Was it a difficult time? Yes. Does it matter? I don’t know.
Many of my Penn State students hail from blue-collar households, while some are the first in their families to attend college. It’s clear that many of them view college as purely an investment or a transaction: pay large amounts of money (often from loans) to learn defined skills to land a job. The 2009 “Educational Planning Survey,” conducted by the Division of Undergraduate Studies at Penn State, asked students to select one reason out of a list of nine for attending college. Out of 16,693 Penn State first-year students, almost 50 percent selected “To prepare for a vocation, learn what I have to know in order to enter a particular career,” with “To pursue scholarly activities for intellectual development” a distant second. Third, “To discover and develop my own talents,” and fourth, “To become more mature, learn how to take on responsibility and become an adult.”
I can assume that at least half of my students are in college primarily to get a job. Do they actually worry about procuring a job (even in their freshman year) or is that just their parents speaking through them? Is their future a looming monster, an opportunity, or something foggier? Could the pressure they’re feeling be a result of the depressed economy, the general uncertainty this new generation faces, or some gloppy mix? Whatever reason, that pressure is real and feels heavier than when I was in school. According to the 2010 Survey of America’s College Students conducted by the Panetta Institute For Public Policy, “Fully 68 percent of college students worry very (37 percent) or fairly often (31 percent) about finding a good-paying quality job.” This is up from 60 percent from 2009.
As my composition student posed her “Can I get a job with an English degree?” question, I imagined myself in a similar position nearly a dozen years before, wide-eyed, talking similarly with the very understanding philosophy professor who taught my freshman seminar. I could have told my student that, like her, I had eventually declared as an English major, that teaching here was my fifth job, not all of which were academic. I’ve done fine, not great, if we’re basing career success on earnings. (This could be you! I wanted to joke, looking down at my scuffed dress shoes.)
But there’s a fundamental difference between me and my students: I graduated college with zero debt in a much stronger economy. Being debt-free has significantly altered my post-college path. My first year out of college, I interned for a professional football team in Florida and made about $1.50 an hour. But I didn’t have loans to pay back, my rent was cheap, and even though I didn’t stay in the sports management field, the internship helped me land other jobs. (It’s a good interview conversation-starter. Working this internship also showed me what I didn’t want.) Most of my students won’t be this lucky. According to the annual report from the Project on Student Debt, 2009 graduating seniors had an average student loan debt of $24,000, up from $22,750 in 2008. Unemployment for recent college graduates also increased from 5.8 percent in 2008 to 8.7 percent in 2009. The numbers are even higher in Pennsylvania: 72 percent of graduating students have debt, with the average student debt falling just over $27,000.
Will this debt keep my students from pursuing graduate school? Will it force them to take a job they don’t want? To forgo a low-paying or unpaid internship? Is it a stretch to call this unenviable situation the students’ Academic Purgatory?
“You could go to law school?” I advised my student. I mentally chastised myself: if she likes her literature and writing courses, she should work hard at them and not worry about a job in three years. But then I found us discussing the ways in which the field of journalism is changing at warp speed and how one needs to adjust to these changes; I mentioned the words “internship” and “experience” and “writing samples.” I just couldn’t find it in me to say what I truly believed: just write, and read a lot, and have complicated conversations with your peers, and don’t be afraid to try to be smart and nerdy. Follow what feels right; that’s why you’re here. That’s what I did, and… look at me. At the time I was an adjunct instructor making under $3,000 per course. No health insurance. I taught at two Penn State campuses to try to stay afloat.
Okay, bad example.
But instead the two English majors — one entrenched and one unsure she belongs — talked on of this real-world, job-related stuff. And I don’t feel bad about that.
Nine years out of college my English degree is beginning to “pay off” in the traditional college-to-job equation, if that’s how we want to look at it. At the end of the semester I was promoted to a full-time lecturer at Penn State. While I’m not tenure-track, my salary jumped, and more importantly the job comes with good health coverage and benefits. But finding this sort of stability took longer than it did for most of my high school and college friends, and most of them out-earn me. Sure, maybe I could have taken my degree to a PR firm or law school or, well, Target or stayed at any of my past jobs, but at the end of the day, I’m following what years later I’m realizing is my passion. I’ve felt plain happier, far more intellectually challenged and emotionally fulfilled teaching at the college level than I have as that football intern or working in alumni relations at a college or tutoring in a writing center, or teaching tenth graders. I’m energized working with college students — I believe truly that every one of them has important ideas, or can develop these, and express them at various levels on paper. As long as they show genuine effort, I will work hard to help them become better writers in whatever their futures hold.
