Illuminated or Erased?
My mom and dad both got into colleges that their own parents, their counselors, their teachers, told them they couldn’t go to. They’ve carried their stunted dreams of who they could have been inside of them ever since. These dreams deferred colored their voices when they told me as a child I could go to whichever school I wanted to, no matter what. They’d make it happen.
And they have. They’ve done so much. But what for?
This fall I’m thinking about working. Not because I have to, but because I should. My parents, with just the subtlest hint of worry, ask if I plan on working this summer, this semester. I ask myself: how does being made to work make me more grateful?
Because Yale wants me to develop my “work ethic”, because I’ll value my education more if I have to work for it. All well and good, perhaps, yet the students that have never had to worry about the “value” of anything continue to not have to worry.
For me, a sort of ambiguous dread accompanies any mention of the student contribution. I feel inadequate, as if I’m not doing enough, not trying hard enough; that I need to funnel time away from class and studies and make money, money that vanishes into the institution I attend for class and study. Rather Sisyphean.
Instead of directing an independent line of investigation, beakers must first be washed; instead of developing an app, a freshman with problems connecting to Yale Guest must first be serviced, instead of volunteering with a social activism group over the summer, I might work menial jobs to make up the summer contribution.
My specific interest lies in the sciences — Yale in particular has a yawning attrition rate for STEM already. In order to advance, you need to devote hours to lab work. The student income contribution amounts to a time debt: Yale demands 8 hours of pay, 10 hours of work. Time skimmed off the top. The time-starved live the college experience for an amount of time proportional to the amount remaining — 80%, 70%. The class divide that the student income contribution drives a wedge into is a fault line along which, in STEM, race and gender runs — I see my teachers, a fleet of stock male white characters, amenable but implacable. I can’t see myself in them. Another part of me is erased, again, a part I thought would be illuminated, in the truth and light.
And they have. They’ve done so much. But what for?
This fall I’m thinking about working. Not because I have to, but because I should. My parents, with just the subtlest hint of worry, ask if I plan on working this summer, this semester. I ask myself: how does being made to work make me more grateful?
Because Yale wants me to develop my “work ethic”, because I’ll value my education more if I have to work for it. All well and good, perhaps, yet the students that have never had to worry about the “value” of anything continue to not have to worry.
For me, a sort of ambiguous dread accompanies any mention of the student contribution. I feel inadequate, as if I’m not doing enough, not trying hard enough; that I need to funnel time away from class and studies and make money, money that vanishes into the institution I attend for class and study. Rather Sisyphean.
Instead of directing an independent line of investigation, beakers must first be washed; instead of developing an app, a freshman with problems connecting to Yale Guest must first be serviced, instead of volunteering with a social activism group over the summer, I might work menial jobs to make up the summer contribution.
My specific interest lies in the sciences — Yale in particular has a yawning attrition rate for STEM already. In order to advance, you need to devote hours to lab work. The student income contribution amounts to a time debt: Yale demands 8 hours of pay, 10 hours of work. Time skimmed off the top. The time-starved live the college experience for an amount of time proportional to the amount remaining — 80%, 70%. The class divide that the student income contribution drives a wedge into is a fault line along which, in STEM, race and gender runs — I see my teachers, a fleet of stock male white characters, amenable but implacable. I can’t see myself in them. Another part of me is erased, again, a part I thought would be illuminated, in the truth and light.
