The Enclosure of the American Mind
Last
October, the New York Academy of Medicine hosted a “wonder cabinet” — a
day of talks and films about medicine, the human body and much more. As
I took my seat for one of the sessions, I recognized two young men
sitting near me. They were former students, whose senior theses I had
supervised years before. It was fun to learn how they were doing, one in
law and one in medical school, and to see that they still found time to
hear about 18th-century anatomical models and books bound in human
skin.
But
it was even more fun to remember them as students. During their college
days my seminar read a very good — but very long — book about classical
antiquity in 19th-century Germany. The two of them came in wearing
enormous fake beards, switched on their laptops to play the “Ride of the
Valkyries” and rose to recite a satire that began “I am the spirit of
German philology.” Their cheerful mockery of me and my assigned text
sparked a searching and substantive discussion.
Why
tell this story? Because “Excellent Sheep” demands it. William
Deresiewicz, a recovering English professor who taught for many years at
Yale, has indicted America’s elite universities. With their stately
buildings and soaring trees, their star professors and even starrier
student bodies, Ivy League schools look like paradises of learning.
Deresiewicz describes them as something very different, and very much
worse.
The
trouble starts at admission. Top universities woo thousands of
teenagers to apply, but seek one defined type: the student who has taken
every Advanced Placement class and aced every exam, made varsity in a
sport, played an instrument in the state youth orchestra and trekked
across Nepal. This demanding system looks meritocratic. In practice,
though, it aims directly at the children of the upper middle class,
groomed since birth by parents, tutors and teachers to leap every
hurdle. (The very rich can gain admission without leaping much of
anything, as Deresiewicz also points out.)
Once
in college, these young people lead the same Stakhanovite lives, even
though they’re no longer competing to get in. They accept endless
time-sucking activity and pointless competition as the natural condition
of future leaders. Too busy to read or make friends, listen to music or
fall in love, they waste the precious years that they should be
devoting to building their souls on building their résumés.
The
faculty could and should push these gifted obsessives to slow down and
ask big questions. But elite universities choose professors for their
ability at research. Tenure-track and tenured professors teach as little
as they can, and leave what used to be their core task to ill-paid
adjuncts and inexperienced graduate students. Even when they enter the
classroom, they offer courses so minutely specialized that big questions
never come up.
Students
do their assigned work, often with great ingenuity and elegance, but
without real engagement. At the end of their studies, they funnel like
lemmings into the career services office, which directs them to finance
and consulting — and doesn’t let them even imagine, much less try out,
teaching or the ministry, the military or the arts.
It’s
a bleak and soulless scene. But nobody protests. Any doubts are allayed
by presidents and deans, who tell students before they arrive and
repeat after they graduate that they are the most dazzling, brilliant,
gifted young people ever to enter whichever college they attend. And any
crises of conscience or conduct are averted by a system that cuts the
chosen ones endless slack, penalizes no misconduct and sees to it that
all have prizes at the end.
The
elite university, for Deresiewicz, is the little world that forms the
great one, the training ground where members of the international ruling
class learn two vital lessons: that they are superior to all others,
and that even if they break rules or fail, they will never suffer. He
feels some nostalgia for the harsh all-male elite universities of two or
three generations ago, which flunked students without undue remorse and
expected their graduates to serve in the military before they started
running factories, writing ads or sailing yachts in Bar Harbor, and
shows far more respect for liberal arts colleges, with their engaged
teachers, than for the Ivies. As he puts it, “If there is anywhere that
teaching and the humanities are still accorded pride of place — anywhere
that college is still college — it is there.”
Much
of his dystopian description rings true. American universities spout
endless, sickening self-praise. Professors are chosen for their
specialized knowledge and receive no serious instruction in the art of
teaching. As each field of study becomes denser with argument and
discovery, its practitioners find it harder to offer broad courses.
Students have complained for years that career services offices point
them in only two or three very practical directions.
Above
all, many students suffer from the relentless anxiety, the sense of
exhaustion and anomie, that their hyperactivity generates and that
Deresiewicz powerfully evokes. No wonder, then, that when he sketched
this indictment in an essay in The American Scholar, his text went
viral. Many students have contacted him to confirm his diagnosis. Some
of my students tell me that they still remember exactly where they were
when they read his sharp words. Anyone who cares about American higher
education should ponder this book.
But
anyone who cares should also know that the coin has another side, one
that Deresiewicz rarely inspects. He describes the structures of the
university as if they were machines, arranged in assembly lines: “The
system churns out an endless procession of more or less uniform human
specimens.” Yet universities aren’t total institutions. Professors and
students have agency. They use the structures they inhabit in creative
ways that are not dreamt of in Deresiewicz’s philosophy, and that are
more common and more meaningful than the “exceptions” he allows.
Many
students at elite universities amble like sheep through four years of
parties and extracurriculars, and then head down the ramp to the hedge
funds without stopping to think. But plenty of others find their people,
as one of my own former students says: the teachers who still offer
open doors and open ears, the friends who stay up all night arguing with
them about expressionism or feminism or both, the partners with whom
they sail the deep waters of love (which, like sex, survives on campus).
They come in as raw freshmen and they leave as young adults, thoughtful
and articulate and highly individual. Deresiewicz observes their
identical T-shirts but misses their differences of class and resources —
just as he elides the differences between universities.
Even
the academic side of the university offers richer and deeper
experiences than Deresiewicz thinks. Recreating a life or building an
argument, analyzing a text or chasing a virus, in the company of an
adult who cares about both the subject and the student, need not be a
routine exercise. It can be a way to build a soul — the soul of a
scholar or scientist, who ignores our smelly little ideologies and
fact-free platitudes, and cherishes precision and evidence and honorable
admission of error. One reason some graduates of elite universities
look unworldly is that those universities still try — admittedly with
mixed results — to uphold a distinctive code of values.
When
Deresiewicz looks at the universities, he sees Heartbreak House: a
crumbling Gothic mansion, inhabited by polite young shadows, limp and
exhausted. When I look at them, I see the Grand Budapest Hotel: stately,
if fragile, structures, where youth and energy can find love and
knowledge and guidance — places that welcome students who make creative
fun of their teachers and other authorities, and help them go on having
creative fun in later life.
EXCELLENT SHEEP
The Miseducation of the American Elite and the Way to a Meaningful Life
By William Deresiewicz
245 pp. Free Press. $26.
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