Sure, I get frustrated; last semester (my final as an adjunct) my fourth composition class in a 14-hour day was an evening class composed of 25 students, 22 of them male, and most of whom worked jobs during the day. At 8 p.m. these students weren’t exactly eager to discuss variety in sentence structure or in-text citations. (No, the period goes outside the parenthesis!) So when I’d catch some of these students chirping at each other or texting, I admit it was easy for me to loathe them. (Do they think I don’t notice them gazing at their crotches? Or do they just not care?)
It would be just as easy to say: Screw it. I’m tired, I’m not paid well enough for this crap, and some (many? all?) of you don’t want to be here anyway.
To hang it up and find a cubicle.
But then, as if arriving on tiptoe, things like this happen: late that semester I gave this fourth class of the day a copy of David Foster Wallace’s 2005 commencement speech at Kenyon College. In the speech, Wallace discusses breaking from our “natural, hardwired default setting, which is to be deeply and literally self-centered,” and “being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.”
That advice, I think, has little to do with the “practical” learning many of the students are expecting. I stress grammar and clear thesis statements and structure in essays and steps to writing and rewriting. We do all that repeatedly – building defined skills – but I would be remiss if I didn’t often slide in these nuanced pieces, and just listen to and challenge what the students had to say.
My students read the piece quietly, and as they finished they didn’t joke with one another or snicker as they are sometimes wont to do. Not a one whipped out a cell phone to text. This sounds hugely airy, but they were simply, I believe, thinking in the moment. Not two or three or whatever years ahead, as many of us fall prey to. And as is typical, I asked them to write. A few minutes later they spoke reverently, and I admit, surprisingly, about owning their thoughts in traffic or the coffee line, or about being more aware of what other people might be thinking in a particular situation. They listened to each other. They pondered a different reading of Wallace’s words after we discussed his suicide. A few students appeared visibly angry, said his premature death should wipe out his words. Others defended him and cited the complications of depression.
This discussion, and similar others, would qualify as “pursu[ing] scholarly activities for intellectual development,” what one could call the “little brother reason” for attending college on Penn State’s “Education Planning Survey.” How many of my students checked off this box? For many, I’m sure it’s not their primary reason for attending college.
Without the college classroom there is little refuge for these discussions. I can understand that many of my students are focused on jobs, and of course universities should teach the skills necessary for obtaining them, but I ask my students to also try to remain open to those learning clichés of a diverse core curriculum: to broaden one’s mind, to question and to grow intellectually. To find what the heck one enjoys doing, and then doing it well. Those skills, along with the skills attained in their major, will prepare students for beyond a job, for the myriad things that they will encounter in their future.
Eventually we ran out of time. The students filed out of the classroom, and feeling for a few minutes so fully satisfied, a floating man liberated of money and job title and slapdash insurance and general worry, I decided to linger. Despite my flimsy position at the university, this little brother reason — pursuing scholarly activities for intellectual development, being stimulated, challenged, and bumping minds with other people around me — is the reason I’m here. And I realize I’ve been making this decision since I signed that change-of-major form way back in my college days. I’ve been choosing this little brother reason for years. I heard voices coming from the hall, the students absconding to their cars or dorms and whatever lay ahead of them. The voices were loud and soft. I stood in the empty classroom a beat or two longer.
Casey Wiley teaches writing at Pennsylvania State University.
Complaints about student writing have always been with us. In 1893 James Jay Greenough wrote in The Atlantic Monthly, "A great outcry has been made lately, on every side, about the inability of the students admitted to Harvard College to write English clearly and correctly... The [preparatory] schools are to-day paying more attention to composition than they did 20 or 30 years ago; and yet, notwithstanding this increased study and practice, the writing of schoolboys has been growing steadily worse... With all this practice in writing and time devoted to English, why do we not obtain better results?"
When Greenough wrote this in the late 19th century, many colleges were growing more concerned about student writing and, following Harvard's lead, moving to require expository writing courses. With first-year composition and writing across the curriculum now long-established, complaints today are more likely to be aimed at removing or reforming rather than adding writing requirements.
