Suppose it’s been discovered that a person’s thoughts can be mapped from a close examination of the physiology of the person’s brain and, à la Fantastic Voyage, that humans can be shrunk to the size where they can be injected into the brain of another to perform such an examination. If this happened to an instructor of a college course so the instructor was able to get at the inner thinking of his students, what discoveries would he make? In what ways would he be surprised by what he learned?
Of course, the above remains science fiction rather than science. What might really be done in lieu of the shrinkage capability and the taking of such a fantastic voyage so the instructor can understand how students think? An instructor needs some sense of his students’ minds for making the various practical decisions in teaching a course. How difficult should the content be? What examples would well illustrate the subject matter? How can student interest be sustained during the class session? On what basis are such questions answered?
In a recent Opinionator column at The New York Times site, Paul Bloom asks: Just how successful are we at seeing the world as others see it?
His answer, consistent with Daniel Kahneman’s depiction of how people come to believe things as described in his book Thinking Fast and Slow, is that we are overly confident about this capability. We think we are reasonably competent in our projections about the worldviews of others, when in fact we are not good at this at all. Bloom writes [my emphasis added]:
“These failures should motivate a certain humility when it comes to dealing with the lives of others. Instead of assuming that we can know what it is like to be them, we should focus more on listening to what they have to say. This isn’t perfect -- people sometimes lie, or are confused, or deluded -- but it’s by far the best method of figuring out the needs, desires and histories of people who are different from us. It also shows more respect than a clumsy attempt to get into their skins; I agree with the essayist Leslie Jamison, who describes empathy as ‘perched precariously between gift and invasion.’”
The unmistakable message for instructors is that they need to find ways for their students to speak up and then they need to pay attention to what the students have to say. One way I have found to do this is by having the students write weekly blog posts, which I comment on and to which they then respond in kind, in advance of a class session that brings in what the students say in their posts as part of the discussion. I first wrote about this in a column from five years ago. I have repeatedly tweaked the approach since and used it in a variety of different classes. The current description reflects a more mature approach and is based on the class I currently teach, The Economics of Organizations, which is offered each fall.
I would like to discuss a different way to get at what students have to say that I tried this past spring, but first I want to note that the blogging and commenting builds a kind of trust between the students and me. In the language of the course, trust is a reputational asset, which has potential for producing return after the course has concluded. Students occasionally make use of this asset by asking the instructor to supervise them in an independent study project or to get the instructor to serve as a reference for them when applying to graduate school. But this use is highly idiosyncratic to the student.
I have recently reread the Boyer Commission Report, and in it there is a recommendation that every first-year student be part of a faculty-led seminar aimed at such students. Were this recommendation to be fully adopted in spite of the tough budget times we find ourselves in, there might be some follow-up that is more systematic and is driven by the institution to leverage the reputational asset that would emerge from this teaching setting. My example, described below, is perhaps suggestive of what such a systematic approach might be like.
Near the tail end of my class last fall, an upper-level undergraduate class that attracts mainly juniors and seniors, I invited the students to join me in a weekly discussion group for the spring. I had tried something similar the year before, but it failed then. There weren’t enough takers. This time around three students indicated interest. That was sufficient for us to get going. Indeed we started during the intersession between the two semesters, and except for the week of spring break went through till finals week. There were a few stumbles on the way, as this was a voluntary activity and these students were very busy with other things. We persevered nonetheless. I will now sketch our process and what I learned about the students from the discussion.
Note that opting in to the discussion group implies something other than a random selection from the class. Twenty-three students completed the course. Each of the three students from the discussion group received an A in the class, with the course grade not contingent on participating in the discussion group. (About 43 percent of all students got an A.) Each was an international student (about one-third of the total). Two were from China, the other from Korea. They were all double majors, with one of these majors economics. They were very diligent about their studies and took their grades quite seriously, much more so than I ever did when I was a student. They also enjoyed the friendly banter we had in the discussion group and would smile quite readily. Humor was part of the glue that held the group together.
