Julia Reynolds

You’re majoring in WHAT?: Who Gets to Study the Liberal Arts

“So, what’s your major?” I get this question often despite having just started my freshman year at Wake Forest. Whether it’s a dinner with my extended family or a grocery store run-in with my parents’ friends, the question somehow pops up. After being asked several times, I crafted a standard response: “I’m not sure yet, but I’m thinking something in the humanities, maybe English.” This response has been met with everything from enthusiasm to surprise to blatant distaste, the “Wow… very cool!” to the sarcastic “I hear that’s where the money is!” Relatives are often bewildered that with the price of a college education, I want to pursue such an “impractical” course of study. Although justifying my choice so frequently can be irritating, I understand people’s skepticism. With a tuition exceeding $60,000 per year, it’s hard not to look at my education through a cost-benefit lens and to question its real world value.

Because of the perceived impracticality of a liberal arts degree, some feel that the liberal arts are only for the wealthiest students, those who do not have to worry about securing a job when they graduate. Although a liberal arts education has historically been accessible to only a small sliver of society, students of all socioeconomic classes can derive the same benefit from an education in the humanities. Unfortunately, with skyrocketing college tuitions and greater emphasis on the liberal arts in high schools that can afford to do so, studying the liberal arts is far more feasible for economically advantaged students than it is for their less privileged peers. In order to close this gap, we must address how to improve access, affordability, and the quality of the information on the benefits of a liberal arts education. We must market liberal arts degrees as valuable both to the degree-holder and to our society at large.

Before evaluating the accessibility and benefits of a liberal arts education, it is important to establish what the liberal arts are. For many of us, the liberal arts call to mind “the humanities,” an education in a wide array of subject matters, or perhaps the cultivation of a well-rounded individual. All of these definitions are a part of the liberal arts education. In his essay, “Why the Liberal Arts Still Matter,” American writer and scholar Michael Lind suggests that “the tradition of liberal education in Europe and the Americas is a synthesis of several elements: nonspecialized general education; an emphasis on a particular set of scholarly disciplines, the humanities; and acquaintance with a canon of classics” (Lind, 52). Thus, a liberal arts education is a broad education in the humanities with an emphasis on the study of certain classic texts.

Who Studies the Liberal Arts?

Having attended a boarding school with students from a wide variety of socioeconomic backgrounds, I observed the effect that my classmates’ economic statuses had on what they chose to study in college. While the majority of my classmates from wealthy families with parents who attended top universities tended to choose history or classics, most of my less advantaged classmates opted to pursue degrees in business or STEM fields. Although neither path is inherently better than the other, I couldn’t help but wonder if we were making our own choices about what to study or if socioeconomics and parental guidance were playing a larger role than our own interests were.

My good friend Electra comes from a wealthy New York City family. Her father works in finance and her mother works in the art industry. Her parents met at a small liberal arts college in Connecticut. Electra grew up attending art exhibitions with her mother. She plans to study art history at a small liberal arts college in upstate New York. In high school, her parents encouraged her to “follow her dreams” and “find her passion” rather than worrying about money. On the other end of the spectrum, my friend Emilio, also from New York City, comes from a working class family. Both of his parents are immigrants from Paraguay. His parents encouraged him to “study hard” and “get good grades” in high school so that he could attend college and secure a stable job upon graduation. He plans on studying business at a large public university. The majority of my classmates followed this trend. The “Electras” flocked to the liberal arts, while the “Emilios” gravitated toward STEM majors and business.

This polarization in my classmates’ courses of study can be attributed to two main factors: affordability and upbringing. For wealthy students, cost is not a factor. They do not have to worry about paying off student loans and they may have family money or connections in a particular industry to fall back on. Less privileged students lack this safety net and must assess, based on the information available to them, what major will provide job security post-graduation. The issue of exposure to the liberal arts is closely linked to socioeconomic status. In his aptly named Atlantic article, “Rich Kids Study English,” Joe Pinsker suggests that “there is…a possibility that children from higher-income families [are] more exposed to the sorts of art, music, and literature that colleges deem worthy of study, an exposure that might inspire them to pursue those subjects when they get to college” (Pinsker). Perhaps parents who have been fortunate enough to experience the value of a liberal arts education for themselves are more likely to instill a love of literature or history in their own children. Maybe they raise their children in areas with good school systems in which there is enough funding to focus on the humanities in addition to the science and math courses that our government and education system recommend. This earlier familiarization with the humanities undoubtedly makes a liberal arts education more easily accessible for wealthy students.