Every year or two you can pretty much count on someone standing up in a faculty senate meeting and posing a variation on Greenough's question: With all the course requirements devoted to writing, why do we not obtain better results? Complaints about other competencies -- public speaking, critical thinking, quantitative proficiency, scientific literacy, historical knowledge -- also circulate, but complaints about writing are more universal, more persistent, and more likely to be delivered in a tone bordering on disgust. What is it about writing that triggers so much anxiety?
When a faculty member at the University of Connecticut questioned our policy of requiring two advanced writing-intensive (W) courses in 2008, the senate formed a W Course Task Force to consider the future of our writing requirement. The task force included faculty from a variety of disciplines, directors of selected campus writing programs, and staff from several departments (advising, library, public relations).
The task force met for two years to consider whether to revise, reduce, or retain our upper-level writing requirement. We devoted the first year to planning how best to carry out our charge, consulting research on writing across the curriculum, and reviewing both institutional data and assessment projects from our university, which revealed areas for improvement but also affirmed much that was going well.
In both years we discussed current national controversies about writing, including the findings in Richard Arum and Josipa Roksa's controversial Academically Adrift: Limited Learning on College Campuses,which finds that students taking courses requiring more than 20 pages of writing per semester and more than 40 pages of reading per week scored higher on the Collegiate Learning Assessment, and previous studies revealing that the frequency of sentence-level errors in student writing (grammar errors per 100 words) has remained remarkably consistent since 1917, even if the kinds of mistakes that students make have changed over time.
Because we needed more local knowledge, in our second year we conducted two surveys (one of faculty members, one of students who had taken W courses) and a dozen focus groups (half with faculty members, half with students).
The student and faculty focus groups were perhaps the most useful thing we did. Indeed, we found that questions about the W requirement regularly led to deeper conversations about teaching and learning, ones that traditional workshops haven't got us to but that professors were eager to discuss.
Five key findings emerged. A healthy majority of faculty members and students support our W requirement despite a vocal minority against it (72 percent of faculty members preferred either the current two-course requirement or three or more courses; 61 percent of students were similarly inclined). Students value faculty feedback above all else in helping them improve their writing. Professors also see feedback as the key to teaching writing, but they worry that what they're doing isn't working well. The efficacy of using peer review in teaching is a point of real debate, and even some of those who believe in it struggle to make it succeed in their classrooms. (Peer review is not required, although making revision a central part of the course is.) And many faculty and students believe that several shorter writing assignments are more effective than a single large end-of-semester writing project. (At least 15 pages of formal writing must be assigned, but instructors can apportion assignments in whatever way they think best.)
Ultimately we didn't recommend a change of policy, nor did the senate propose any changes, which might seem like a non-outcome, or as if the committee's work was an empty exercise (which some colleagues predicted it would be -- just another series of committee meetings and a report for the files).
The real outcome, as we discovered only midway through, was the quality of the dialogue in the focus groups. While we organized them with a utilitarian aim to gather opinion and supplement the survey data, many of the sessions grew into opportunities for sharing teaching ideas, comparing assignments, debating the merits of pedagogical strategies such as peer review, and speculating on how students grow as writers from one course to another. Focus groups gave faculty that rare peek into each other's teaching practices and became venues not just for opinion gathering but also for faculty development.
Our university sponsors its fair share of teaching workshops, and the usual suspects show up time after time. Compared to those, the task force focus groups brought a wider range of people into the room, and the talk was more animated, perhaps because university policies were at stake. This pleasantly unintended consequence has given us a cue about faculty development that focuses on improving teaching. Not all faculty development sessions should to start with teaching strategies. Some might also start by considering high-stakes policy questions -- even cranky complaints. Good talk about teaching is likely to follow.
Thomas Lawrence Long
Pamela Bedore, Tom Deans, and Thomas Lawrence Long are on the faculty at the University of Connecticut. Bedore is assistant professor of English and writing coordinator for the Avery Point campus; Deans is associate professor of English and director of the University Writing Center; and Long is associate professor-in-residence with joint appointments in the School of Nursing and the department of English.
I gave a paper recently as part of a colloquium at George Washington University whose general title was "Futures of the Field." The tension in that plural -- "Future s" -- carried the weight of much of what I had to say about the current state of literary study.
My audience and I were seated around a seminar table in what has long been called, and continues to be called, an "English" department. The name "English," I pointed out, designates a primary activity involving the reading and interpreting of literary texts in English. (This would include foreign literature translated into English.) If we want primarily to involve ourselves with historical texts, we go over to the history department; philosophical, the philosophy department, and so forth. What distinguishes our department, as Judith Halberstam wrote in her essay, is the "appraisal of aesthetic complexity through close readings." Not philosophical or historical, but aesthetic complexity.
