I’m over at The Billfold today, talking about the new BFAMFAPhD census report on working artists (hint: inequalities among working artists mirror the inequalities of society at large) and what data about people making art means for our cultural institutions and habits of cooperation. You can read the post here.
At what point in your writing life did you decide to get an MFA? Why?
I was in college taking my second ever-poetry class with Josh Bell, during my sophomore year. I didn’t know what I was doing at all. When, in his office hours, he told me my poems were good, I was totally shocked. I had never heard of an MFA when he told me I should consider getting one. At the time I was just writing funny poems or depressed poems and reading them to my friends at parties. So the world has J. Bell to thank (or blame) for steering me in this direction and, basically, helping me to take myself seriously as a poet. I went into my MFA program straight from undergrad, wide-eyed about the possibility of nerding-out with other poets and becoming a more confident, focused writer.
What were you initially expecting to do after the degree? How did this expectation change (or not)?
Immediate worldwide fame. Just kidding. I really wasn’t sure. I was very focused on completing a manuscript by the time I finished school, and I didn’t see much past polishing and submitting it. While I was in grad school, I worked four days a week in the Visitor Services department at MoMA PS1. I’ve worked in the visual arts since college, so I was hoping to find a full-time job in the arts that wouldn’t distract me from writing. What I didn’t anticipate was the amount of work that goes into being a professional writer. It’s more than writing– it’s editing, it’s submitting, it’s ordering manuscripts, phone calls with publishers, giving readings, marketing, applying for fellowships and residencies– and it’s a lot of work. The balance between “work” and “other work” shifts all the time, and it’s taken me a while to get used to that fluidity and the fact that as a writer, you’re always working.
Were you ever interested in staying in academia? Why or why not?
I’m definitely interested in it to some degree. Maybe one day there will be a Dr. in front of my name, maybe not. I know that the adjunct hustle is not for me. I have a lot of other hustles that keep me occupied and oppressed. I do love teaching, and I look forward to pursuing that more, maybe in academia, or maybe in a more nontraditional setting. In the meantime, museum education plays that role for me.
Your undergraduate degree is in Creative Writing and Anthropology. To what extent do the concerns of the social sciences influence your poems? Do you ever find yourself using ethnography or other parts of an anthropology framework in your work?
Yes– my majors always sounded like a weird combination to other people, but it made total sense to me to study people and how and why we act the way we do, particularly in relation to other people. Anthropology, for me, is about curiosity, observation, analysis, sensitivity, history, “culture,” rituals, all that good stuff. All of that fuels my work, or rather, the way my poet’s mind works. My anthropology studies were very interdisciplinary– I took English classes, African-American studies classes, a jazz studies class, even a class on “posthumanism.” I think of my writing in the same way. I draw on everything that surrounds me and interests me: race politics, feminist theory, pop culture, advertising, music, history. My work is about what it feel like to be this particular human, and I definitely think the anthropological side of my brain is very interested in that.
You’re now the Education Director at MoCADA – were you involved in the museum education/ visual arts world before starting to work there? How did you acquire the background and skills the job required?
MoCADA is my my first job in museum education, though I have worked in arts education/administration at previous gigs. I’ve been working in the arts for about six years now. I didn’t study art history but it’s a personal interest and passion. Since I took my first college job in arts administration, I’ve always loved the idea of being surrounded by artists and visual art. I was at PS1 part-time for almost four years, during which I became really connected to the art world and very in tune with how arts organizations run. I was able to talk and work with almost all of the departments, and tried my hand at everything from bartending for the rich and famous to climbing a ladder in heels to help out with installation. After teaching during my MFA, I was hungry for more opportunities to share my excitement about art, which is essentially at the heart of museum education. Working at MoCADA blends so many aspects of what I love: working with and within the Black community, teaching and spreading excitement about the arts, communications, and curating programs.
Many of your poems deal with contemporary American issues that impact the Black community (such as police violence). Does working at MoCADA give you opportunities to blur the line between what you think/ talk about in poems and what you think/ talk about at work? If the line is blurry, do you like having that cross-pollination, or would you rather keep your day job and poetry lives separate?
The cross-pollination is really, really key for me. The work I do and experience at MoCADA, in particular the conversations and debates I’m able to have with both coworkers and museum visitors, has totally transformed my writing. These are issues that color my life– not just work issues or themes I explore in writing. Art, Black communities, racism, intersectional feminism, activism– these are my concerns all the time, and I love being able to address them with my personal art and in a different way at work. Different strategies, same essential goal.
Do your colleagues know about and support your writing?