There is something admirable about taking college courses in other than one’s own native language and to do so many thousands of miles away from home. These are acts of courage. In many ways these students are models for what we’d like to see from all students who go to college. Yet there is also something amiss, not covered in taking this model student view. These students were terribly overprogrammed, in my judgment. The Korean student, for example, whose other major is Electrical and Computer Engineering -- an unlikely combination in my experience, but he told me that he had an interest in patents, which explained the engineering part -- was taking 23 credit hours this spring. He accomplished this Herculean feat by not sleeping much at all, claiming to average only about three hours per night.
The other students were taking only 18 or 19 credit hours, but one of them was working two jobs in addition, while the other had quite a variety of extracurricular activity in registered student organizations. Indeed, being tired on a recurrent basis was an ongoing theme in our discussion.
My reason for starting the discussion group was that I thought students in my class were insufficiently creative in going about their studies. I wanted to see whether I might influence them to take a more experimental and rewarding approach to their learning in their other courses. As we already had the blogging mechanism from the course, we agreed that each week one of the group would write a post on the topic for that week (I would prompt the post author on that) and the others would write comments, this ahead of the group meeting to make sure everyone was ready and up to speed for the discussion, which occurred Friday afternoons at 3 p.m. and would last from 90 minutes to two hours.
We covered a variety of topics. As the University of China at Illinois piece had appeared soon before we got started, it informed our early sessions. We then talked about flow, my own variant of which I’ve called mental puttering, intrinsic and extrinsic motivation, inquiry cycles à la John Dewey, procrastination and deferred gratification, Atul Gawande’s "The Bell Curve" on how an experimental approach that goes beyond known research is needed to achieve superior performance, straying from the crowd, and a host of other topics. The conversations were engaging and fun, yet I was getting a lot of pushback on the underlying message, which I admit was a bit of proselytizing by me in favor of creativity.
About two months in I was frustrated by our lack of progress on my goals, so I did a simulation in our discussion of the deep sort of thinking that I believe is at the heart of creativity. We spent the first 40 minutes or so by doing a deconstruction of one sentence that the blog poster for that week had written. One question would follow another as we tried to find meaning from this investigation. For the first 35 minutes or so, they were into it. Then they tired and their eyes glazed over. Afterward they told me the experience was new to them. They had never thought about such a small idea in such a deep way, looking at it from all angles, trying to understand all the implications. They already knew how to get an A in their classes.
We did make a bit more progress on the point that college was supposed to achieve a dual purpose, with one of those an investigation into self to understand what makes one tick and what gives one pleasure and satisfaction. On this the students could see how the more creative approach would be appealing. But to them it seemed to come at too high a cost in terms of success at college, possibly jeopardizing their future careers.
The sessions that had the most learning for me came near the end of the semester, when I became aware of the students' high school experiences, the intense drilling they received in preparation for exams, and that pleasure reading, play and spontaneity in the learning were drummed out of them at that time. Their stories were both fascinating and horrifying. The cultures in which they were raised expects extraordinary discipline and very hard work to win the day while at the same time having the students entirely yield to the judgment of others as to what is intellectually appealing and worthy of engagement. Consequently, as committed as these students are, they are not masters of their own thinking.
Apart from the intense acculturation, let me mention two causes that feed the credential game these students are playing. One is that they pay tuition at international student rates, so college is quite expensive for them. They are not wealthy and need to get good return on that investment. Building a strong résumé is one overt way to generate such a return. The other is that they are playing a kind of Prisoner’s Dilemma with their fellow students. If the others produced less impressive credentials, they might treat their own education more as self-nurture and less as signal for the labor market. Self-nurture loses, however, when everyone else is playing the credential game.
The Prisoner’s Dilemma produces an individually rational but socially destructive outcome. How can we change the game in a way to make the outcome better?
