I
’m going to tell you a
personal anecdote and then
relate it to an advertisement
I saw on campus; these two
things,
together,
will help me make
my point. I promise
they relate to one
another. This does
not mean, despite my
best wishes to live in
the world of “maybe
it’s
Maybelline,”
that my life is an
advertisement.
If
my
life
were
an
advertisement, if any
of our lives were advertisements,
we would be fucked. OK?
In the days before our Winter
Break, I went to the Central
Campus Recreation Building
twice. These were my first times
going to the gym at school. By
the end of the second trip, I had
to hold the banister with both of
my hands as I walked down the
steps in my cooperative house
to prevent myself from falling.
My whole body ached. I began
to ask myself, “When can I start
considering myself a ‘gym rat?’ ”
I have a brother who has
always been more athletic
than I am, and I was raised by
two parents who really care
about their health and their
bodies. I have never really
gotten into that whole thing,
despite their best efforts to
push me toward the gym.
I recognize this. I recognize
that by going to the gym a
couple of times, I am not
going
to
make
any
great
changes to my body or to my
understanding of myself. This
work is continuous. It demands
sustained, unrelenting effort.
After the second of these
two trips to the gym, I saw an
advertisement for the University
of Michigan Bicentennial. It
contained
two
photographs,
positioned vertically, with one
above the other. In the top
photo, taken in black and white,
five white students sit, looking
goofy as they eat and drink
while looking at the camera.
In the bottom photo, in color,
two Asian students sit on the
grass, chatting. Accompanying
these photographs were the
words, written in capitalized
font, “Always Michigan/Forever
Valiant.”
This advertisement represents
a vitally destructive mode of
examining one’s history. The
caption denies that Michigan
was ever not “valiant.” For
example,
James
Burrill Angell, the
longest-standing
president
of
the
University
(from
1871
to
1909),
played a vital role in
drafting the Chinese
Exclusion Act, signed
in 1882. This act
denied immigration
to the United States
by Chinese laborers
and served as the foundation
for
restrictive,
divisive
immigration law today.
And yet, we valorize him.
Most students on this campus
would only know his name
because
one
of
our
most
illustrious, celebrated buildings
is named after him. I insist that
we must reckon with this past
in order to better understand
ourselves today. The phrase
“Always Valiant” denies any
sense of humility or recognition
or
introspection.
How
are
we meant to create a more
equitable culture today if we do
not even attempt to understand
from where we are coming?
How will we know what is
wrong, what is evil, if we refuse
to study it, all in an attempt to
glorify ourselves?
Yes,
the
University
has
taken active strides to combat
instances of bigotry and hate
speech on campus. I am serving
on the student board for the
Diversity, Equity & Inclusion
Plan, and I have spoken with
administrators who genuinely
care about these issues and, I
believe, will work in our favor
for the sake of combatting
these issues. But why do hate
crimes happen here? Why do
racist posters adorn the walls
of our campus? What are
the roots of these cancerous
elements
which
are
given
space to bubble and thrive on
our campus? Why are we so
afraid to study these roots?
Why do we insist upon our
eternal, long-lasting sanctity?
I
posit
that
these
two
moments
—
my
grappling
with my understanding of my
body while going to the gym
and
this
advertisement
—
demonstrate the destruction
that accompanies a presentist
mindset, a perspective which
focuses solely on the present
moment and refuses to reckon
with its past. Two trips to the
gym do not change me. And
contemporary
advertising
campaigns
and
“initiatives”
do not change the history of
this campus. Our past always
informs our present and our
future. We must study it in
order to assure ourselves that
it does not happen again. The
threats of a reversion to a less
equitable world are imminent,
always looming. For evidence,
we can use the number of
hate crimes and instances of
racism on our campus that
took place last semester, and
will, in some form, explicit
or
not,
characterize
the
semester that has just begun.
These forces of hate have not
been successfully defeated,
I believe, precisely because
we have thus far refused to
engage with our history.
