It was the day after returning from Thanksgiving break. I’d been stewing that whole time over yet another case of cheating, and I resolved to do something about it. “Folks,” I said, “I just can’t trust you anymore.”
After a strong start, many of the 160 mostly first-year students in my general education course had become, well, challenging. They’d drift in and out of the classroom. Many just stopped showing up. Those who did were often distracted and unfocused. I had to ask students to stop watching movies and to not play video games. Students demanded time to talk about how they were graded unfairly on one assignment or another but then would not show up for meetings. My beleaguered TAs sifted through endless AI-generated nonsense submitted for assignments that, in some cases, asked only for a sentence or two of wholly unsubstantiated opinion. One student photoshopped himself into a picture of a local museum rather than visiting it, as required by an assignment. I couldn’t even administer a simple low-stakes, in-class pen-and-paper quiz without a third of the students miraculously coming up with the same verbatim answers. Were they cheating? Somehow using AI? Had I simplified the quiz so much that these were the only possible answers? Had I simply become a victim of my own misplaced trust?
I meant that word, “trust,” to land just so. For several weeks we had been surveying the history of arts and culture in Philadelphia. A key theme emerged concerning whether or not Philadelphians could trust culture leaders to put people before profit. We talked about the postwar expansion of local universities (including our own), the deployment of murals during the 1980s as an antigraffiti strategy and, most recently, the debate over whether or not the Philadelphia 76ers should be allowed to build an arena adjacent to the city’s historic Chinatown. In each case we bumped into hard questions about who really benefits from civic projects that supposedly benefit everyone.
So, when I told my students that I couldn’t trust them anymore, I wanted them to know that I wasn’t just upset about cheating. What really worried me was the possibility that our ability to trust one another in the classroom had been derailed by the same sort of crass profiteering that explains why, for instance, so many of our neighbors’ homes get bulldozed and replaced with cheap student apartments. That in a class where I’d tried to teach them to be better citizens of our democracy, to discern public good from private profit, to see value in the arts and culture beyond their capacity to generate revenue, so many students kept trying to succeed by deploying the usual strategies of the profiteer—namely cheating and obfuscation.
But could any of them hear this? Did it even matter? How many of my students, I wondered, would even show up if not for a chance to earn points? Maybe to them class is just another transaction. Like buying fries at the food truck and hoping to get a few extra just for waiting patiently?
I decided to find out.
With just a few sessions remaining, I offered everyone a choice: Pick Path A and I’d instantly give you full credit for all of the remaining assignments. All you had to do was join me for a class session’s worth of honest conversation about how to build a better college course. Pick Path B and I’d give you the same points, but you wouldn’t even have to show up! You could just give up, no questions asked, and not even have to come back to class. Just take the fries—er, the points—and go.
The nervous chatter that followed showed me that, if nothing else, my offer got their attention. Some folks left immediately. Others gathered to ask if I was serious: “I really don’t have to come back, and I’ll still get the points?!” I assured them that there was no catch. When I left the room, I wondered if anyone would choose Path A. Later that day, I checked the results: Nearly 50 students had chosen to return. I was delighted!
But how to proceed? For this to work I needed them to tell me what they really thought, rather than what they supposed I wanted to hear. My solution was an unconference. When the students returned, I’d ask each of them to take two sticky notes. On one they’d write something they loved about their college courses. On the other, they’d jot down something that frustrated them. The TAs and I would then stand at the whiteboard and arrange the notes into a handful of common themes. We’d ask everyone to gravitate toward whatever theme interested them most, gather with whomever they met there and then chat for a while about ways to augment the good and eliminate the bad. I’d sweep in toward the end to find out what everyone had come up with.
So, what did I learn? Well, first off, I learned to temper my optimism. Although 50 students selected Path A, only 40 showed up for the discussion. And then about half of those folks opted to leave once they were entirely convinced that they could not earn additional points by remaining. To put it in starker terms, I learned that—in this instance—only about 15 percent of my students were willing to attend a regularly scheduled class if doing so didn’t present some specific opportunity for earning points toward their grades. Which is also to say that more than 85 percent of my students were content to receive points for doing absolutely nothing.
