John Belushi and his Animal House pals would have loved Marist. Nonstop chaos. Many libations. Most of the freshmen were dazed and confused. My folks couldn’t get out of there fast enough. In fact, I believe my father left rubber making a right-hand turn heading back to Long Island.
See you Thanksgiving.
Maybe.
My roommate, a guy from Connecticut, was appalled. When I asked what his major was, he replied: “Getting the F out of here.”
Three credits.
Well, times have certainly changed.
At the University of Michigan, the administration is worried about a growing “mental health” crisis among students. So, freshmen will not be graded traditionally, receiving instead a “pass or no credit” for individual classes.
The Michigan brass says this: “the program will acclimate to the demands of college and allow intrinsic motivations to guide personally meaningful academic journeys.”
Sweet! Intrinsic motivations! I didn’t even know what that meant until I was 36. As for my “meaningful academic journey” – does that include instigating a brawl at Vassar College across town, which I did?
Let’s face it. The Michigan Wolverine freshman package should include a course called “how to be a wimp.” Gov. Tim Walz could teach it. He’s already wrecked Minnesota, Michigan is close by.
College should mirror real life. You work hard. You succeed or fail. You pay your $75,000 tuition.
Yes, you will be subjected to nutty professors and high-strung students. You will eat bad food on your journey and sometimes be absolutely grossed out by the entire experience. But in order to “acclimate” you have to plow through it – not snivel around like some CNN guest.
In order to experience my academic journey, I had to paint houses in the summer, learn to confront challenges from both teachers and my confused peers, and fulfill my obligations – A to F.
There were no pansy grades or health crisis discussions unless you include what time the bars closed. In fact, if you want to study college health maladies, my class made that easy. Almost every student in the late 1960s should have been in therapy.
But most of us made it through Faber College or wherever. It wasn’t easy, but we didn’t need some woke professor “guiding” us to stuff that was personally meaningful. We figured that out.
So, here’s the curriculum: Get the degree, get the job, be grateful you’re not going to Beijing U. All meaningful, especially the China experience.
Surely, the Mandarins would see your mental health crisis. Say hello to the coal mine.