Instead of only focusing on
moving past these instances of
hatred, I posit that we study their
origins, that we understand the
limitations of our perspective
— we, a university that glorifies
and
celebrates
Angell,
also
honors Clarence Cook Little,
a prominent eugenicist. Little
was also a University president,
as if once one becomes a
president at our school, they
achieve a certain undeniable,
unquestionable
glory.
Their
careers
of
working
toward
institutional
division
and
hatred are discarded, in order
to construct an unrealistic,
ignorant profile, which we can
subsequently admire.
The solution also does not lie
simply in changing the names
of the buildings this University
has named after these men. That
would be a move of intentional
erasure, and this is not what we
need. Let the names linger for
some time while we study their
meanings and their impacts. Let
them soak in their disgusting,
soiled, foul history. Let the
unsullied reputations of these
men die, through dialogue and
recognition and consciousness.
Only then can we move
forward.
L
ast year, as I sat in
my organic chemistry
lecture,
a
rather
disturbing
thought
passed
through my mind: This professor
could say pretty much anything,
and I’d believe it.
After much reflection, I’ve
come to realize this thought
rests on two premises. First
is the notion that science,
as a discipline, consists of
an
anthology
of
objective,
unquestionable truths. Second
is that in order to really
understand
these
truths,
one must persevere through
years and years of education,
slowly but surely garnering
an understanding for both the
concepts and the jargon in a
given field.
These
two
premises
contribute
to
the
student-
teacher dynamic felt in most
lecture courses: The professor,
who holds a doctorate degree,
serves as the end-all-be-all
reservoir of knowledge for the
content covered in the course,
and the hundreds of undergrads
enrolled in the course sit quietly
and
listen,
absorbing
this
information, only interrupting
for clarification.
This dynamic endangers the
very future of science.
I’ll admit that though this
thought dawned on me in
organic chemistry, I didn’t
really feel the weight of it
then.
Professors
walked
through chemistry concepts
at the same pace students
took notes. Exam problems
required students to apply
concepts,
presenting
them
with novel problems from
primary
literature.
I
left
the course feeling as if I had
gained a solid understanding
of the principles underlying
organic chemistry.
It
wasn’t
until
this
semester, as I sat listening to
professors rattle off names of
compounds and processes off
60-plus slide lectures, being
told to be able to “recognize”
them for exams and nothing
more, that I realized the full
implications of this professor-
student dynamic.
In a course taught like this
— where the expectation is
to memorize terms instead of
applying concepts or solving
problems
—
students
feel
pressure to adhere strictly to
what the professor presents.
This results in a class full of
future doctors, researchers and
engineers accepting information
at face value, afraid to challenge
the
professor,
in
fear
of
jeopardizing a grade in a course
that will grant them a spot in a
professional or graduate school.
The course turns into a game
of memorization, rather than
an opportunity to understand
how these facts fit into a greater
scientific whole.
I
found
this
especially
problematic during times when
my professors would contradict
themselves by saying something
incompatible
with
previous
content
presented
in
the
lecture. I struggled with how I
was supposed to navigate these
contradictions — was I supposed
to seek out the “truth,” or accept
what the professor said as the
“truth” within the context of
the course?
But even if students try to
memorize and regurgitate all
the information they learned for
an exam, they don’t necessarily
secure a good grade in the
course. According to research
conducted by University of
Michigan professors, students,
on average, performed worse
in large introductory STEM
lecture courses than they did
in courses in other disciplines.
Though
all
students
experienced this grade penalty,
female students experienced a
larger penalty than their male
counterparts,
a
difference
attributed
to
factors
like
stereotype threat. I wouldn’t
be too surprised if research
revealed
similar
findings
for other minority groups in
science as well.
Of course, it may be argued
that the lower grades are a result
of the material being “more
difficult”
in
STEM
courses
than in other disciplines, but
difficulty is only one factor
among many that can adversely
affect student performance. I’d
argue that poor grades in these
types of courses can also arise
from the lack of a true student-
teacher
relationship
due
to
class size or the lack of student
engagement with the course
material — memorizing facts
and figures isn’t a particularly
stimulating task.