The Value of a Liberal Arts Education

In order to improve accessibility, the rhetoric around the cost of a liberal arts education, by policymakers and commentators, needs to change. Just recently, on a trip to Wisconsin, President Obama remarked, “folks can make a lot more, with skilled manufacturing or the trades than they might with an art history degree” (Postrel). Although his comment was intended to assure young people that college is not the only path to success, it still diminishes the money-making potential of liberal arts graduates in the eyes of a public that is evermore money-minded. Carol Gary Schneider, the president of the Association of American Colleges and Universities, conducted a study to disprove the “comments made by ill-informed commentators and policymakers who paint a misleading picture of the value of a liberal arts education” (Johnson). The study found that “college graduates in all fields see their salaries increase significantly over time” and that in general, college graduates, no matter their major, earn much more money than non-graduates do (Johnson). The study also addressed the common misconception that graduating liberal arts majors are unemployable and bound to end up moving back in with mom and dad. According to AAC&U, “the unemployment rate for recent liberal arts graduates is 5.2 percent” and for mature workers with liberal arts degrees (41-50) [it is] 3.5 percent- just .04 percent higher than the rates for those with a professional or preprofessional degree” (Johnson). Contrary to misinformation disseminated by politicians and journalists, liberal arts majors are getting jobs out of college and continuing to be employable into their peak work years. A liberal arts education prepares students for a changing world by equipping them with a broad set of analytical skills rather than a single focus. According to Peter Cappelli, the George W. Taylor Professor of Management at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School, “nobody can predict where the jobs will be—not the employers, not the schools, not the government officials who are making such loud calls for vocational training. The economy is simply too fickle to guess way ahead of time, and any number of other changes could roil things as well” (Capelli). The broad knowledge and analytical skills that a liberal arts education provide ensure that students can adapt to these changes and apply their broad skill sets to a variety of careers.

In addition to preparing students to assume positions in various industries rather than just one, a liberal arts education is valuable to our society at large in that it develops citizens with the broad knowledge necessary for civic engagement. Michael Lind, a prominent American writer and scholar at the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars states that “the argument for liberal education, from Isocrates and Cicero onward, has been that the leaders of society, even if they practice one or another profession, need to be well-rounded, well-informed generalists if they are to make sound decisions in public and private life” (Lind, 58). A liberal arts education, earlier referred to as a “gentleman’s education,” for giving students the broad knowledge and skills necessary for civic engagement. A man well-versed in rhetoric, history, literature, and politics could contribute to his government and society effectively. According to the aforementioned study by the AAC&U, “liberal arts graduates disproportionately pursue social services professions” (Johnson); although these professions may be less lucrative, they play necessary roles in communities. Social workers, counselors, and psychologists make critical contributions to healthcare, education, and the general welfare of our population. Other common professions for liberal arts graduates, like teaching and non-profit administration, can impact communities directly and profoundly. By improving access to the liberal arts, we can ensure that all students, regardless of socioeconomic status, have the opportunity to pursue careers that have such a deep-seated impact on their communities.

Improving Access

In his Forbes piece “Liberal Arts vs. STEM: The Right Degrees, the Wrong Debate,” Sergei Klebnikov, a former classmate of mine and a history and international relations major at Scotland’s University of St. Andrews, argues that we must not see the liberal arts and STEM as mutually exclusive. He addresses the collaborations occurring between the liberal arts and STEM fields at universities and suggests that we stop focusing on the differences between the two and start focusing on how we can integrate them. Although integrated curriculums would undoubtedly help introduce the liberal arts to students without much background in it, we must first address the gap in accessibility. Klebnikov mentions institutions like Lafayette College, a private liberal arts institution that includes a liberal arts requirement for its engineers; however, the real issue lies in the reality that few students can afford to attend Lafayette. If engineering colleges can infuse the liberal arts into their curriculums and liberal arts college, we can close some of this gap. If we can ensure that high school students are educated as to the actual benefits and drawbacks of the liberal arts versus other more “practical” degrees, we can deemphasize upbringing as a factor. Finally, and most challengingly, if colleges take steps to make education affordable, students will be able to base their decisions on what to study on personal interests rather than cost.

