I like to joke that I came into
college as an idealistic liberal
arts student and came out with
a job in big tech. One day I was
taking classes in political theory,
philosophy and English rhetoric.
The next thing I knew all I cared
about was coding and passing
technical interviews.
I’m not alone in this experience.
I have friends who started as
compassionate pre-med students
but became consultants; I know
engineers who had high ambitions
of saving the world but ended up
with jobs in the military-industrial
complex.
These radical career shifts aren’t
an indictment on any individual.
Rather, they’re a reflection of
a higher education system that
is increasingly concerned with
making its graduates “employable.”
English rhetoric wasn’t going
to pay, but I was fairly certain
that learning to code was. It was a
pragmatic decision, driven by the
fact that I wasn’t willing to accept
more economic uncertainty than I
had to. And it was better to know
I had in-demand skills than hope
someone would recognize the
value of my liberal arts education.
Rising student loan debt and
a
competitive
entry-level
job
market
demand
that
college
students devote less time to
learning for the sake of learning
and more time to learning how to
become employable. Educational
accreditation
emerged
too,
ensuring that students (mostly in
master’s degree programs) had
the right hands-on experience
before entering a particular job
market, such as specific courses
engineering students need to take
or requiring clinical experience
for Masters of Public Health
candidates.
Out
of
this
comes
the
phenomenon of unpaid labor-as-
coursework. Different departments
at Michigan call it different
names; in the School of Social
Work, master’s students have to
complete over 900 hours of “field
work” to graduate. In the School
of Information, graduating seniors
spend a year working on “capstone
projects” with external clients.
Engineering students can apply
to work on “industry-sponsored
teams” through the College of
Engineering’s
Multidisciplinary
Design Program.
All of these programs serve
similar purposes: to give students
hands-on experience in their fields
of study.
Why? The PR-friendly answer
is that experiential learning and
client-based courses have been
shown
to
improve
students’
“application of theory in practice,
motivation,
management
skills
such as strategic planning, and
professionalism.”
At the University of Michigan,
however,
these
courses
are
often a waste of time at best and
exploitative
of
undergraduate
students at worst.
***
One recent alum, who asked
to remain anonymous for fear
of
professional
repercussions,
completed
four
client-based
courses during her undergraduate
and master’s degree programs
at the School of Information. In
this article, she’ll be referred to as
Thea. In the School of Information,
students in client-based courses
work in teams and still meet
regularly in the classroom with an
instructor to learn about project
management,
consulting
and
professionalism.
Thea likened her experience to
“busy work.”
“A lot of the time you’re doing
work that has no impact for the
company or the client that you’re
working
for,”
she
explained.
“It’s really framed as ‘ooh you’re
helping them do these things.’ But
in reality, had we not done these
projects it would not make any
difference in the client’s life.”
While
some
students
were
struggling to see the value of
experiential learning, others were
essentially doing the jobs of full-
time employees.
Engineering senior Mohnish
Aggarwal, a computer science
major, was interested in applying
to CoE’s Multidisciplinary Design
Program (MDP) and working
with an industry-sponsored team.
According to their website, the
program “provides team-based,
‘learn by doing’ opportunities”
so students can “apply what you
learn in class to engineering design
projects.”
Despite
his
initial
interest,
Aggarwal
changed
his
mind
when he learned of the program’s
exploitative nature.
“For
most
companies
(in
MDP), you’re guaranteed nothing
but (unpaid) work experience
and college credit,” Aggarwal
explained. “But these projects
do
benefit
the
companies
monetarily, and the companies
would otherwise need to hire a
professional to complete them.”
Recent
corporate
partners
include General Motors (2021
revenue $132 billion), Hyundai ($99
billion) and JP Morgan Chase ($121
billion). All of these companies
could afford to pay students for
their time but would certainly
prefer not to have to. Instead of
using the corporate world’s age-
old tricks to extract cheap labor,
the University serves up eager
students to them under the guise of
learning.