However,
the
bigger
implication of these findings is
that poor grades in these large
lecture courses discourage key
groups of people from pursuing
scientific careers, eliminating
diversity in science from the
get-go. The same study found
that grade penalties against
women
were
not
present
in lab courses, which more
readily resemble the types of
environments that professionals
in scientific careers encounter.
Yet large lecture courses are
often a student’s first taste of
science at a collegiate level, and
I can only imagine how many
stereotype-threatened
groups
(or students from disadvantaged
socioeconomic
backgrounds,
whose schools might not have
had strong science programs)
abandon a science major before
even realizing their prowess in
the field.
The problems caused by the
unquestionable
“objectivity”
and jargon that characterize
scientific discourse transcend
the classroom and render the
discipline largely inaccessible
to the general public. Perhaps
the reason we live amid such
rampant climate change denial
is because much of the scientific
evidence is incomprehensible
to the average person; that is,
the average person would likely
more readily believe political
pandering about a scientific
topic than believe that elevated
carbon dioxide levels in the
atmosphere are correlated with
rising temperatures. A similar
assessment may be made to
the camps driving antibiotic
overuse and skepticism toward
vaccination, two other salient
issues that may endanger public
health in the coming decades.
I’m not arguing that we
should water down science
education to make it more
inclusive, but rather that we
should increase the accessibility
of scientific ideas by presenting
them without condescension
and in a way that fosters inquiry
rather than blind acceptance.
The former starts with us:
We mustn’t be so quick to
dismiss people as unintelligent
for
failing
to
agree
with
scientific evidence that they
likely
do
not
understand.
Instead,
we
must
invite
these people to the scientific
conversation,
acknowledge
their side of the argument
and give them the resources
and guidance necessary to
understand the implications of
scientific research.
As
for
creating
courses
that encourage inquiry and
discussion, departments and
faculty must work to revise
curricula in their fields. The
University already offers some
courses that accomplish this
task, such as the Authentic
Research Connection sections
of introductory biology and
chemistry labs, which foster
an inquiry-based alternative
to the normal curricula for a
small group of students each
semester. REBUILD is also
working on curricula revision
across “foundational courses”
in
different
STEM
fields
to
foster
“active
learning”
and make the courses more
accessible to students of all
identities. Making this shift
across all introductory courses
—
especially
large
lecture
courses — will undoubtedly
take much time, thought and
money, but it is integral for
the creation of stronger, more
inclusive science education.
Until
that
happens,
however, students must keep
thinking critically about the
“facts” they are presented.
The future of science depends
on us, after all.
Opinion
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4 — Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Making peace with imperfection
ASHLEY ZHANG | COLUMN
M
y AP teachers in
high school loved
to
brag
that
we
were
undoubtedly
prepared
for
college,
that
our educations had
ingrained
in
us
superb study habits
and learning skills
that would put us far
beyond our college
peers. Yet, while I do
believe that my high
school did a good
job of preparing me
and my classmates
for higher education,
college was not the walk in the
park that I’d been promised;
most of my new peers came just
as prepared as me, if not more.
I still remember my second
day of freshman orientation,
when the College of Engineering
and School of Music, Theatre &
Dance students were shuttled
on a bus to the mysterious
North Campus that I now call
home. A histogram of the grade
point averages of the members
of the incoming class was
projected on the screen, heavily
skewed right — the median was
a whopping 3.9. Then, the graph
changed to display the GPAs of
engineering students after a
few semesters at the University.
The difference between the two
histograms was drastic: The
graph of engineering students’
GPAs after a few semesters at
the University showed a much
larger spread with a much
lower median GPA.
“Most of you breezed through
high school with a 4.0,” stated
the adviser, and I looked around
the room to see a sea of nodding
heads, my own included. “But
many of you will find it much
more difficult to maintain in
college, and that’s OK.”