Lanny Arvan is emeritus associate professor of economics at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.
A few hours after last week's murder of a television reporter and her cameraman in Moneta, Va. -- broadcast live, as it was happening, on a local morning news program -- the killer released his own video. Evidently recorded with a digital camera carried at eye level, it puts the viewer in his place as he walks towards his victims. Once at point-blank range, the gun in his right hand enters the bottom of the screen, moving unsteadily for a few (very long) seconds, taking aim and firing.
The killer made sure this unsettling document went public via social media. Before long, someone had combined it with footage of the shooting as it had aired on television to create a synchronized split-screen record of the event, like a scene in a Brian De Palma movie. I've read about this mash-up but not seen it, and won't, and will refrain from speculating on why anyone considered it a potential worth realizing. (Watching the TV clip and the killer's point-of-view video on the day of the shootings left me feeling morally compromised enough, thank you very much.)
But the whole obscene spectacle echoes a number of points made by Franco Berardi in Heroes: Mass Murder and Suicide, published by Verso this spring -- a book I have considered discussing in this column for a couple of months now, while also wanting to avoid it for reasons that the author himself would clearly understand. “Crime, mass murders, suicide -- these are not subjects for a good-natured guy,” he writes. “I’m not a morbid person …. Nevertheless, at the end of summer 2012, I started writing this text almost in a state of rapture, half-consciously, dragged by a sort of excitement and curiosity, and primarily driven by the perception that here, in these dark subjects, there is something peculiar to the spirit of our time.”
The author, who also goes by the nickname Bifo, teaches the social history of communication at the Accademia di belle Arti in Milan and worked with Radio Alice, the now legendary pirate radio station that broadcast in Italy during the mid-1970s. (He gave an interesting interview about Radio Alice in 2010.)
The summer of 2012, when Berardi started writing the new book, was also when James Holmes opened fire on the audience of a late-night screening of a Batman film in Aurora, Colo., killing a dozen people and wounding many more. Holmes entered the theater wearing paramilitary gear (gloves, gas mask, helmet, etc.) and a number of survivors remarked that their first thought was that he was engaged in a publicity stunt or some kind of fan role play. One patron resorted to a cinematic reference to describe the scene after Holmes opened fire: “The guy looked like the Terminator. He didn’t say anything. He was just shooting and shooting and shooting.”
Berardi followed the news, struck by the idea that Holmes “wanted to eliminate the separation between the spectator and the movie; he wanted to be in the movie.” And in that regard Holmes belongs to a subset of the spree killers of recent years -- those who document themselves, leaving behind diaries, written or video, as well as detailed explanations for why they are doing what they do. They don't just kill people at random and then, usually, themselves. They prepare press kits first. (Holmes did not kill himself, but suicide by cop seems at least a very probable outcome of any such incident.)
Other cases Berardi writes about are Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, the Columbine killers, and Seung-Hui Cho, who massacred 32 people at Virginia Tech in 2007. But the phenomenon is not strictly American, and Berardi also discusses Pekka-Eric Auvinen, who killed eight people and himself at his high school in Finland, and Anders Breivik, who massacred 77 people in Norway.
The book might well have included Elliot Rodger, who recorded a smirking rant on video and circulated an interminable autobiographical statement called “My Twisted World” before killing six people and himself in Isla Vista, Calif., last year. And now we have Vester Flanagan, also known as Bryce Williams. His innovation went beyond merely explaining himself (he faxed a lengthy suicide note after the shooting), by giving the vast, anonymous Internet public his point of view on the crime, in as literal a sense as possible.
In calling his book Heroes, Berardi is both indulging an especially dark sense of irony and pointing out something at least as horrifying as the crimes. “Roaming in the blogosphere,” he says, “I read texts of young students who declare to be admirers of [Seung-Hui] Cho because they feel the same hatred for the bullying that they have endured for years.” From a little supplementary roaming, one learns that Cho expressed admiration for the two Columbine killers -- while Vester Flanagan paid his respects to all three in his suicide note.
