Teaching vs. prestige: Yale's priorities gone awry

By Kate Mason

It is September 1997. I am sitting in a math course on my first day of classes at Yale University, and we are learning Russian. Or maybe ancient Egyptian symbolism. I'm not sure, because the flustered man in front of the room is certainly mumbling something into his hand, and scribbling something on top of the partially-erased notes from the physics class that was in here before, but it's not English and it's certainly not math. Eventually, I give up and spend the rest of the class time concocting a list of similarities between the professor and the Swedish chef on Pantheon.

Later I find out that I am lucky. My professor is a genius. He figured out the mathematical formula for the meaning of life, and has written 102 books, each in a different language. This is what Yale University is all about: getting into classes taught by famous, brilliant, old, white men, even as a freshman. Or is it?

As I approach the end of my third semester at Yale, I feel disturbed and cheated by the education I have received for my $45,000. I found more inspiring and effective teachers in my public high school eighth grade algebra classes than I have in most of my classes at Yale. To be sure, there have been a few great teachers, but the general trend is frightening. The more distinguished and famous the professor -- the more Pulitzer prizes they've won, top-10 books they've written, Larry King airtime they've filled -- the more sleep-inducing and uninspiring they tend to be. It may seem flattering to sit in the presence of A Great One, but if they communicate better with their lab mice than they do with humans, if their pretentiousness places them above putting effort into teaching mere mortals, then you're better off with Mr. Jones from that eighth-grade algebra class.

"How could this be?" you ask. How could an institution as distinguished and seemingly dedicated to building educated minds as Yale allow the Swedish chef to teach a large math class full of impressionable and hopeful freshmen?

The answer is simple: money and prestige. It is no secret that undergraduate satisfaction is far from the top of Yale's priority list. Just ask someone as they settle down to another meal of gray meat and Crunchy Corn Bran in one of the University's dining halls after waiting in line for 20 hours to get an aspirin at DUH. And despite how much we and our parents may wince at writing a biannual check for $15,000, we're not even close to the top of Yale's main income sources. Just as Yale must satisfy its corporate investors by shutting down mom and pop stores which don't generate much income like the Daily Caffe, so must they satisfy their alumni and other prestige-demanding donators with their book-winning professors. Most importantly, Yale has its reputation to consider. God forbid it should inch down a percentage point in the U.S. News & World Report college rating by hiring a Mr. Jones over a well-published genius who can only speak in numbers.

As Professor Norma Thompson once said, "It is widely said among junior faculty at Yale that if you receive a teaching award, your days are numbered" [10/31/97, YH]. Tenure is, of course, the main concern of junior faculty: if they do not get tenure, they have no job security, and if they do not build up an impressive resumé as quickly as possible, they do not get tenure, whether at Yale or anywhere else. So does the University care at all whether its professors even know what teaching is? Professor Donald Crothers explained, "If we can get at what Rick Levin [suggests]--a happy accidental few that teach well--then that's all to the good" [10/31/97, YH]. For an education advertised as one of the best in the world, however, an "accidental few" simply does not cut it.

A university is a school; it exists to educate the next generation. Its job, first and foremost, should be to teach. If Yale can find a happy accidental few who discover new quasars or write some best-selling books, then that is all to the good. But when quasars and best-sellers come before students, when the Swedish chef teaches math, we are no longer enrolled at a school to learn. We are simply employees in the business of fame.

Kate Mason is a sophomore in Ezra Stiles.

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