The reaction was not as
obvious this time, but I suspect
that many of my new schoolmates
shared my feelings: I believed
the statistics, but there was no
way that I would fall victim to
them. High school
had, frankly, been a
piece of cake for me,
and I was confident
that college would be
no different.
How naive I was.
Now here I am, a mere
half-year later with
a semester under my
belt and a less-than-
perfect GPA, eating
my own words. I had
come to expect my grade earlier
in the semester as the possibility
of earning an A diminished with
each passing exam, but there
was still something crushing
about seeing it officially mar my
transcript: B+. B stands for bad. B
is a blemish. Bs don’t get you into
med school (this is a common
misconception, by the way).
Now, I hadn’t cried about
my grades since the first test
I’d failed in AP Chemistry
way back when, but my voice
was still tinged with dismay
when I told my parents about
my first B. I’m not exactly
sure what I was expecting,
but I was surprised when
they responded without a
trace
of
negativity.
They
understood that college was
a different playing field from
high school, and a B+ was a
perfectly acceptable grade.
It
took
me
a
while
longer to come to the same
understanding. In a way, I felt
like I’d let myself down. I’d
always excelled at school, and
some time along the way, I’d
tied my self-worth to it. When
I suddenly had to work my ass
off for the first time and it
still wasn’t enough, I felt like
I’d lost something integral to
my identity.
Winter break was a time
for reflection, a coming-to-
terms with the past semester.
If I could describe my first
semester here in one word,
I would call it “humbling.” I
have met some of the best and
brightest
people
here,
and
they have taught me so much
about chemistry, math and
modesty. I’ve learned that even
the smartest people I know
have stumbled academically at
times, and that a single letter
should not — and cannot —
define me. I’ve realized that,
although
academics
should
be a priority, there is so much
more to the college experience,
and it would be a shame to
waste these four short years
in the library, worrying about
maintaining a 4.0.
Though I was disappointed
to earn a B so early in my
college career, in a way, I’m
glad it came this way. The
Band-Aid
has
been
ripped
off, the perfection shattered,
and now I’m free. Rather than
view my GPA as something
that’s
been
broken
beyond
repair, I see it as a burden off
my back. There is freedom,
now, to be adventurous with
my curriculum and dive into
classes that interest me without
worrying about their difficulty
or curve.
As I think back to the
adviser’s words at freshman
orientation that I had such
contempt for a mere six months
ago, I realize how they resonate
the truth. Though an imperfect
GPA had once felt like a death
sentence for any future I had
in mind, I’ve come to peace
with it, and I am — just like the
adviser predicted — OK.
REBECCA LERNER
Managing Editor
420 Maynard St.
Ann Arbor, MI 48109
tothedaily@michigandaily.com
Edited and managed by students at the University of Michigan since 1890.
EMMA KINERY
Editor in Chief
ANNA POLUMBO-LEVY
and REBECCA TARNOPOL
Editorial Page Editors
Unsigned editorials reflect the official position of the Daily’s Editorial Board.
All other signed articles and illustrations represent solely the views of their authors.
Carolyn Ayaub
Caitlin Heenan
Jeremy Kaplan
Max Lubell
Alexis Megdanoff
Madeline Nowicki
Anna Polumbo-Levy
Jason Rowland
Ali Safawi
Kevin Sweitzer
Rebecca Tarnopol
Ashley Tjhung
Stephanie Trierweiler
EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS
Ashley Zhang can be reached at
ashleyzh@umich.edu.
Rethinking science education
REBECCA TARNOPOL | OP-ED
ASHLEY
ZHANG
The necessary messiness of our histories
ISAIAH ZEAVIN-MOSS | COLUMN
Isaiah Zeavin-Moss can be reached
at izeavinm@umich.edu.
Rebecca Tarnopol is a co-editorial
page editor of The Michigan Daily.
REBECCA TARNOPOL
ISAIAH
ZEAVIN-MOSS
— Michelle Obama addresses students while delivering her final
remarks as first lady in the White House on January 6th.
“
NOTABLE QUOTABLE
I want our young people to know
that they matter, that they belong.
So don’t be afraid. ”