Aiming for Intellectual Expansion

Schooling has always been a significant component of my life; from the time my mother encouraged me in early pre-K learning, to my current status as a student at Brigham Young University. However, I haven’t always appreciated learning. Yes, education had its moments, but only on rare occasions did I feel the content I was being exposed to scratch a deep intellectual itch. I discovered my first love in high school – chemistry. Never before had a teacher been capable of exciting my passion for learning the way that Mr. Berg, my sophomore instructor, could. Knowing Mr. Berg’s tendency to exposit, my classmates and I would ask questions unrelated to our learning but conceptually tied to chemistry in order that he might filibuster until the end of the period. Typically, I was left feeling entirely drained but with a profound mental pump.

My time as a missionary exposed me to a similar sensation when deeply studying scriptural texts. Connections, parallels, and symbols kept me riveted. I never anticipated the depth with which I could learn and discuss a subject that I felt I had completely. But this sort of interest was not common. Upon entering college, I was primarily committed to my degree in chemistry, but felt more and more inclined to expand my horizons and to consider the value of any knowledge I might attain. At some point, probably as I struggled with chemistry and sought to rationalize my search into other subjects, I determined within myself that I wanted my educational experience to be grounded in variety. Leaving college totally illiterate in some subjects while being completely engrossed in others was not an option. A taste of intellectual diversity jumpstarted my renewed interest in learning. The primary stumbling block to that course was my unwillingness to read. I despised it.

I still remember lying on by bed in seventh grade with my U.S. History textbook perched beside me. At that time too, I had recommitted myself to actually work through my assigned readings. As my eyes ran unseeing over a paragraph and a half of text, I felt the deep peaceful embrace of sleep approach. Not even the circus of positions I shifted between kept the escape of sleep from winning. That was the last time I really read a textbook, or any other piece of literature for that matter, with any real desire or success. I felt that I simply could not do it. Most of my life I have had a hard time falling asleep at night. It was never uncommon for me to pull out my college textbooks and begin reading, as that was the only guaranteed way by which I could fall asleep quickly.

This stretch of self-inflicted illiteracy was not something I was proud of, and I was determined to resolve it. A couple semesters back I decided to take a comparative literature course specifically because of the magnitude of reading that it would require me to do. Relying on my own will seemed too daunting, so the extra pressure of wanting to perform well in a course was the motivation I needed. We read from Gilgamesh to Basho, spending each period discussing interconnected themes from each work. Our homework was simple, yet effective, encouraging reflection and thought on our readings in preparation for the ensuing discussion that week. I had never enjoyed reading so much, especially because I felt I could express my ideas freely without an overarching influence or aim. Again, my spark for intellectual enlargement was ignited; I even asked for a book as a Christmas gift – a first for me.

As a follow up to that class, I signed up for a spring course set to cover art, literature, poetry, music, and more across time. When class began, though, I started to have doubts about the efficacy of the course. Now that I had experienced an intellectually motivating way to interact with the arts, this class left me feeling flat. With so much to cover in so little time, I was discouraged by my inability to find deep connections to the works; rather, I found myself tirelessly attempting to remember names of artists, types of painting, genres of music, names of composers, various sculptures and architectural works. To me, this was the wrong way to teach such a course.

Though I recognize the importance of recognizing artists and their styles in their various fields of expression, that didn’t seem to be the type of learning that would encourage me, a non-humanities major, to maintain a deep skillset to profoundly appreciate artistry throughout my life. Instead, I would study anxiously for exams, only to forget every name I had scrambled to shove into my brain mere moments after the test concluded. This sort of mindset continued into the three essays I wrote over the course of the semester. Each was based on valuable pieces of literature: Hamlet, Frankenstein, and The Metamorphosis. At this stage, I found myself enjoying my reading and discovering interesting ideas in the texts that I would not have noticed otherwise. Yet, the topics I was assigned to write on were vague and uncompelling.

Why had I worked so hard to unpack a text just to write four pages on one character and what a single chosen event said about them? As you might expect, I was left digging for evidence that wasn’t really there, filling my writing with nonsensical fluff simply to fulfil the requirements. Not to mention the fact that it was all done in one day, a few hours before the assignment was due. In some ways, I felt robbed of being able to use my actual discoveries and perspectives because I was both constrained and forced to be expansive in one concentrated thought. Just as with the other aspects of the course, it was as if I was handed a trout, asked to hold it up really close to my eyes, and describe what I saw. My sight and creativity were depressed. Little to no teaching was really done either. We were expressly told about the significance of a good thesis, but the only advice provided was not to make it too broad or specific, write one or two sentences, and put it at the end of the introductory paragraph.

Exquisite.

At this point, I’m not entirely sure what holds educators back from really pushing the boundaries of their students. Maybe some students don’t understand subjects at the level I might, but shouldn’t standards be higher than concepts I was taught in sixth grade? Decreasing student volume for the sake of deeper study appears valuable, especially if that translates to teachers and students extending themselves; not to mention leading those who aren’t accepted into higher education into fields or trades where they will find comparative advantage with the skills they have. Perhaps some educators don’t have the time or tools to provide an adequate experience, yet my most profound learning occurred in a class with nothing but a book and an opportunity to speak. To me, the crux of the issue in this class was the white-knuckled grip on names, dates, and places. Valuable information, yes, but not the teaching that opens my eyes to art. Though I want to respect and appreciate those who have created art, I think they would agree that it isn’t their name that should be preserved, but the message and beauty contained in their creation. In the end, I would rather see a painting and be able to analyze the colors, brushstrokes, and objects to explore what it makes me feel or resonate with. Teach me skills that allow me to recognize an author’s knack, and then sift that through my own conscious experience. Education, at its foundation, should push students beyond their self-perceived capacity, encourage growth, and provide skills that will be remembered and remain useful throughout life.

While I am unaware of what would actually allow this intellectual explosion to occur in education, I do pray that positive changes will be put to seed and sprout. Radical changes may be necessary, but the potential benefits to all seem worth the effort. In the meantime, it is my own mission to seek for and expand this enlightenment in my own life. I’ve just finished another book, 1984, and intend to keep reading.

- Dean K. Shepherd