Only parts of the written and video communications Cho sent to NBC News were made public at the time -- a decision that Berardi guesses was made “because they sounded too much like a frightening manifesto for the frail people of the precarious generation, a call to explosive suicide launched to all the lonely young nerds of the world.” Clearly the effort at containment did not work, and today no gatekeeper can prevent the killer’s statement from circulating in full and immediately.
But overt bullying of the traditional sort -- the harassment and torture, verbal and physical, of one’s peers -- forms only part of the experience of shared misery that Berardi considers. more pervasive are the strains of precarity (a labor market geared to temporary work, without benefits and even the minimal continuity of personnel that makes friendship or sociability possible) and of constantly being drawn into the digital vortex:
“The individual is a smiling, lonely monad who walks in the urban space in tender continuous interaction with the photos, the tweets, the games that emanate from a personal screen. The social relation is transformed into a cabled interconnection whose rules and procedures are hidden in the coded linguistics of the web.” (Think of the like button on Facebook as an example.)
The point here is not, of course, that YouTube and instant messaging have spawned robotic psycho killers programmed to avenge themselves on society by going on suicide missions. Berardi’s larger point is that most of the suffering involved never reaches the point of exploding into violence -- and when it does, the violence tends overwhelmingly to be self-inflicted. In a classic sociological study, Emil Durkheim characterized some forms of suicide as anomic, resulting from feeling disconnected from or unnecessary for social life. But anomie is the new normal. “According to the World Health Organization,” Berardi writes, “suicide is today the second cause of death among young people, after car accidents, which is often a disguised form of suicide.” He also cites a report from WHO that indicates a 60 percent increase in the suicide rate over the past 45 years.
The resentment, narcissism, scapegoat seeking and rage of those who use mass media and mass murder to remind the world that they exist are pathological. But they are also, in Berardi’s analysis, extreme forms of “a paralysis of empathic relations and an increasing fragility of the common ground of interpersonal understanding [that] are becoming common features in the psycho-scape of our time.”
An empirical-minded social scientist would probably dismiss all of this as so much impressionism and speculation. But it reverberated in my head after seeing Vester Flanagan’s video a week ago, and I’m all too certain that won’t be the last time.
At the crack of dawn this past May 15, an e-mail hit my inbox from a friend who knows my abiding interest in getting undergraduate education right: “Take a look at this.”
“This” was a link to an article in University Business from the day before: “JumpCourse announces 13 [online] courses recommended for credit by ACE.” Curious about the courses approved by the American Council on Education, I took a look at the article and then the JumpCourse website.
I am a pragmatist with regard to how to make higher education in America more successful at providing students a truly 21st-century education. We should be doing what works, and to be sure, a lot of what is done in traditional on-campus undergraduate education doesn’t work. But in my view that is because way too often we are not doing what we know and what the evidence shows does work: demanding, engaging forms of pedagogy focused both on disciplinary and broader liberal learning goals. If JumpCourse is better than a large portion of standard practice, amen to that.
One of the 13 courses newly approved by ACE is Introductory Sociology -- in my field. So I decided I would take the course and share a report.
The opening paragraph of the ACE CREDIT description on the JumpCourse website says: "JumpCourse believes in greater access to higher quality education. By expanding educational opportunities, we are adapting to the changing needs of college students. We are proud to announce that the American Council on Education's College Credit Recommendation Service (ACE CREDIT®) evaluated and recommends college credit for courses developed by JumpCourse. It is our mission to help students achieve their academic goals affordably and effectively, paving a road to graduation that will allow students to begin planning for their future." (Emphasis mine. This and other examples from the course materials may be found here.)