I’m really the luckiest girl when it comes to this. My co-workers are incredible fans of mine. They come to readings, I send them poems, and they’re genuinely interested in my work and my success as a poet. Once, I hadn’t written a poem in months, and I took a day off to write. I signed onto my email in the middle of the day and was promptly accosted by g-chats telling me to go write poems! That kind of support is invaluable to me. But it’s also in the culture of working in the arts, particularly at such a small, inclusive institution. All of my coworkers are wildly talented artists of some kind, and we push and encourage each other.
How do you create time for writing around your other work obligations?
The real secret is that I can work in front of the TV. While I’m sippling wine and catching up on Top Chef or whatever I’m usually drafting or editing something. Also, I’m single. So, like, what else am I doing? But honestly, and most importantly, I have a really great community of writers who push me. I’m really into meeting friends to write at a café or bar or hosting “writing days” at my apartment where we just listen to records and drink spiked coffee and write for hours. At this point, I’m proud to say I don’t even usually think about it, I just do it. I have to.
The artist collective BFAMFAPhD recently released a census report noting that in New York City, only 15% of artists make a living from their creative work alone, and that those who do earn a median of 25K/ year. (And of those, 74% are white, non-Hispanic). The collective’s response to this data is that artists should attend/ support alternative arts education institutions rather than go into debt. Do you agree? What other ramifications do you think this data has for the future of the arts in NYC?
I definitely agree. I’ve seen this report floating around on social media (confession: my newsfeeds are mostly made up of non-white, non-male artists) and in terms of ramifications, I think that awareness is the first step. And our response should be anger. We should demand more. We should agree to change the system. Because I surround myself with visual artists and musicians as well as poets, I wasn’t even the least bit surprised by this data. The art world is a dark, rich place. In some ways, I think that when one decides to become an artist, there’s a bit of giving into that super-capitalist system and almost agreeing to its rigidity and exclusion. So I’m excited by this information being fuel for revolution, for refusing to put up with these traditions. I think part of what drew me to museum education was an interest in alternative education, community-led education, and artist-as-educator models. And when I say we should demand more, I don’t just mean money. I mean worth. I mean investment in ourselves and the power of art. Alternative education can absolutely help this, as can community organizing around how to expand one’s art practice to allow for more optimal living.
What advice would you give to young writers just starting an MFA? To those doing a degree in New York? To writers of color specifically?
Try not to get distracted, but let yourself get distracted. Write what you care about, not what other people care about or want to hear. If you don’t care about anything at the moment, don’t write about anything at the moment. Go to readings. Give readings. Go to office hours. Be hard on yourself but forgive yourself. Write shitty, terrible drafts of things. Get super used to rejection. Do like Jay Z says and brush the dirt off your shoulders. Find community. And I don’t just mean friends (though those are great, too), I mean people you can trust and who understand not only your work but you as a person. In the NYC MFA community, you probably won’t naturally find a community of writers of color waiting for you in the classroom, but they exist, so don’t be afraid to seek them out. Don’t think you don’t need them. Say you’re gonna go to law school, but don’t. Say you’re gonna go into I-Banking, but don’t. Submit everywhere. Ask for favors. Do people favors. Read everything.
Morgan Parker is the author of Other People’s Comfort Keeps Me Up At Night (Switchback Books 2015), selected by Eileen Myles for the 2013 Gatewood Prize, and There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé (Coconut Books 2016). Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in numerous publications, including the anthology Why I Am Not A Painter, published by Argos Books. She works as education director at the Museum of Contemporary African Diasporan Arts (MoCADA) and a poetry editor of Coconut Magazine.
You got an MFA at Warren Wilson after moving to Louisville, where you currently live. What made you decide to do so, and how do you think doing a low-residency program impacted your MFA experience and the writing you produced during those years?
At the time I decided to apply to Warren Wilson, I was actually in residence at the Vermont Studio Center. It was July 2010, and I had just completed a very difficult year teaching high school. My tenure there had drained most of my creative energy, and my time in Vermont, doing nothing but writing and the occasional hike, made me realize that this was the life I wanted to lead.
At the time, I was reading Heather McHugh’s poems, and also Joe Wenderoth who had studied at Warren Wilson. I wrote Joe to ask him what he had thought of the program, and he was nothing but positive. I also wrote Heather, and she asked me to send her some poems. Once she read them, she told me to apply, and that she’d help by writing a letter to put in my file. Before I left Vermont, I resigned from my public school job. Continue reading
You got an MFA at the New School. What were you doing before the degree, and how did you expect the MFA would change your life?
I went directly from undergrad into my MFA program, and really I had given little or no thought to how an MFA would change my life beyond the fact that it meant moving from Michigan to New York. As a first generation college student, I came from a family that ultimately believed just going to college and getting a degree (no matter in what) would be advantageous. I saw the MFA as an opportunity to develop more as a reader and writer. I did not think about it leading to any specific type of job after graduation.