This isn’t to say that experiential
learning isn’t without value, but
there are few protections to ensure
that students aren’t exploited. On a
national level, unpaid internships
have been regulated for years
under the Fair Labor and Standards
Act. Even if rules regarding unpaid
internships often go unenforced,
having books on the law can
occasionally provide legal recourse
for exploited students. At the very
least, it incentivizes companies to
meet some minimum standard for
educational value.
It’s unclear if programs like
MDP qualify as unpaid internships
under
Department
of
Labors
(DOL) standards. Labor courts use
the “primary beneficiary test” to
determine if someone is an unpaid
intern or an exploited employee.
The test is vague and avoids setting
hard criteria, and it’s unclear to
what extent it applies to public
institutions like the University. Two
notables criteria that courts must
consider are “the extent to which
the intern’s work complements,
rather than displaces, the work of
paid employees while providing
significant educational benefits
to the intern” and “the extent to
which the internship is tied to the
intern’s formal education program
by integrated coursework to the
receipt of academic credit.”
MDP and UMSI’s client-based
courses seem to exist in a gray area
between these two standards. Both
include classroom components, but
the first standard — that students
don’t do the work of full-time
employees but, rather, receive some
educational benefit — is stickier.
UMSI students are most definitely
not doing the work of full-time
employees, but it’s unclear how
much educational value is in their
capstone projects.
MDP students’ experience, on
the other hand, sounds a lot like
they’re doing the work of full-time
employees.
And the kicker: These students
are paying the University for these
opportunities.
They’re
paying
to work for free, and it seems as
though the law doesn’t care.
***
Thea, whose master’s degree is
in Library and Archival Science
within the School of Information,
did one project for an archival
collection
that
was
primarily
“social media analysis, which
isn’t something that the master’s
program is trained in at all.”
She spent hours examining how
many likes and comments the
archive’s Instagram account had.
“At the end, we just presented
a document that was like ‘we saw
that posts of scenery were most
popular.’ What does that provide
for this client that they couldn’t see
by just looking at the Instagram
themselves?” she said.
Thea had positive experiences
in some of her client-based courses
but knew she couldn’t count on
UMSI for a consistent experience.
“I know so many people in my
bachelor’s and master’s cohorts
who have really enjoyed the
projects and been able to flex what
they’ve learned,” Thea said. “But
then there have been so many on
the other side of that. Either the
project that they got was so easy
that they were just kind of messing
around most of the time or it was so
out of their wheelhouse that they
were so stressed,” she said.
Thea
attributed
students’
lackluster
experience
with
experiential learning to UMSI’s
Engaged Learning Office, which
is responsible for client outreach
and selection. Fundamentally, she
thought the clients were too “hit or
miss” to consistently provide high-
quality experiences to students.
UMSI provides a list of client
requirements
for
prospective
partners — notably absent is
any information about UMSI’s
curriculum or selecting projects
that are appropriate for students.
Sarah, a second-year Masters of
Social Work (MSW) student who
asked to remain anonymous due to
fear of academic retaliation, echoed
similar concerns to Thea. Social
work students typically complete
over 900 hours of work at field
placements in order to graduate
in accordance with accreditation
requirements set by the Council on
Social Work Education.
Sarah said she was fortunate to
have a high-quality placement, but
acknowledged that others were
not as lucky. Per the School of
Social Work’s guidelines, fieldwork
supervisors must meet with the
students for at least one hour a
week. But according to Sarah,
many of her peers had even less
time with their supervisors and
were provided with little to no
mentorship.
“Field placements are really,
really uneven,” Sarah said. I’m
getting a ton of education, it still
sucks that (my placement) is
making money on me seeing clients
that I’m not getting a single penny
for, but I feel like I’m getting a ton
of attention from my supervisor,”
she said. “I think so many people
are neither making money, nor are
they learning. I’m not making any
money, but at least I’m learning.”
In fall 2020, the University’s
MSW
students
founded
the
Payment for Placement (P4P)
campaign, which advocates for
students to be paid a stipend while
they complete their fieldwork.
