For today’s students as for past generations, going to college involves learning to embrace freedom and resist authority.
The Wall Street Journal 09/9/2023
For today’s students as for past generations, going to college involves learning to embrace freedom and resist authority.
My parents didn’t go to college, but they saved up so that their children could, and in 1975 I arrived with enthusiasm and some trepidation for my first year at Wesleyan University. At that time, my image of college students was that of young people demanding rights while chanting slogans and holding up protest signs. I had no idea that commentators were already lamenting that my generation of undergrads was so much less focused on politics and the public sphere and that we were “grinds” working away to climb the meritocratic ladder. For me, there was no ladder; being a student was about rebellion and freedom.
I didn’t know then how far back this idea of student freedom went. Town-gown tensions are as old as higher education itself. In medieval universities, there were already complaints that students—small groups of young people learning from master theologians—were not following the rules of host cities like Bologna and Montpellier. In the first decades of the 19th century, American students were notorious for their unruliness. At schools like the University of Virginia and Princeton, they caroused, brawled and rode horses through the campus in the middle of the night.
And they made a show of their independence through insolence. Typical pranks played on instructors included locking them in their rooms, dousing them with water and trying to make them trip and fall as they moved about campus. The perpetrators of these shenanigans saw themselves as members of a new type, “the college man.” The pious American hope to use higher education to instill morals and develop character in students seemed to result in its opposite: young people determined to create a lifestyle defined by their own enthusiasms.
These well-heeled young men were the ancestors of the fraternity brothers of the 20th century. As historian Helen Lefkowitz Horowitz has shown, fraternities were often driven by their fight against the authority of the faculty and administration. They demanded personal freedoms like the right to drink and spend time with women, and they rejected the idea that they should have to work hard to get decent grades on their way to professional school or the business world. They depended, we might say, on the rights of legacy, and they insisted that what they learned through friendship and sports was more valuable than anything professors might devise.
Images of the student as a college man or “frat boy” gave way during the civil-rights movement and the Vietnam War to that of the student radical marching in the street. The ends sought by each generation were very different, of course, but each saw itself in opposition to established authority.
That was the image of the student I had when I arrived at college, but by the time I graduated it seemed that students had become more concerned with the personal liberties of sex, drugs and rock ‘n‘ roll. Unruly protesters were giving way to careerists interested in getting good grades and positive recommendations to professional schools. One could still find campus radicals—I certainly found my share at Wesleyan—but the energy had shifted to libraries, science labs and the kinds of lifestyle experiments that could be conducted in the privacy of one’s own dorm.
Critics of the older, cranky sort, still smarting from the protest culture of the 1960s, retooled their antagonism toward the young in the 1980s. The political philosopher Allan Bloom argued that, under the guise of promoting tolerance and democracy, students were being molded into people who could no longer respond to the most important and enduring questions of human life. In his book “The Closing of the American Mind” (1987), Bloom established a model to which op-ed writers ever since have frequently aspired.
But his surprise bestseller was not just a cri de coeur from someone whose favorite canonical texts no longer received the attention he’d been taught to give them. It was also a diagnosis of the flip side of the 1960s’ ideas of tolerance: nihilism and a growing inability to take ideas or character seriously. When everyone has a right to their opinions and all opinions are to be treated with equal respect, there’s no reason to develop a meaningful perspective on the good life, or to seek the highest truth.
Bloom’s critique of student culture sounded the alarm about its narrow-mindedness and its failure to consider alternatives to the prevailing campus orthodoxies. He saw no freedom there. Conservatives followed suit in a litany of complaints about political correctness and, more recently, so-called wokeness. Students today are said to be both ayatollahs for social justice and cosseted kids afraid of getting hurt.
Jonathan Haidt and Gregg Lukianoff’s “The Coddling of the American Mind” (2018) described a generation of young people infected by “safetyism.” Like those who thought Benjamin Spock’s postWorld War II child-rearing lessons ruined the generation who became protesters in the late 1960s, Haidt and Lukianoff blamed overly protective parents for a generation of students who seek safety at the expense of learning.
Another critique blames the faculty for indoctrinating their meek mentees in the phony progressivism of identity politics. Students are taught to be afraid to say the wrong thing or to identify with the wrong group; under the guise of wanting to help others, they learn only to protect themselves. Instead of learning freedom, critics complain, young people are learning to “cancel” anyone whom they might find threatening.
College campuses have long been a screen upon which the broader culture projects its anxieties about political and social change, economic dislocation and the decline of traditional values. Whether accusing students of radicalism or conformism, apathy or grade-grubbing, nearly all critics bemoan what they perceive as the inability of undergraduates to think for themselves.
Thinking for oneself is, of course, the quintessential Enlightenment ideal: “Dare to know,” urged Immanuel Kant in his 1784 essay, “What Is Enlightenment?” And in my experience of more than four decades on campus, this ideal remains a lodestar for educators in America.
It’s not hard to find examples on today’s campus of illiberal students, if that’s what you’re looking for, but it’s even easier to find open-minded ones. You can still discover campus radicals, as I did 50 years ago, and also student-athletes and their fans who seem to live for the next home game. Yet students today are wary of stereotypes. No one wants to be just a jock or just a Social Justice Warrior. When you look beyond the headlines at the diversity of college campus cultures around the U.S., it’s clear that there is no monoculture in higher education.
Faculty and administrators must work to keep it that way. We must cultivate intellectual diversity to set a foundation for lifelong learners, people whose openness to ambiguity will enable them to navigate in our world with integrity, humility and compassion. Of course, we do need people graduating with skills that allow them to stand on their own feet economically.
We also desperately need members of communities—citizens who have learned to think for themselves in the company of others because as students they have practiced the arts of curiosity, judgment and creativity. This is the grand freedom of being students: exploring how best to interact with the world, absorbing its lessons and responding to them creatively.
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