By Tom Robotham
As the fall semester approaches, I find myself thinking about what I want to say to my students on the first day of class.
Typically, that first meeting is brief. I review the syllabus, talk a bit about the purpose of the course, then let them go. This year, though—given the weightiness of current affairs—I’m inclined to go deeper.
The main question I want to pose to them is this: Why are you here?
By that I don’t mean why did they choose ODU, or my class, but why are they in college at all? What do they hope to get out of it?
Are they there because their parents insisted that they get a degree?
Years ago, one student said as much, adding that if she had her way she’d be “home making babies and baking cookies.”
Are they there in hopes that a diploma will get them a good-paying job?
Perhaps some of them are just there to party—which to my mind is not an unreasonable motivation at the age of 18.
It’s a good question to ask them, I think, because in my experience, a lot of them haven’t thought much about it. Whether because of their parents or more general societal attitudes, they absorbed the notion early on that going to college after high school is “just what you do.”
In this way, we’ve failed our young people—many of whom don’t belong in college, at least not yet. Some would be better off taking a “gap” year or three to gain work experience or travel. Others would be better off learning a trade, like plumbing or carpentry or auto repair. Alas, we place so much emphasis on “white-collar” status that many Americans now look down on “blue-collar” work. It may be fine for others, so the thinking goes, but my child deserves better. As for taking time off to travel, that’s a non-starter for most people. It reeks of Sixties hippiedom—as if travel is for vacations only, once you’ve “established yourself,” when in fact, it can be an education in itself.
The students I will meet in a couple of weeks, however, have already made the decision to enroll, and it’s not my intention to try to persuade them to drop out and go to Europe or get an apprenticeship somewhere.
It’s my job—and my goal—to open their minds to the broader possibilities that college offers.
The first is the possibility of self-discovery—something our culture doesn’t value much, despite the persistent myth of American individualism. The truth is, pressure to conform has always been a more prominent characteristic in our society; thus, in many quarters, taking time to explore different subjects with the aim of uncovering hidden gifts and passions is actually frowned upon. Major in something “practical,” we’re told. Don’t waste your time on “useless” courses.
The trouble with this is that it’s small-minded thinking. We never know what might turn out to be valuable. A case in point: Steve Jobs used to tell a story about his decision to take a calligraphy class, just because he was drawn to it. It seemed to have no possible practical application in the modern world. And yet, after he founded Apple, his interest sparked by that course inspired him to incorporate a variety of fonts into the word-processing program. Since Microsoft had not done so yet, the decision went a long way toward solidifying Apple’s brand identity—and dramatically changed personal computers. Had Jobs not acted on his curiosity about calligraphy—had he limited himself to “practical” subjects—that might never have happened.
This, of course, is how learning happens naturally: through playful exploration. Young children know this instinctively. Unfortunately, we tend to drum this impulse out of them by the time they reach adolescence. At some point, we drill into them the idea that achievement is all that matters—a stellar GPA, a diploma with honors, a “good” job. Buckle down.
Which leads me to my second point: the hazards of artificial intelligence. As we all know by now, many students are already using AI programs to generate essays. Worse still, some, in my experience, don’t even bother to read what the program has produced. They just copy, paste and send.
This is cheating, needless to say, and if detected, it will result in an automatic F. What the students don’t realize is that they’re cheating themselves—even if the teacher fails to catch it and gives them a passing grade—by denying themselves the absolute joy of engaging with a subject, reflecting on it, reaching some degree of understanding, and expressing their own thoughts on the matter, in writing, as best they can.
I understand the temptation, of course. But in the long run, turning to AI to complete an assignment is like using a player piano to generate music—rather than learning to play the piano yourself—or using AI to generate a work of art, rather than breaking out your oils and brushes and following your instincts to make colors and shapes come alive with your own hands.
Sure, for some people, learning to write or play a musical instrument or paint is more difficult than it is for others. But the satisfaction of achievement is inextricably linked to the process of learning—the effort. This truth was reinforced for me not only in college, but when, in my 50s, I trained at a karate studio four to five days a week for several years. Eventually, I earned my black belt, and that was gratifying. But what stands out in my mind more than the day of “graduation” are countless moments in class when I made some small breakthrough, exhausted and dripping with sweat. Contrast that with Neo in The Matrix, who has martial arts instruction downloaded into his brain and within a few seconds says, “I know Kung Fu.”
No thanks. I’d rather endure the struggle toward modest achievement than take the easy way out.
I know that in trying to convey these thoughts to my students, I’m facing an uphill battle. They’ve been raised in a culture, after all, that promises shortcuts: Wanna be rich? Play the lottery. Wanna lose weight? Take Ozempic. Want a relationship? Never mind going out and getting to know people. Just swipe right and send a flirty text.
The problem is not only with the culture in general but with academia in particular, which is preoccupied with “measurable learning outcomes”—as if you can quantify such things at the end of a semester. Steve Jobs’ calligraphy course would have been regarded as an utter failure in such a context—and yet, its long-term “outcome” was monumental.
In short, I want to tell my freshmen what my dad told me when I was headed off to college: “It’s the closest thing there is to utopia,” he said.
He was right. Admittedly, I had the luxury of not having to work while I was in school—something many students today can’t afford. Nevertheless, one’s college years offer abundant opportunities for open-ended exploration of the world’s wonders. There will be plenty of time later to build careers. Now is a time for experimentation and for letting their imaginations run wild and free.