In “Rich Kids Study English,” Joe Pinsker argues that upon close inspection, “college majors and occupations start to look more and more like easily-interpreted, if slightly crude, badges doled out to people based on the wealth and educational status of the parents they were born to” (Pinsker). Obviously, this is a simplified and dramatized interpretation of the correlation between socioeconomic factors and college majors; however, in many cases it holds true. In order to make college majors and occupations reflections of young people’s own interests, we must eliminate their parents’ wealth and educational status as factors in their choice.

As a student who is fortunate enough to have received a strong foundation in the humanities in high school and to have the opportunity to study liberal arts in college, I can personally attest to the merit in a liberal arts education. As a nineteen-year-old, I don’t feel prepared to choose one track and stick to it. I am not yet ready to define myself label myself as “engineer” or “accountant.” Although some students my age my be ready to start down a path and stick with it, for those who aren’t, a liberal arts education can be a means of exploring a variety of subjects and eventually specializing in something of significance and interest to them. In addition to allowing me time before choosing a career path, a liberal arts education has allowed me to develop an understanding of myriad subjects: I can hold my own in conversations with adults on topics ranging from World War II history to F. Scott Fitzgerald. When I think about a career path, I see endless options. I have room to explore and to try things and fail. I am grateful for the opportunity that a liberal arts education affords me and hope that institutions, parents, educators, and people can work to open the door to liberal arts to all students. Perhaps liberal arts majors, with their analytical skills, multifaceted worldviews, and understanding of the privileged position that they are in, can collaborate in order to improve the quality of information about the liberal arts and the accessibility of liberal arts degrees for all students, regardless of socioeconomic status.

Works Cited

Capelli, Peter. “Why Focusing Too Narrowly in College Could Backfire.” The Wall Street Journal 15 Nov. 2013. Web 27 Oct 2015.

Johnson, Carrie. “New Report Documents That Liberal Arts Disciplines Prepare Graduates for Long-Term Professional Success.” Association of American Colleges and Universities. Web 22 Jan. 2014.

Klebnikov, Sergei. “Liberal Arts vs. STEM: The Right Degrees, the Wrong Debate.” Forbes 19 Jun. 2015. Web Thur 28 Oct 2015.

Lind, Michael. “Why the Liberal Arts Still Matter.” The Wilson Quarterly. Autumn (2006): 52-58. Print.

Pinsker, Joe. “Rich Kids Study English.” The Atlantic 6 Jul. 2015. Web 27 Oct 2015.

Postrel, Virginia. “Obama Fails Art History and Economics.” Bloomberg View. Web 31 Jan. 2014.

Why I Write

I write to solve problems, to figure out what I need to say, and to access a part of my mind that goes unexplored much of the time.

When it comes to solving problems, I write a journal entry much like a mathematician solves an equation. I start with a problem and put pen to paper in order to find a solution. The problem-solving starts with an initial spark, an idea as to how to begin, and develops as I continue writing. When I have a serious decision to make or a mess to clean up, simply thinking about it makes me anxious and lost; there are too many options to sort through and each choice comes with its own set of implications. In order to explore these complexities in a more productive manner, I take to my journal and select a problem-solving method that I see fit. When choosing between two options, I often employ the “pro-con” list, whereas for a “mess” the step-by-step list imposes some order on a sticky situation:

Park car with dent facing away from the house
Call autobody shop and get appointment for a quote
Go to autobody shop
If you have enough money to cover it, you’re good. Send car to the shop next weekend when Mom and Dad are gone. If not, proceed to 5.
Call Dad tomorrow after school tomorrow and say that you just hit the fence backing out of a spot that was way, way too tight and you are SO sorry. You will call the insurance company and try to deal with it yourself
Pray

