In the grand theater that is the American Dream, the university stands as a gilded colosseum—promising transformation, the ultimate opportunity to get what’s yours and chase your aspirations. Each year, nearly four million bright-eyed graduates march across stages, diplomas gleaming like golden tickets, imbued with this very sentiment. Yet a pressing question lurks underneath: what do we learn from higher education, and more importantly, have we lost our way?
Consider this: the emphasis on quantitative metrics like grades and GPA quickly transforms college into a transactional endeavor. Students, even the bright-eyed and idealistic ones, quickly realize that education is less about absorbing knowledge and more about passing tests. Memorize, regurgitate, forget, repeat. This cycle fosters a shallow engagement with material—a game of intellectual survival rather than genuine growth. It’s no wonder that many graduates look back and struggle to recall the content of their classes, even as they clutch diplomas that proclaim mastery.
Then there’s the question of utility. Majors are marketed as passports to lucrative careers. STEM fields are exalted, while the humanities are dismissed as indulgent or impractical. The subtle message is clear: your value is tied to your earning potential. A student of literature or philosophy might find themselves defending their choice, as though the pursuit of wisdom and critical analysis were luxuries in a world obsessed with marketable skills. But isn’t this obsession itself a glaring indictment of our educational priorities? What does it say about society when colleges become vocational factories rather than arenas for exploring the human condition?
Of course, proponents of higher education often point to its “unquantifiable” benefits: exposure to diverse perspectives, the development of critical thinking, and the cultivation of lifelong friendships. These are noble ideals, but how often does the reality measure up? For every stimulating debate in a seminar room, there are countless instances of groupthink—the pressure to conform to prevailing narratives rather than question them. At Harvard, a 2021 survey revealed a staggering 80% of professors identified as liberal, with near-zero conservative representation. For all their ideological pageantry, college campuses, ironically, can be some of the most intellectually homogenous places. Take the Evergreen State College 2017 incident, where Professor Bret Weinstein was effectively forced out for challenging a proposed day of racial exclusion, or Yale’s 2015 Halloween costume controversy, where a professor was vilified for defending students’ rights to independent cultural expression. In a bid to promote inclusivity, many institutions end up stifling dissent, creating echo chambers rather than forums for free thought.
More personal anecdotes abound to illustrate this point, too. Take the case of a political science major at a prestigious university who once shared their experience with me. They entered college hoping to engage in spirited debates on pressing issues: inequality, governance, the future of democracy. The child of working-class immigrants, this student had specifically hoped to bring awareness to the disproportionate impacts of neoliberal economic policies on immigrant communities. Instead, they found classrooms dominated by a narrow range of acceptable opinions, where disagreeing with the majority was not only frowned upon but actively penalized. Challenges to institutional narratives were welcome only in performative, sanitized forms, and professors, consciously or not, rewarded students who echoed their own viewpoints. By the time this student graduated, their curiosity had withered, replaced by a cautious pragmatism: say what they want to hear, and you’ll succeed.
And what of the famed “college experience”? For many, it’s less about intellectual enrichment and more about social rituals: tailgates, parties, late-night study sessions fueled by caffeine and desperation. These moments can be fun, even formative, but they also reflect the commodification of higher education. At the University of California – Los Angeles, for instance, students can choose from a slew of multinational dining options with amenities rivaling four-star hotels, complete with sushi bars and custom-made meal stations—a far cry from academic necessity. At Pennsylvania State University, $700 million was spent to renovate the school’s football stadium, all while several academic departments struggled to amass funding. Universities sell an image—not just of academic excellence but of a lifestyle. Colleges market sprawling campuses, gleaming athletic facilities, and promises of “networking opportunities” to justify staggering tuition fees. Students, in turn, become consumers, treating education as a financial transaction rather than focusing on the intrinsic value of learning.
The financial aspect cannot be ignored. College is, for many, an albatross of debt. The average graduate in the United States leaves school with tens of thousands of dollars in loans, a burden that shapes their career choices, personal lives, and mental health for years to come. Many graduates delay significant life milestones, such as buying a home, starting a family, or pursuing passion projects, out of fear of financial instability. The mental toll is equally devastating, with anxiety and depression rates among indebted graduates significantly higher than their debt-free peers. This raises uncomfortable questions: How can education be considered a public good when it’s so often a private burden? Why do we accept a system where access to knowledge comes with such a steep price tag? And what does it mean for democracy when intellectual growth is reserved for those who can afford it?
Critics of higher education might argue that the whole enterprise is a scam—a bloated, self-perpetuating industry that benefits administrators more than students. This view, though extreme, is not without merit. Administrative costs have skyrocketed, even as adjunct professors—the backbone of many institutions—are underpaid and overworked. The rise of online education during the COVID-19 pandemic further exposed the inefficiencies of traditional models. If a degree can be earned from the confines of one’s bedroom, why pay for the brick-and-mortar experience?
Yet to dismiss college entirely would be simplistic. At its best, higher education does offer moments of transcendence: a professor who challenges your assumptions, a book that alters your worldview, a classmate who introduces you to a new way of thinking. These moments, however, are increasingly rare in an environment driven by metrics, conformity, and commercialism.
So where does this leave us? Perhaps the most valuable lesson college teaches is an unintended one: the art of navigating flawed systems. Students learn to balance competing demands, to work within constraints, and to adapt to arbitrary rules. These skills, while practical, are also sobering. They suggest that success often hinges not on brilliance or originality but on one’s ability to play the game.
This realization is both liberating and disheartening. It prompts us to question the broader systems in which higher education operates. Why do we equate degrees with competence? Why do employers demand credentials that often bear little relation to job performance? And why do we perpetuate a model that prizes conformity over creativity, efficiency over inquiry?
To reimagine college is not an easy task. It would require dismantling entrenched hierarchies, reevaluating societal values, and confronting uncomfortable truths about equity and access. But the first step is to ask hard questions—to challenge the narratives we’ve been fed about what education is and what it should be. Only then can we begin to envision a system that truly serves its purpose: not to churn out workers or placate parents but to foster thinkers, dreamers, and doers.
In the end, college is a mirror—an unflinching reflection of society’s values, priorities, and contradictions. What we see staring back at us is often uncomfortable: a system that prizes profit over purpose, conformity over creativity, and hollow credentials over genuine competence. If we detest that image, the blame doesn’t rest solely with the institution; it rests with us. The question is not just what college teaches us but what we’re willing to learn from its shortcomings. Are we prepared to demand more, to push for a paradigm shift that values wisdom over wealth, depth over efficiency, and humanity over profit? Or will we continue to accept the status quo, content with diplomas that signify little more than our ability to conform?
The answer, like so much else, lies in our hands. Let’s hope we choose wisely.
Written by Saachi Kandula
