I've always loved college campuses. As an undergraduate at the State University of New York in Plattsburgh, I grew to cherish the sense of sanctuary and community that I felt each day while walking to classes, gathering with friends in a lounge called the English Commons, working in the newspaper office, rehearsing in the black-box theater, or sitting in blissful solitude on the banks of the Saranac River. Each autumn, for several years after I graduated, I would return to the school for brief visits. But it wasn't just my own alma mater that I longed for. It was something more fundamental. Wherever I went on vacation during those-post-college years, I found myself drawn, invariably, to the nearest campuses: in California, I visited Berkeley and UCLA; in Boston I hung out at Harvard, and in England I made a point of staying for two nights in Oxford.
All the while, I was acutely aware of the tendency in our society to distinguish between college and "the real world." It occurred to me the first time I heard that phrase that colleges are as "real" as anyplace else. Why do we refuse to recognize this? We never speak, after all, in such patronizing terms about the spheres of childhood—elementary schools and Little League fields and birthday parties—as somehow set apart from the rest of life. But colleges are often referred to in this way, and underlying the phrase there is almost always a hint of contempt. I suspect this has something to do with the pronounced streak of anti-intellectualism that has been a feature of the American character throughout our history. (For fascinating insights into this phenomenon, see Richard Hofstadter's Anti-Intellectualism in America). In any event, I have often wondered what this implies. If colleges aren't part of the real world, what are they?
The answer, if we must accept this distinction, is not that they represent an ideal world: a place where philosophy, literature, history, music, art, science and—above all—the quest for a more just and beautiful society—are situated at the very center of daily existence, rather than being relegated to the half-forgotten margins of our lives. The conventional attitude is that this world—along with the passions of youth—is something we must leave behind as we begin the truly important work of fueling the corporate economy. But to my mind, we'd be better off if we continued to hold it before us, as a model to which the "real world" should aspire.
WITH ALL OF THIS IN MIND, I felt unusually exhilarated this week as I began teaching English classes at Old Dominion University. I'd taught there once before, prior to joining Port Folio Weekly. I was disappointed at the time that it felt more like a commuter college than it did a traditional campus, and I was often frustrated by the grimness, apathy and even willful ignorance of the students. But each semester I had at least two or three who seemed engaged and eager to learn—and I accepted the notion that this was enough.
I expected a similar experience this time, but encountered something quite different. For one thing, the campus has expanded dramatically, and parts of it are lovely. The resident student body has grown as well, and most of the people I see walking around appear to be of traditional college age. Moreover, I like the ones I've met. I have about 70 students spread across three classes—two sections of freshman composition and one literature survey course—and virtually all of them, so far, have been respectful and attentive in class.
The one thing that troubles me is that a high percentage of them, out the outset of their freshman year, have already declared majors. This is a shame. College, especially during the first two years, should be about open-ended exploration of the self and the human condition; it should not be about prepping for a specific career. But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Most of these students have grown up with a sense—conveyed by anxious parents, teachers and society at large—that this is the point of school, from kindergarten onward: to learn to conform, and then to gather the kind of knowledge that will allow you to function in some acceptable role within the workforce.
Some seemed generally surprised when I suggested that they should think of themselves not as passive receptacles of information, but as active participants in an ongoing dialogue. I have quoted to them Emerson's observation that there is "creative reading as well as creative writing," and I have urged them to question everything, from the assertions of their own teachers to the content of the established literary canon, to the expectations that have been placed on them by the mass media and consumer culture. My hope is that I can open their minds a little wider and help them realize that they needn't settle for the status quo.
THE EVENING OF MY FIRST DAY AT ODU, I took my daughter to dinner to bid her farewell. As I enjoy my re-entry into campus life, here in Norfolk, she is poised to experience it for the first time, at Bennington College in Vermont.
On the way to the restaurant, she asked if we could stop at a mailbox. I said sure and asked her what she needed to drop off. "It's my application for an absentee ballot," she told me.
I couldn't help but pause to contemplate the significance of this moment. Earlier in the year, we had talked about the fact that this will be the first presidential election in which she will be eligible to vote. And what an election it will be. She is part of a generation that may elect the first African-American president in our history—and may, in the process, restore a sense of eloquence to our public discourse and liberal idealism to our collective mindset.
The realization was reinforced later that evening, as I watched Teddy Kennedy speak at the Democratic National Convention.
"This November," he said, "the torch will be passed to a new generation....And so the work begins anew, the hope rises again, and the dream lives on."
What is this work of which he spoke, and what is this dream? It is in our nature, as human beings, especially in a democratic society, to disagree about specifics. What I want to tell my students, and what I have tried to tell my daughter, is that they have it within their power to reconceive these things—to dream extravagantly of a great society and to fashion lives for themselves that will help make this dream a reality. I want to tell them to spend time with art and poetry and music, as a way of continually rediscovering the joy of life, the depth of the human soul and the magnificence of their own potential; I want to tell them to study biology and astronomy so that they will never lose their sense of wonder at the miracle of existence; I want to tell them to cultivate the art of conversation, not just the niceties of socially acceptable small-talk; I want to tell them that if it troubles them to know that millions of children each day are slowly withering from lack of nourishment of all kinds, or are suffering silently from emotional or physical wounds, that we should ask ourselves why we tolerate such things, and should then resolve to tolerate them no more. Above all, I want to tell them to never, ever accept limitations, whether self-imposed or forced upon them by others. I want to tell them that such limitations will be presented to them as "realistic" but that they are always born out of fear—fear of difference, fear of growth, fear of the unknown.
What I find heartening is that many young people I meet these days—people in their late teens and early 20s—seem already to be moving in this direction, or at least open to these possibilities. They are acutely aware of the disappointing short-comings of the Baby Boom generation—my generation—and they want to do better. I want to do everything I can to support them in this effort.
—Tom Robotham
tomrobotham@gmail.com