Which came first for you, poetry or science? Or did you have to choose between the two at some point?
It was always both. When I was a kid, I tromped through the woods all day, which led to a curiosity about the natural world – but also, as soon as I could read, I was memorizing poems. In my senior year of college, I used to leave a class on Shakespeare’s histories, pull rubber boots out of my backpack, and go out to net fish in a tidal bay as part of an ecology course. The strange thing is that nobody ever asked me to choose – it was always completely acceptable that I was studying wildlife management but also constantly reading and writing poetry. Continue reading
Let’s start with chronology. You’re now an IT trainer at the Office of Research Protections at Penn State, and have a longer history of nonprofit administration. At what point in your career did you decide to get an MFA?
Poetry has always been a part of my life, if not my pay-the-bills career—I actually earned a small creative writing scholarship to attend college, where I majored in English and Women’s Studies. I’d been active in women’s philanthropy and nonprofit work throughout high school and college as a volunteer, intern, and eventually as a Program Officer for The Michigan Women’s Foundation, but I was always writing. The semester I worked full-time as an intern at the United Way, I also took an independent study for poetry. Continue reading
Before we get into your post-MFA life, what made you decide to get an MFA? What were you expecting before you got the degree, and how had those expectations changed by the time you finished?
I’d been thinking about getting an MFA since I was an undergrad. Once I learned what an MFA was, it was just always something I wanted to do. I applied in the fall of 2007/spring of 2008, and I began at New Mexico State University in the fall of 2008.
I had a terrific experience in the MFA program at New Mexico State University and I started to think about what I was going to do I guess about a year before I graduated in 2011. To be honest, I’m not 100% sure I always expected to go into academia when I was finished. I vaguely thought, early in my MFA, of eventually getting a Ph.D. in comparative literature or cultural studies, but after a while, it didn’t seem like something I really wanted to pursue anymore.
I taught during my three years in grad school, which I enjoyed, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to apply for Phds, not in creative writing, not in comp lit, and not in cultural studies. It just didn’t seem like the right path for me. All of my friends who were interested in pursuing Phds were a lot more passionate about the academic life than I was, so I think that was one of the clues that made me think hey, maybe I don’t want to become a professor. I feel like you should really want it and know it’s the right path for you, and I didn’t (and still don’t) feel that way.
In your essay on Rachel Zucker, you write “As I neared the end of graduate school in 2011, I knew I wasn’t going to be an academic poet. I love poems and I love teaching, but I realized I wasn’t cut out for a career in academia. What would I be, then, if not a teacher of poems?” You go on to talk about how reading Rachel Zucker (I love her too) helped solidify your decision to become a doula/ poet, rather than a professor/ poet. What made you feel/ realize that you “weren’t cut out” for an academic career?
This is going to sound weird, but in some ways I feel like I’m not enough of an intellectual. I like learning and thinking and learning about thinking, but I don’t think I would be good at being a full-time scholar. I don’t have a desire to talk literary theory, and write papers, and go to conferences, and peer review journal articles, and do all of those kinds of things. I mean, I still do some of that, sure….but, it’s work that I choose to do, when I choose to do it, and it’s not necessarily connected to my livelihood.
Also, to be blatantly honest, I have no interest in competing in the crazy academic job market! It seems like getting a tenure-track job in English or Creative Writing is tantamount to winning the lottery. There’s some healthy competition in my line as work as a freelance writer and as a doula, but nothing like what newly minted academics are dealing with today.
I do really enjoy teaching, and I still do it. I have deeply complicated feelings about adjuncting (who doesn’t?), but I do it because I like it, and because teaching helps supplement the rest of my cobbled-together freelance/doula income.
It sounds like in becoming a doula, you were very much aware that it was work that dovetailed with your work as a writer – the sensibilities of attending births and new mothers seem aligned with your sensibilities as a poet. Big question: assuming some version of this is true for many, but not all writers (that a “day job” is out there that supports and aligns with their writing better than a university teaching job could), why do you think there are such high expectations for creative writers to compete in academia?
For poets, at least, being an academic is the kind of the only way you can be a poet and really make money, right? I mean, be a poet as your sole “occupation,” as it were (although it’s worth pointing out that poets who work in academia do quite a lot of work that is not related to poetry). I think there is also a high degree of legitimacy attached to being a professor, like you’re finally seen as legit if someone hires you to teach other people how to write. It also seems to be the most respectable thing to do if you’re a writer, as least to people outside of the literary world. As I mentioned, I still teach and I weirdly feel that it gives me a little bit more “cred” among my peers (and even some of my grad school classmates) even though I’m doing the often lowly (yet, of course, necessary!) work of adjuncting comp classes, not the OMG dream of teaching upper-level poetry workshops.