Note the claim that JumpCourse is providing access to higher quality education, though it doesn’t say higher quality than what. And in a Q&A section on the website -- JumpCourse? How is it made? -- it says: "While we can't tell you all of our little secrets, we can say that each JumpCourse is created by instructional designers, writers, video producers, professional storytellers, subject matter experts and otherwise passionate and talented individuals who want to help expand access and affordability of college education." (Emphasis mine.)
I have a Ph.D. in sociology and taught Introductory Sociology while on the faculty of Carleton College early in my career before spending 23 years as the president of two liberal arts colleges. I have been powerfully influenced by the Association of American Colleges & Universities' now decade-long Liberal Education and America’s Promise (LEAP) initiative and serve as chair of the LEAP Presidents’ Trust. Through LEAP, AAC&U has led a national conversation about what inclusive quality in undergraduate education needs to mean in today’s world -- a conversation that has produced an emerging consensus: in addition to knowledge and competence in specific fields of learning, the education students need for the 21st century must stress higher order learning goals of inquiry and analysis, critical and creative thinking, integrative and reflective thinking, written and oral communication, quantitative literacy, information literacy, intercultural understanding, and teamwork and real-world problem solving.
And this focus on learning goals above and beyond disciplinary content must start right at the beginning of college in challenging introductory courses that serve both as entry points into the disciplines and as part of what we awkwardly call general education.
How does what I encountered in my JumpCourse fit in to all of this?
Let me begin by summarizing briefly how the Introductory Sociology course I took and the associated online format are organized. You purchase the course for $149 -- $99 if you are not going to take the proctored online final exam -- and are then given access to it. There is an opening lesson, accompanied at the end by a short quiz that teaches you enough about how the software works so that you can proceed.
Then you begin the first of, in the case of Introductory Sociology, 21 units. Each unit is divided into eight to 15 lessons. For each lesson you can watch a video and/or read a short -- almost always just a page long -- text. These texts are called “lecture notes,” but they are more like CliffsNotes or what you might find in a bad textbook. The videos are just a person speaking essentially the exact same words you would read if you chose to read the text segment (I verified this by listening to and reading a number of these) along with some catchy visuals.
This is how the website describes the way the course is organized: "Our courses teach you through professionally produced videos, lecture notes in the form of an ebook and interactive quizzes. We also supply course coaches to monitor and encourage you through the course. You get to choose how you learn best: watch, read or practice. Each course is adaptive and molds to the way you learn."
The implication is that watching, reading and practicing -- and here they mean answering practice questions -- represent the varieties of ways people learn. But aren’t engage, write, debate, analyze, critique, research, encounter, participate and other activities also ways of learning that might be best for a given student?
If you need help you can contact an “instructor.” I didn’t contact the instructor, but here is one of three e-mails I received from mine: "June 25, 2015: Hi Daniel, This is your JumpCourse coach. I wanted to take the time and congratulate you on getting started on your Sociology JumpCourse class. Keep up the work and remember if there is anything you get stuck on or need some help with, please don’t hesitate to contact me. That’s what I’m here for! If you keep working hard you will be done with the class before you know it. (Name and telephone number.)"
I assume these periodically sent notes were automated communications, though it might very well be the case that a real person would answer at the phone number provided or respond to an email query seeking help and/or support.
You can also post emails asking questions or seeking advice from other students simultaneously enrolled in the course. Here is the total of what was up on the interstudent email site the day I checked:
Jan. 31 at 4:17 p.m.: Intro to Sociology online final exam. Has anyone taken the online final exam for intro to sociology?
July 7 at 4:47 p.m.: No, just started studying today.
After you read the short text, you move to a practice test to assess your understanding and short-term memory. The texts very briefly introduce, define and explain terms and concepts and associate them with the sociologists and others who invented them. At the bottom there are always a few references in case you want to read more, but JumpCourse does not actually link to the additional references, so you would have to look them up somewhere else, and I doubt many JumpCourse students do (I didn’t).