As someone who writes to discover rather than to iterate an already developed idea, my solve-as-I-go approach often found me in sticky situations in high school. Mr. Risley, my AP United States history teacher, requested that we turn in an outline, which he called a “laundry list” with our in-class essays. As soon as I finished reading the prompt, I would start in on my essay. However, as I looked around the room, I would notice that my classmates were writing their ideas into neatly-drawn charts with headings like “social implications,” and “political implications.” Many of them filled the lists with bulleted ideas and, when they finally got to the essay, they would simply string the bullets together. Although I’m sure Mr. Risley’s “laundry list” approach helped many of my peers to organize their arguments, outlines have never worked for me. My problem-solving occurs during the writing process. Just as I would begin writing in my journal to figure out how to solve a problem, I would start my essay in order to sort out my ideas. As I developed them, I would determine the meaning of the sum of my ideas and wrap them together in the conclusion. If I had time after finishing my essay, I would scrawl out a fake “laundry list” with a couple of words in each box to avoid the point-penalty for not submitting one. My friend Austin would roll his eyes and ask why it was so hard for me to just make a laundry list; if I did, I wouldn’t lose the points.

“Austin, I know it sounds weird, but I actually can’t start writing with a laundry list. If I do I’ll just draw the boxes and sit there staring at them for the entire period. It’s better for me to just write and figure it out from there.”

Just like my essays, my journal entries often start as a problem-solving effort and end once I have explored them to the point of drawing a conclusion. Somehow, this problem-solving process is a form of meditation for me. After making a pro-con list or a step-by-step list, I will ruminate on the situation and sometimes lose myself in it. I experience the state of blissful self-unawareness that my younger self shifted into and out of quite naturally. Writing is a task so deeply contemplative and consuming that it requires shedding my attachments to what is immediate in favor of occupying a different headspace. Once I become entirely absorbed in the process of writing, my consciousness of myself as an individual grounded by time, bound by obligations, and limited by a strong sense of self dissipates. It is the same space that I inhabit when I go for a run, sparked by some initial inspiration but lacking a destination. Eventually, I settle into a rhythm and fall comfortably into that precarious state between self-awareness and complete oblivion. Here, I can access my own thoughts on a level that is limited by awareness. I can explore these ideas without criticizing their quality or relevance and when I finally fall out of this state and lift pen from paper, I am left with a map of my mind and an understanding of it that self-consciousness does not permit.

I clean out my desk drawers every spring. I start a pile of old schoolwork and stray papers to be recycled and a bag of broken pens, worn out highlighters, and strange trinkets to be thrown away. I vacuum eraser shavings and dust out of the drawer liners. Once I finish these rather banal, yet somehow satisfying tasks, I allow myself to look at my old journals. All year they remain untouched at the back of my top drawer, gathering dust. Opening the front cover of any one of these journals always spurs a sort of anxiety in me. Although I have read them countless times, I fear what I will discover. The text remains the same, but the associations I make, the memories I recall, and the way I connect with my younger self changes from year to year.

This past spring, when I read one journal in particular, I noticed that my handwriting changed drastically from entry to entry. Starting with a comically illegible scrawl, I moved to tiny, typewriter-like print, to a bubbly cursive. Struggling to find a style that suited me, I tried every style of handwriting imaginable. My journal entries were punctuated by pages of the cursive alphabet copied over and over and my name signed in different styles. I eventually settled into a casual print.

I often engage in an analysis of my younger self while reading my journals. Perhaps my experimental changes in handwriting were an indication of my search for a sort of individuality: my desire to develop an idiosyncratic, easily identifiable script was a manifestation of my effort to develop a unique voice. Perhaps in describing how much I “love my new school!!!” and how “awesome” my new friends were, I was trying to convince myself of my happiness. Maybe the countless pages of carefully penned cursive script were an early indication of a perfectionism that would later have to be unlearned. Despite my attempt to take an academic, analytical view of my journals, I often experience fleeting, stirring moments of identification with my younger self where I am no longer analyzing her as if we are two separate beings. Curiously, it is not always detailed descriptions or flowery language that evoke a strong recollection in me. Last spring, it was a list:

bricks from the Lupoli’s shed
long rope
wood chips
tarp
blankets
milk crates.

