I was forced to suffer through the most infuriating conversation the other day with a band of fellow seniors of whom I expect better (though maybe it’s my fault for being too hopeful at times). I mean “forced” in the way that being there was like watching a horrific car crash which you can’t look away from.
Treat this essay as a response to them specifically and to the rest of the school, and to the whole world secondly and thirdly—because I’ve never before seen the virtues of critical thinking and honest experimentation so viciously and painfully disregarded.
The Vibe has adopted a “movement” as of late: many of us are writing about complexities in interactions between STEM and the humanities—especially at our school; let this piece be my contribution to that.
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It began with a groupchat—as many things do—and I raised a theoretical question (I love theoretical questions because even the stupid ones can tell you a lot about an individual). We’d already warmed up with a little small-talking about our day when I introduced the scenario:
“If everyone in this chat except you fell into a muscle-eating-bacteria-filled lake and would die soon, who would be the one person you save with the time you have and why?” I framed the question as to emphasize clearly that the damp people would never be the same after their muscles and brains were eaten, and that the only important piece that would stay with them was their personality. Whatever success they could have or what rewards they could otherwise have given you for saving them are irrelevant because only their most basic traits would remain.
“Sourya,” one said. “I would not save anyone, because then I’d have to go into the pool of bacteria too.”
“There’s a crane by the side of the road,” I specified.
“Sourya, do you know the chances of everyone in this chat except me falling into a lake of brain-eating amoeba at the same time? And for there to be a crane by the lake so I could save one? Bacteria can’t even act that fast!”
“The bacteria in this scenario do.”
“I don’t understand. If this scenario would never happen, why should we talk about it?” said one.
“Sourya, this is a mind-numbing conversation. Can we talk about something else?” asked another.
And soon they began talking about their letter and number grades in each of their classes. These are AP students, some with A’s in nearly every class. And sure, my question was ridiculous, but it was meant to be. As children we’d all ask “would you rather” together, but apparently as mature high-schoolers we shouldn’t talk about “useless” wastes of time like that. Because we’d obviously never find our critical-thinking skills consumed by brain-eating bacteria.
What if I’d instead asked them the trolley problem? Chances are they’d be much more receptive because the trolley problem has been repeated so many times it’s become concrete. It’s so ubiquitous that they’d have a response ready, unlike the brain-eating bacteria scenario which requires thought (and for bacteria to not have eaten your brain). Ubiquity eliminates uncertainty because if there’s a sure-correct answer from an answer key, types of problems you can learn how to min-max mechanically (for which you get rewarded with a higher number grade), what’s even the point of needing to think anymore?
All of these people could solve ten Calculus-AB integrals without breaking a sweat, but as of now none of them have the imagination to even want to work on unsolved math problems. They’ve never been encouraged to want to be the next Euler nor are they inspired by the unknown like Ramanujan. They’ve adapted to a world where STEM is apparently concrete, left-brained; the humanities are theoretical, imaginary even, right-brained. They’ve forgotten the right-brainedness it takes to win a Nobel Prize in Physics or the left-brainedness it takes to follow a philosophical train of thought and logic.
And it’s not their fault: it’s the way competitiveness for grades and averages at our school encourages marketability, repeatability. But it’s not just our school, it’s a worldwide trend. How many people want to go to Harvard for a pre-med career? Not research in the sciences. Pre-med—so they can take the same classes as every other pre-med student and become a doctor. We now see college as career training, not an intellectual hub. We believe employers prefer applicants who took the same classes at more expensive colleges rather than aptitude or personality, which—may I remind you—is the one thing you have left after falling into a lake of brain-eating bacteria.
Our generation’s always heard: “learn to code.” Part of that’s a defense mechanism: our grandparents competed for work with the people in their town; our parents competed for work with people in the whole country; we compete for work with people in the whole world, and knowing how to do things helps in a job market that has been historically awful our whole lives. The reason we can’t be Euler or Ramanujan doesn’t stem simply from lack of curiosity, but from a discouragement of going off the beaten path.
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So why should we be curious anymore? Why should we train to be critical thinkers?
Imagination is the most basic resource that makes us human—no other animal can think on any level close to even the baseline we expect. Imagination is applicable to, defines, everything we are capable of because it’s so ubiquitous to the human experience that wasting it is dehumanizing in itself. An employer obviously wants someone who can think critically and synthesize solutions, but thinking critically also means you have a shot at independence to survive without your employer. You can make whatever salary to achieve financial independence, but there’s also the form of independence that comes from having a clear mind, being able to trust yourself as a human.
For if we aren’t human, we are simply stupid amoeba who seek brains and muscles so intently as to destroy in order to seek it. Do the amoeba think? No, they haven’t the capability.
But you do.