According to a survey administered
by P4P, just 12% of MSW students
receive stipends during their field
practicum and 74% of students said
they had to work an additional job
to cover expenses.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve
heard trains in the night. Railroads
snake all along the Mississippi
River, through Memphis, past its
hallowed streets of soul music. The
tracks run up the Hudson, through
Rhinebeck, past its Dutch barns
and vast orchards.
Only now, in Ann Arbor, where
I hear the bells and whistles on the
banks of the Huron, the sounds of
cargo hurrying to its destination,
do I finally realize how empty
my nights would feel without the
sounds of trains.
I’ve relied on the railroads for
most of my life: not just for white
noise while I sleep, but for travel.
My dependence on the Amtrak
system led me to wonder what
motivates others to embark on a
train, and what specific pros and
cons accompany rail travel in a
small city without a subway system.
To investigate the stories of
those who rely on long distance
public transit, I set out to the Ann
Arbor station, positioned at a quaint
corner of Kerrytown, under an
overpass. The little brick station is
familiar, but tonight, eerie. It seems
almost abandoned, walls swimming
in the fading autumn light.
Once there, I wait for trains,
but more importantly, for those
embarking on them.
***
Clutching tight to my mother’s
hand, I waited for my first train, in
Upstate New York, almost a decade
ago. It came in an instant, kicking
up shrouds of dust and a great
clamor. At my eye level, sturdy
steel wheels loomed and immense,
miscellaneous
cogs
and
gears
assembled tenderly in a great mass,
as if some great mechanical beast
had thundered into my path.
The conductor, clad all in navy,
topped with a signature cap,
emerged though the widening door,
arm outstretched to welcome us
aboard.
“Hurry,” he seemed to say, “I
couldn’t stop this thing even if I
wanted to.”
The warm wooden walls evoked
great spectacle, as if men in tuxedos
were soon to serve us steak on
little silver platters. Someone had
carefully laid out carpet long ago,
all along the aisles, and though the
seats were covered in protective
plastic, the train car screamed of
magnificence, of great days long
since passed.
The beast chugged steadily,
every hour of every day, to and
from New York City, to the south. It
made for great company, this great
mechanical beast, and I grew and
changed alongside its plastic seats
and fading carpet. Through teenage
angst and newfound confidence,
I rode ceaselessly, back and forth,
up and down the river, all the while
resting my head against a sweaty
backpack or fiddling with a new
day’s crossword puzzle.
This summer, I decided, it was
time to let the train carry me back
to Ann Arbor.
With bags packed and a family
wished goodbye, I boarded again,
tentatively, headed north, not south.
When
the
ticket
collector
appeared, I asked her, “Can I just
stay in this one seat? All the way to
Ann Arbor?”
“Sure,” she explained, “The
train decouples and reassembles
at specific stops. This segment
is headed all the way through to
Chicago.”
Spectacular.
As the miles passed, at first, I
simply put in earbuds and watched
the land fly by outside the window.
I saw more of the northeastern
countryside than I’d ever seen,
distracted as I usually was by traffic
and the distinct concentration that
comes along with the operation of
a motor vehicle. Herons flew low
over the marsh. Rows and rows of
crops grew ever steadily toward the
sunlight.
As dark settled in, I turned
inward, toward books and movies,
rising only occasionally to stretch
my legs or purchase a snack from
the kindly man working near the
front.
My evening was sleepless: a
marked con, I will admit.
Try as I might, twisting my neck
to and fro at different angles, I could
never quite get comfortable against
the unforgiving glass panes of the
window. Strange to think I had
more legroom than an airplane, a
lower angle to recline my seat.
Perhaps the excitement of the
train journey kept me awake.
Perhaps the prospect of Ann Arbor.
Who could say?
***
I discovered the long-range
public
transportation
in
Ann
Arbor my freshman year, when I
found myself lonely, stressed and
desperately in need of a weekend
vacation.