The practice tests are multiple choice, fill-in the blank or matching questions. If you answer a question correctly you move to the next. If you answered at least 90 percent of the questions on the practice test correctly, you move on to the next text. If you do not answer a question correctly, later on the practice test may ask the same question again, or ask you another version of the question to see if you get it right the second time. It will also return to the question later in the unit, circling back to see if you can get it right after a bit of time separation from the topic. This is the only way in which I can imagine they mean that “each course is adaptive and molds to the way you learn.”
At the end of the unit there is a unit test, and if you get 90 percent or higher on that, JumpCourse unlocks the next unit and you can proceed.
I spent roughly an hour or a little more on each of the 21 units. Since I am a sociologist, I remain familiar with the material and could read the text and move quickly to the practice test to demonstrate comprehension, and I have good short-term memory skills. If I had listened to the videos instead of reading the text I think my time investment would have doubled, since I can read much faster than the person on the video spoke.
I believe a truly introductory student might very well struggle with the practice tests and take much longer to move forward, but I don’t think student struggling is evidence that the course is demanding in the sense in which I mean it. I got a question wrong in about half the lessons -- almost always because definitions were unclear or contradictory, or distinctions were made that didn’t seem sensible, at least to me. I think many introductory students will be tripped up by the sloppiness of many of the practice questions.
For example, Lenski’s schema for defining societies at increasing levels of economic and social complexity is presented. His classification of societies in order of increasing complexity, they report, is: hunting and gathering, pastoral, horticultural, agrarian, industrial, and postindustrial. In one place pastoral societies are said to “grow food,” while in another it is said that they have a “more steady food supply” but it is not stated that they actually grow food. In another place pastoral societies are said to be “nomadic” -- a key point -- while elsewhere they are said to “look after livestock.” The final exam, of course, expected precision when it came to those distinctions.
I tried to pretend I was an introductory student as I did this. I know that introducing students to a new field does absolutely require defining terms, giving examples to clarify meaning and explaining some of the history of the ideas in the field. You can’t get to the big stuff if students don’t know what you mean when you use terms like “social system, status, role, group, organization, etc.” But in this course, presentation of terms and concepts is all there is. In fact, I wasn’t challenged at all to think through any complex problems or to use any quantitative reasoning skills.
For example, in the section on demography a projection of what the age distribution by gender of the Chinese population will be in 2030 was presented. We could have been asked to think about it and propose some interpretations of what it meant and how it got that way. But all they asked me to do was complete some matching questions where the answer was in the text.
I loved teaching introductory sociology. Last time I taught it was spring of 1979. I never used a textbook. I wanted students to read the very best, most well-written original books and articles I could find so that they could become inspired by what they read -- excited by the insights sociology could provide regarding the big questions the field was invented to address -- not just introduced to concepts, terms and people. For example, I would ask students to read major sections of a small book -- Evolution and Culture -- by Sahlins and Service to give them a sense not just of the stages of cultural evolution but of the deep insights one can gain by thinking of social history that way.
I was the textbook, but the goal was always to help students achieve insights into big questions once they had developed enough of a sociological vocabulary. Where does inequality come from? What are the consequences for peoples’ lives of their socioeconomic and other social statuses? What are the stages of cultural evolution and the present-day consequences of the fact that just about all of the stages of cultural evolution still exist in real societies around the world? What varieties of social systems exist and how did the differences come about? How do a social system’s subsystems -- polity, economy, community, family, etc. -- affect each other? How do we know any of this?
There were learning goals beyond disciplinary content. To be sure, in my JumpCourse there were one or two sentences in each lesson’s text that addressed things like this, but the coverage was superficial.
And with regard to quantitative reasoning -- a critical 21st-century learning goal -- even in the late 1970s at Carleton there was enough of a computer system to allow me to have my introductory students actually do some quantitative analysis of real data. They did secondary analysis using data from some of the great and pioneering sociologists’ research, which one could obtain from Columbia University’s Bureau of Applied Social Research or the University of Michigan’s Inter-University Consortium of Political and Social Research (ICPSR) and then wrote it up so that they could begin to learn how at least one tribe of sociologists engaged in the search for understanding.