There are many reasons why students may or may not have chosen to come back. The size of this sample though convinces me that college instructors are contending with dire problems related to how a rising generation of students understands learning. These are not problems that can be beaten back with new educational apps or by bemoaning AI. They are rather problems concerning citizenship, identity and the commodification of everything. They reflect a collapse of trust in institutions, knowledge and the self.
I don’t fault my students for mistrusting me or the systems that we’ve come to rely on in the university. I too am skeptical about the integrity of our nation’s educational landscape. The real problem, however, is that the impossibility of trusting one another means that I cannot learn in any reliable way what the Path B students need for this situation to change.
I can, however, learn from the Path A students, and one crucial lesson is that they exist. That is very good news! I learned, too, that the “good” students are not always the good students. The two dozen students who stuck it out were not, by and large, the students I expected to remain. I’d say that just about a third of the traditionally high-performing students came back without incentive. It’s an important reminder to all of us that surviving the classroom by teaching to only those students who appear to care is a surefire way to alienate others who really do.
Some of what the Path A students taught me I’ve known for a long time. They react very favorably, for instance, to professors who make content immediate, interesting and personal. They feel betrayed by professors who read from years-old PowerPoints and will sit through those courses in silent resentment. Silence, in fact, appeared as a theme throughout our conversation. Many students are terrified to speak aloud in front of people they do not know or trust. They are also unsure about how to meet people or how to know if the people they meet can be trusted. None of us should be surprised that trust and communication are entwined. Thinking more fully about how they get bound up with the classroom will, for me, be a critical task going forward.
I learned also that students appreciate an aspect of my teaching that I absolutely detest: They love when I publicly call out the disrupters and the rule breakers. They like it, that is, when I police the classroom. From my standpoint, having to be the heavy feels like a pedagogical failure. My sense is that a well-run classroom should prevent most behavior problems from occurring in the first place. Understandably, committed students appreciate when I ensure a fair and safe learning environment. But I have to wonder whether the Path A students’ appetite for schadenfreude reflects deeper problems: an unwillingness to confront difficulty, a disregard for the commonwealth, an immoderate desire for spectacle. Teaching is always a performance. But maybe what meanings our performances convey aren’t always what we think.
By far, though, the most striking and maybe most troubling lesson I gathered during our unconference was this: Students do not know how to read. Technically they can understand printed text, and surely more than a few can do better than that. But the Path A students confirmed my sense that most if not a majority of my students were unable to reliably discern key concepts and big-picture meaning from, say, a 20-page essay written for an educated though nonspecialist audience. I’ve experienced this problem elsewhere in my teaching, and so I planned for it this time around by starting very slow. Our first reading was a short bit of journalism; the second was an encyclopedia entry. We talked about reading strategy and discussed methods for wrangling with difficult texts. But even so, I pretty quickly hit their limit. Weekly reading quizzes and end-of-week writing assignments called “connect the dots” showed me that most students simply could not.
Concerns about declining literacy in the classroom are certainly not new. But what struck me in this moment was the extent to which the Path A students were fully aware of their own illiteracy, how troubled they were by it and how betrayed they feel by former teachers who assured them they were ready for college. During our discussion, students expressed how relieved they were when, late in the semester, I relented and substituted audio and video texts for planned readings. They want help learning how to read but are unsure of where or how to get it. There is a lot of embarrassment, shame and fear associated with this issue. Contending with it now must be a top priority for all of us.
I learned so much more from our Path A unconference. In one of many lighthearted moments, for instance, we all heard from some international students about how “bonkers” they think the American students are. We’ve had a lot of laughs this semester, in fact, and despite the challenges, I’ve really enjoyed the work. But knowing what the work is, or needs to be, has never been harder. I want my students to see their world in new ways. They want highly individualized learning experiences free of confrontation and anxiety. I offer questions; they want answers. I beg for honesty; they demand points.
Like it or not, cutting deals for points means that I’m stuck in the same structures of profit that they are. But maybe that’s the real lesson. Sharing something in common, after all, is an excellent first step toward building trust. Maybe even the first step down a new path.
Seth C. Bruggeman is a professor of history and director of the Center for Public History at Temple University.