This model of the English department, and the carefully chosen canon of great aesthetic works which comprised its content, has in most colleges and universities collapsed. The value and nature of our reading (that is, when English departments feature reading at all, film, television, music, and material culture courses having displaced to some extent written texts in many schools), has radically changed, with the inclusion of cheap detective novels and poorly written political essays, for instance, now routine in departments that used to disdain prose that exhibited little aesthetic complexity and/or stylistic distinction.
On the other end, there's also now the inclusion of notoriously over-complex -- to the point of unintelligibility, never mind stylistic ugliness -- advanced critical texts in our courses. A character in Don DeLillo's White Noise says of his university's English department, "There are full professors in this place who do nothing but read cereal box tops." But there are as many professors there who read nothing but the densest, most arcane, and most poorly written critical theory.
All of which is to say that there is no "field," so there can't be any "future" or even "futures." That "s" in our GW lecture series title is trying to reassure us that instead of a profession-killing chaos what we have now is a profession-enhancing variety, richness, flexibility, ferment, inclusiveness, choose your reassuring adjective. Yet when there's not even a broadly conceived field of valuable objects around which we all agree our intellectual and pedagogical activity should revolve, there's no discipline of any kind.
Instead, there's a strong tendency, as Louis Menand puts it, toward "a predictable and aimless eclecticism." A young English professor who has a column under the name Thomas Hart Benton in The Chronicle of Higher Education puts it this way: "I can't even figure out what 'English' is anymore, after ten years of graduate school and five years on the tenure track. I can't understand eighty percent of PMLA, the discipline's major journal. I can't talk to most people in my own profession, not that we have anything to say to each other. We don't even buy one another's books; apparently they are not worth reading. We complain about how awful everything is, how there's no point to continuing, but nobody has any idea what to do next."
The English department mainly survives as a utilitarian administrative conceit, while the English profession operates largely as a hiring and credentialing extension of that conceit.
If we wish to say that we've retained disciplinary integrity based on our continued close attention to texts of all kinds -- aesthetic and non-aesthetic -- that sharpen our ideological clarity about the world (or, as Menand puts it, texts that allow us to "examine the political implications of culture through the study of representations"), then we have already conceded the death of the English department, as Halberstam rightly notes. Indeed, since highly complex aesthetic texts tend to be concerned with personal, moral, and spiritual, rather than political, matters, we shouldn't be surprised to find in Halberstam an outright hostility to precisely the imaginative written texts in English that have more or less from the outset comprised the English department's objects of value and communal study.
Menand notes that the "crisis of rationale" I'm describing here has had serious negative consequences. Among a number of humanities departments that are losing disciplinary definition, English, he says, is the most advanced in this direction: "English has become almost completely post-disciplinary." (Menand has earlier pointed out the inaccuracy of another reassuring word -- interdisciplinary: "The collapse of disciplines must mean the collapse of interdisciplinarity as well; for interdisciplinarity is the ratification of the logic of disciplinarity. The very term implies respect for the discrete perspectives of different disciplines.") The absence of disciplines means the "collapse of consensus about the humanities curriculum," and this at a time of rapidly escalating outside scrutiny of the intellectual organization and justification of the expensive American university.
Further, "the discipline acts as a community that judges the merit of its members' work by community standards." When there's no self-defining and self-justifying community, English departments, Menand continues, become easy marks for downsizing administrators. "Administrators would love to melt down the disciplines, since this would allow them to deploy faculty more efficiently - and the claim that disciplinarity represents a factitious organization of knowledge is as good an excuse as any. Why support separate medievalists in your history department, your English department, your French department, and your art history department, none of them probably attracting huge enrollments, when you can hire one interdisciplinary super-medievalist and install her in a Medieval Studies program whose survival can be made to depend on its ability to attract outside funding?"
Halberstam acknowledges these effects and proposes that we "update our field before it is updated by some administrations wishing to downsize the humanities." By "update," though, she means provide a decent burial: "The discipline is dead, we willingly killed it," and we must "now decide what should replace it." In place of the "elitism" inherent in close readings of aesthetically complex works, Halberstam proposes an education in "plot summary," a better skill for making sense of our current reactionary political moment (as Halberstam sees it).