I was back waiting at the Old Farm Way bus stop with Lilie, discussing plans for our new club as we watched our breath in the cold air. Manhunt at Ryan Gallagher’s house last night was awesome! We tricked everyone into thinking we were in the basement, but we were hiding in that big tree in the front yard! We didn’t like hiding inside because his house smelt like his cats and his dad was kind of scary. Even though Ryan and Eric teased us sometimes they were still our best friends and they were going to be part of our club. It would be way less babyish than our old spy club. We would have a secret hideout in the woods on Old Farm Way where we would hang out and spy on teenagers in the neighborhood. But it wouldn’t be like our spy club. Much cooler, for sure.

The bus screeched to a stop in front of Lilie’s house and the doors opened to the hot, smelly school bus air. We bounded past the kindergarteners, first graders, and second graders. Just before we plopped down in our seats (that were almost in the way back with the fourth graders!) the bus took off, sending us stumbling backward before we collapsed into our usual seat.

“If our club is gonna be good, our hideout has to be awesome.”

“It has to be really hidden so no one can find us.”

“We should make it like a little room!”

“That would be cool… what kind of stuff do we need?”

“We should get a TV!”

“I don’t think TVs work outside…”

“Oh- yeah. Well we’re gonna need bricks if we want a floor”

“Wait hold on let me get my notebook- we can make a list!”

Something about that list set off a chain of vivid, sensory memories that had been gathering dust with my journal. I recalled what it was like to be my younger self, to inhabit such a tiny body possessed by boundless energy and curiosity. For some, looking at an old photograph often evokes a strong recollection of a particular moment. For me, a journal entry evokes a far deeper recollection. A photograph is a snapshot. Although it can capture a fleeting moment and evoke an array of emotions, it is stuck in time. A journal entry is dynamic. I can read an old journal and trace my ideas from inception through their development; I can recall what it was like to think like my younger self and to experience the world as she did.

Over the years, my journals have lost some pages. As an easily embarrassed twelve-year-old, I would read a journal entry that I wrote two years earlier and if it upset me I would tear the page from the binding. Now, having a degree of distance from my younger self, I lament this loss of thoughts and memories, even if they are painful or humiliating ones. The old entries that I still have allow me to inhabit the mind of my younger self and experience things as she did. I am able to remember what it was like to eavesdrop on adult conversations and to try to make sense of them, to look at an ant hill like it was a curiosity, as if it was the first and last one I would ever see. I could get so wrapped up in a made-up game or a story that I would lose self-awareness entirely and become possessed by an uninhibited inquisitiveness. I would read Lemony Snicket books on the beach or practice my sashays and pas de bourees in line at the ice cream shop, completely unaware that anyone else was there, let alone watching. Recalling precisely how this felt, if only for a fleeting moment, is powerful.

Although I did not have my future self in mind when I began to write, reading my old journals reminds me that I write so that one day I will have maps of my thoughts processes, a concept of how my mind once worked, and a way to experience memories the way my younger self did. Just as some people take photos to preserve a moment to look back on, I write in part to preserve thoughts, sensations, and moments for my future self. My grandma once told me, after she saw me remove an unflattering photo of myself from a photo album, that you should never throw away a photo. The spirit behind that advice applies to my journal. I write because I regret tearing those pages out of my journal years ago. Although it is tempting to reconstruct my narrative, omitting bits that are humiliating, painful, or awkward to make my life appear less messy, I now understand the importance of keeping my narrative in tact. Recalling which experiences have challenged me, which memories have impacted me, and how I have developed allows me for a strong sense of myself as an ever-changing individual shaped by her past, but always evolving as she questions, explores, and discovers.

As a chronic worrier, rereading my journals always emphasizes that no matter how deeply embarrassing or heartbreaking an experience seems in the moment, when placed in a sequence of events, an ever-evolving narrative, it fits. Ebbs are followed by flows, and, as people have always told me, “things have a way of working themselves out.” I continue writing both for my future self, who will hopefully turn to my old journals to contemplate her past and, in that, find guidance for her future and for my current self, so that I can step outside of self-awareness and into a headspace that allows for contemplation and exploration of my own mind. To my future self, I know you will not heed this advice, but don’t worry. Continue writing and never rip a page out.