Article appearing in The New York Times, Section 4A; Page 50; Column 1; Education Life Supplement Education Life Section, April 4, 1999. Copyright 1999 The New York Times Company.
Every semester, as required by my university, I distribute and collect evaluations of my course in American studies, taking class time to make sure most of the 150 students fill out the forms. Since I already have tenure, the evaluations are essentially for my edification. After I read them, they will be filed away and forgotten.
This semester, the evaluations were favorable, and often flattering: "One of the best, no, the best lecturer I have had in four years here," wrote one perceptive student. The lectures "were captivating and lively," wrote another, adding that "the professor was very cute." After I have finished reading these reviews, why on earth would I feel depressed?
One reason is that, even after 20 years of teaching, three "arrogants," two "inaccessibles" and a "wise guy" still smart. But beyond the bruises to my weak ego, the evaluations, taken as a whole, reveal much about the intellectual curiosity and capacity for work this generation of undergraduates possesses. Simply put, they attest to the pervasiveness, in colleges and universities, of the same culture, obsessed as it is with entertainment and celebrities, that dominates the rest of American society.
With few exceptions, my students seem to have understood the most sophisticated concepts presented in the lectures. Although one person complained about "too much analyzation of events," the rest of the class discussed perceptively such concepts as the "commercialization of leisure" and culture as "contested terrain" among social and economic classes and racial and ethnic groups. These young men and women are very bright indeed.
Intelligence, however, was not always matched by willingness to work. Students complained, often bitterly, about the amount of reading assigned in the course (150 to 200 pages a week). "It was demanding and took a lot of time," wrote one undergraduate in a sentiment echoed by many. Others were more specific. The load was "a good 7-8 hours, often more, of reading a week." "Very demanding and difficult," added another, "at least 5 hours a week outside of class many weeks."
I wonder how many students shared this thought: "Well, if you actually did all of the reading, I'd say it was pretty demanding, but I managed to get away with reading about half of each book most of the time."
In the age of infotainment, students' capacity to read has clearly atrophied. "Books" was the one-word response to a question on what detracted most from the course. Many students were "bored" by the readings, a mix of novels and nonfiction that were best sellers in their eras, finding almost every book longer than 300 pages "repetitive." Not at atypical, I suspect, is the student who asked, "Couldn't we have read a 10- or 20-page excerpt from some of them?"
Professors initially respond to these sentiments by reducing the amount of reading they assign. When students continue to complain, some begin to write them off. After all, eight hours of work a week for a course was not a heavy load when we were undergraduates. Last year, a colleague suggested a new question for the evaluation form:
"What book in this course did you like least and to what defect in your character and/or training do you attribute this choice?"
Although students engage in the culture of complaint with respect to the workload, they give their instructors high marks, much higher than their counterparts did 10 and 20 years ago. The grade inflation for undergraduates that has swept colleges and universities (the average grade at Cornell approaches a B+) has now reached student evaluations: it is rare for a professor to be designated "fair" or "poor" or to receive a numerical assessment much below 4 (out of 5). Why? Students in the 1990's tend to defer to faculty expertise. They may disagree with, or even dislike, the professor, but they almost always seem to assume that the information is up-to-date, accurate and adequate.
The phrase that appears most frequently on my evaluations, and those of my colleagues, is "knows his stuff." Most of us do, of course, but when students become passive, reluctant to challenge or ask questions and unwilling to discriminate among their professors, we ought to worry.
Perhaps the most disturbing revelation of student evaluations, however, is the extent to which every class has become a show and every instructor a personality. The liveliness of the lectures, the use of videos and the professor's ability to draw frequent laughs count more than content.
"The professor knows how to teach in an entertaining way (almost like TV)," concluded one admiring student. "The lectures were informative and, most importantly, entertaining," wrote another. I think the students who suggested a laser light show and a warm-up dance before the lesson were kidding, but these days one can never be sure.
At times, evaluations appear to be the academic analogue to "Rate the Record" on Dick Clark's old "American Bandstand," in which teen-agers said of every new release, "Good beat, great to dance to, I'd give it a 9." Students are becoming more adjectival than analytical, more inclined to
take faculty members' wardrobes and hairstyles into account when sizing them up as educators.
Many teachers share or give in to the attitudes and behavior I have attributed to students. The evaluation form used by the American studies program at Cornell, for example, asks, "How do you feel about your professor?" - not "What do you think of his/her ideas, organization and
methods of presentation?" And, let me confess, I make comments in class about my Gucci ties and diminutive height, and I continue to give my 11-word impersonation of Franklin D. Roosevelt ("Yesterday, Dec. 7, 1941, a date which will live in infamy"), even though I'm irked that students remember it more than my analysis of the achievements and limitations of the New Deal. I like the applause and the large enrollments, and I'm not above a song and dance to keep 'em in their seats.
Too many students now choose the pleasurable over the valuable. People who exercise vigorously or learn to play a musical instrument, the economist Robert Frank observed in his most recent book, "Luxury Fever," experience discomfort, and even pain, at first. But if they stick with it, enduring satisfaction, to the point of enjoyment, can ensue. Will students and other smart people learn to exchange the satisfaction of the short run for more hard-won pleasures? If not, what will I do for an encore when more undergraduates conclude, as one already has, "I thought he would be funnier than he was"?
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The author is dean of the School of Continuing Education and Summer Sessions, and the Thomas and Dorothy Litwin Professor of American Studies, at Cornell University.
The Deflated College Degree
Society for A Return to Academic Standards
Last Updated: 13 May 1999