Indeed throughout her essay, Halberstam attacks religious Americans, conflating religious seriousness with politically reactionary positions.
Now, a huge amount of Western culture's high literature involves religious seriousness. If, like Halberstam, you regard contemporary America as a fundamentalist nightmare, and if your very definition of the American university is that it is, as she writes, "the last place in this increasingly conservative and religious country to invest in critical and counter-hegemonic discourse," then you have a problem. You either want to steer your students away from much of this literature, since, though perhaps not fundamentalist, it assumes a world permeated with religious belief (or, as in much literary modernism of Kafka's sort, as suffering from an absence of belief), or you want to present this literature in a way that undermines, to the extent possible, its own status as a document that takes religion seriously.
It's just this sort of cognitive dissonance relative to the very body of knowledge that, as an English professor, Halberstam has been trained to teach, that in part accounts for the death of English. Halberstam's primary motive as a university professor is political and social - she has situated herself in an American university because that location is our last best hope for changing the politics of the country. Indeed, if there is a "consensus" about anything in many English departments, it lies here, in the shared conviction, articulated by Halberstam, that focusing upon and changing immediate political arrangements in this country is our primary function as teachers and scholars.
One assumes, that is, a socially utilitarian attitude toward what one teaches.
There was nothing inevitable about this turn outward to the immediate exigencies of the political and social world, by the way. As Theodor Adorno writes in Minima Moralia, the intellectual is, more often than not, "cut off from practical life; revulsion from it has driven him to concern himself with so-called things of the mind." But this withdrawal also drives the intellectual's critical power: "Only someone who keeps himself in some measure pure has hatred, nerves, freedom, and mobility enough to oppose the world."
No one's arguing here that we return to a very narrow canon, to uncritical piety in regard to the literature of our culture, and to monastic withdrawal from the world. Instead, what I'd like to suggest is that we return to the one discrete thing that our discipline used to do, and still, in certain departments, does.
A few years back, in The New York Review of Books, Andrew Delbanco, an English professor at Columbia University, announced "the sad news… that teachers of literature have lost faith in their subject and themselves… . English today exhibits the contradictory attributes of a religion in its late phase - a certain desperation to attract converts, combined with an evident lack of convinced belief in its own scriptures and traditions."
Delbanco continues: "The even sadder news is that although students continue to come to the university with the human craving for contact with works of art that somehow register one's own longings and yet exceed what one has been able to articulate by and for oneself, this craving now, more often than not, goes unfulfilled, because the teachers of these students have lost faith." In similar language, Robert Scholes writes, "As our Romantic faith in the spiritual value of literary texts has waned, we have found ourselves more and more requiring knowledge about texts instead of encouraging the direct experience of these texts."
Notice the language here: direct experience, contact. The political and more broadly theoretical abstractions that have been thrown over the artwork from the outset, as it's often presented in class, block precisely this complex, essentially aesthetic experience. This experience, triggered by a patient engagement of some duration with challenging and beautiful language, by entry into a thickly layered world which gives shape and substance to one's own inchoate "cravings" and "longings," is the very heart, the glory, of the literary. Students -- some students -- arrive at the university with precisely these powerful ontological energies. Certain novels, poems, and plays, if they let them, can surprise these students, both with their anticipation of particularly acute states of consciousness, and their placement of those consciousnesses within formally ordered literary structures.
One of the noblest and most disciplinarily discrete things we can do in the classroom is to take those ontological drives seriously, to suggest ways in which great works of art repeatedly honor and clarify them as they animate them through character, style, and point of view.
One of the least noble and most self-defeating things we can do is avert our student's eye from the peculiar, delicate, and enlightening transaction I'm trying to describe here. When we dismiss this transaction as merely "moral" -- or as proto-religious -- rather than political, when we rush our students forward to formulated political beliefs, we fail them and we fail literature. Humanistic education is a slow process of assimilation, without any clear real-world point to it. We should trust our students enough to guide them lightly as they work their way toward the complex truths literature discloses.
Margaret Soltan's blog, University Diaries, chronicles all aspects of contemporary American university life.Â HerÂ essay "Don DeLillo and Loyalty to Reality"Â appears in the MLA's forthcoming Approaches to Teaching White Noise. She and Jennifer Green-Lewis are completing a manuscript titled The Promise of Happiness: The Return of Beauty to Literary Studies.