Luckily, a friend at the University
of Notre Dame offered to put me
up on his couch, and I commenced
planning
an
affordable
travel
plan. As an out-of-state student,
my family was 600 miles away
and couldn’t be relied upon to
provide me with airfare or a car
to borrow. After a night of hasty
internet research, I set off to South
Bend, printed tickets in hand, with
a meticulously planned web of
Amtrak trains and charter buses.
Since then, I’ve increased my
weekend wandering to Columbus,
Kalamazoo and Traverse City,
almost entirely via public transit.
The stations where train cars
stop along the way, waiting to be
decoupled and reassembled at half
a hundred stations, are brimming
with distinct quirks.
Ann Arbor’s is no different.
It’s quiet inside. The ticket office
within appears closed, the waiting
room vacant.
Fading
light
of
evening
trickles through tall windows,
overpowering
the
fluorescent
lights inside the waiting room.
In lieu of any music in the lobby,
background noise streams from
the traffic on Depot Street, a
chorus of mechanical growls. The
abrasive sound outside feels almost
a mockery of the more ancient
method of travel fostered within
these walls.
A
University
of
Michigan
doctoral student, Traci Lombre, is
the first to arrive. She tells me she
always travels via train when her
schedule permits it. The company
she works for flew her to Michigan,
and offered to fly her back, but
she refused. “(The train) gives
me more time to stretch out and
get work done while still heading
somewhere.”
“It’s just efficient,” she explains.
“Sometimes you just don’t want to
drive.”
Another traveller, Reid Charles,
used to be a licensed pilot, but he
hasn’t flown in three years. “I’ve got
over a million miles in the air,” he
says, “but (planes) are too crowded.
Lousy. I prefer Amtrak.”
Many of those I spoke with were
frequent commuters on Amtrak
trains. None mentioned feeling any
insecurity over their safety, instead
criticizing the scheduling delays or
surge ticket prices.
While comfort and convenience
are
crucial,
I
was
shocked
to discover that no one cited
environmental concerns as their
motivator, despite an amassing
pile of evidence on public transit’s
potential
for
reducing
carbon
emissions.
Though it’s perhaps unrealistic
to expect others to base their travel
plans on climate sustainability,
(particularly in the wake of news
that many celebrities’ private jet
emissions can dwarf an average
citizens’ lifetime emissions in a
single year) I maintain that reduced
carbon output is a key factor in the
necessity for public transportation.
Content in the knowledge that
you’re enacting a small positive
change, spending the day watching
the miles roll by, has always been,
for me, well worth any minor
hassles that may arise.
Our Ann Arbor station is the
epitome of functional. Neither
pretty nor ugly, it simply rests there,
as if anxious to hurry on with its
proceedings, just like the many
passengers I encountered.
Distinct
from
an
airport,
however, it emanates a quiet sense
of charm.
While everyone I spoke with
criticized delays or prices, they did
so with smiles on their faces, as if
they were clued in on a secret, and
I knew it too. The antique magic
of the train station was a rare gem,
and we were all lucky to have
discovered it.
As I prepared to walk away
for the night, letting the glass
door close behind me and bracing
against the chill of the night air, a
thundering rattle came upon the
station suddenly, followed by the
occasional screech of scraping
metal and the soft, and periodic
blaring of the horn I can never quite
escape hearing in my sleep.
The train hurtled past with
all the might of the Industrial
Revolution, rusted steel crates
smattered with the new age graffiti
of a hundred cities’ trainyards, and
watching it pass, I was overcome
with a childish glee. This machine
would keep on chugging. Long after
I’m gone.
Statement
Columnist
John
Jackson can be reached at writejpj@
umich.edu.
JOHN JACKSON
Statement Columnist
GABBY CERITANO/Daily
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Demystifying Ann Arbor’s train station
Students are paying to do unpaid labor; What the ‘U’ can do
HALEY JOHNSON
Statement Correspondent
Design by Reid Graham
Wednesday, September 28, 2022 — 5
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