In my course all tests were essay exams, and there were additional writing assignments. Only perhaps once in each practice test in this JumpCourse was I even asked to fill in the blank. I was never asked to write anything -- even if only to regurgitate something.
Some readers of this may say, “Of course you could do these things at a college where maybe 12 students sit around a table,” but back then we didn’t limit the number of students who could take a class. We thought it was the student's decision to choose a small class over a larger one, so my introductory classes ranged in size from 35 to 90.
The content in the Introduction to Sociology JumpCourse, as far as it goes, may be like many of the textbooks I refused to use in my own teaching -- so I don’t think, at the most basic level, that this course constitutes any kind of content malpractice. But it sets the bar way too low. If this course is even a bit typical of the online courses now being certified for credit, we should be asking many more serious questions about the quality of these new providers’ products.
In the course I took there were no expectations of students beyond taking the very simple-minded practice and end-of-unit tests and, if you wanted credit for the course, taking the proctored final exam -- 60 multiple-choice questions to be completed in one and a half hours with a 70 percent, or 42 correct answers, required to pass (I took the final and did miss three questions).
No writing or presenting of any kind, no interaction with an instructor beyond being able to ask questions electronically, no interaction with other students taking the course, no expectation of any kind of higher order thinking, analysis, or grappling with big questions, no inspiring students to want to learn more by showing them the deep and powerful insights into our social world that sociology can provide. I can’t imagine any student being inspired by this course to want to know more about sociology, and I do not believe that any skills beyond improving short-term memory will be developed through taking it.
So what to make of this? I believe my JumpCourse failed on its own terms -- providing disciplinary content employers say they want and need and that students who can least afford higher education will be able to convert into improved life chances and success -- and it failed to even come close to addressing the aims and objectives that employers need higher education institutions to reach.
We have lots of evidence, of course, that standard practice far too often fails on these grounds as well. But standard practice fails in my view when it does not hold to what we already know works to enable students to achieve the learning they need for the 21st century, and when it fails to include serious assessment up to the task of discovering what students actually know and can do relative to the learning goals of liberal education to create a continuous quality improvement feedback loop. When standard practice is a challenging, high-student-engagement process focused both on disciplinary and higher order learning goals, it is also cost-effective because four-year graduation rates go up. Despite their low cost to consumers, disruptive innovations like JumpCourse will inspire no one to learn what they must in a timely way.
One thing almost always missing from debates about “disruptive innovations” like JumpCourse and their comparison to “traditional” higher education is agreement about what the aims and objectives of higher education should be. It is impossible to assess the relative effectiveness and efficiency of an innovation in comparison to standard practice, or whether even the best examples of standard practice cost too much, if the goals being pursued are radically different. If it is job training or minimal fluency with the terms and concepts of disciplines that America wants, then maybe innovations like JumpCourse can make it above the bar someday. But if we want graduates of our colleges to be able to think, analyze, integrate, write and communicate, JumpCourses will never achieve that.
Finally, in medicine it is malpractice to replace standard practice with experimental remedies and procedures until they have proven to be superior and have side effects that are no worse, and it is unethical to experiment on humans without their informed consent. Yet disruptive higher education innovators lobby constantly for the freedom to do both, and like some of our nation’s worst ethical lapses in human experimentation, the subjects are and will be low-income disadvantaged people misled to believe they will be receiving treatment that is superior to standard practice and will cause them no harm.
Let’s conduct the absolutely necessary continuous experimentation to find new ways to improve student learning not by freeing “providers” up to do whatever they want funded with new government subsidies, but within the same kind of framework in place to test new drugs or other medical treatments for efficacy and safety.
Daniel F. Sullivan is president emeritus of St. Lawrence University and senior adviser to the president of the Association of American Colleges and Universities.