That sense of legitimacy that comes with being a professor applies to the thinking of people outside of academia, as well. You know, the whole, “Oh you majored in English, what are you going to do, teach?” type of thinking…as if teaching is the only logical way to make a living with words. I remember having dinner with my friends when I finished my masters and they were like, “Oh, so you’re going to be a professor now?” And I said “Um, even if I wanted to be a professor, it’s incredibly hard to get a tenure-track job teaching writing. It would probably take me years.” And they were like “Oh, we thought that’s what everyone did!!”
But yeah, everyone doesn’t do that. And everyone doesn’t WANT to do that, either. For me, having several somewhat flexible jobs gives me the ability to make space in my life for my poetry. Others achieve that in other ways, but the life and career I’ve carved out over the last few years is what’s working for me now.
What tensions, if any, do you feel between writing as an expert, as you do in “Why I’m a Pro-Choice Doula,” where your expertise in a subject is what drives the writing, and writing as a poet, where your expertise in a subject is less important than how you say what you do? What purposes does each serve for you? Do you enjoy one more or less than the other?
I don’t know that I am an expert in being a doula—or that I am not a expert in being a poet. I’m am an expert in myself and in my own experience, so that’s what I try to bring to my writing, whether it is about birth-related topics or whether it’s my poetry. I am always learning, in both spheres, which makes things fun and interesting, whether it’s a new massage technique for a person in labor or a discovering an awesome new book of lyric essays.
I am HUGELY passionate about maternity care and birthing choices for people in the US, so it’s my certainly my passion and my convictions that drive that kind of writing for me. If I’m writing something about birth or about being a doula, I usually want readers to have their assumptions challenged or come away having learned something new, so it’s important to me to write in a way that’s extremely clear, organized, and evidence-based.
But for my poems, I can just be weird and flip and dramatic and funny and it doesn’t matter because it’s MY poem and I don’t have to “prove” it to anyone—except myself, maybe. Readers are welcome to take whatever they want from my poems.
How do you feel about “Call the Midwife”? (I had to ask).
I love it! It’s the best. I cry during every single episode. I love it especially because it shows women giving birth safely, in their homes, attended by caring, well-qualified, and professional medical staff. The midwives (and the doctor!) on the show are essentially offering holistic care that takes into consideration the mother’s personal life, emotional state, and more, just as much as the medical aspects of her pregnancy, labor and postpartum. That’s a model of care that is hopefully coming back into vogue, but one I think that has been largely lost in our age of ten minute obstetrician appointments and induction dates. I’m happy to see this model of care demonstrated, and hopeful that others can see that it works, even if the show does take place during the 50s. The midwifery model continues to work for families and communities all over the world.
Even though the people on the show are obviously acting, I’m sure that Call The Midwife shows some of the only unmedicated births some viewers have seen, so I think that’s a benefit. And that’s not to say that medicated birth isn’t also wonderful and life-changing….but I appreciate the work the show is doing to make it clear that birth can be a normal, joyous event that doesn’t necessarily have to happen while you’re lying in a bed, in a hospital gown, with monitors strapped to your belly.
I also love how honest the show is about the emotional and mental complications involved in doing birth work. As amazing and renewing as it can be, it’s also quite grueling and taxing on both your body and your emotional state. And I’m not even a midwife!
To what extent was your poetry attentive to or influenced by birth and motherhood before you became a doula? Is it more so influenced now, or do you consciously create a separate space for it?
My book, PRETTY TILT, has poems about wanting to have a child, and about the experience of being a babysitter–a “fake”mother, if you will–so it’s been there for a while. All of my poems in some way deal with the experience of womanhood. And I have like five billion references to cervixes and ovaries in my poems, so that anatomical element crops up a lot :)
I have a new book coming out later this year and it has a couple mentions of my doula work, and birth, and also deals with my relationship to “motherhood” as a construct. I don’t have any children of my own as of yet, so in some ways I feel like an impostor writing about motherhood, when it’s an experience I haven’t really entered on my own. I’m really interested, and scared, and excited, to see how my writing will change when I do become a mother.
What are some ways you stay connected to groups of other writers? How do these connections feel different than those you made as an MFA student? How often do you meet writers who are also in the birthing business?
Wellllllllll I tweet a lot. Does that count? I think it does! I have an awesome, supportive community of writer friends on Twitter, and everywhere on the internet, really. There are so many writers today who I respect and enjoy as people (as well as respecting and enjoying their work) and I feel lucky to live in a time where I can connect with them even though we live all over the world. I also keep in touch with some of my MFA classmates, too. I send them work, they send me work: it’s nice to have a sounding board every once in a while.
I wish I knew other writers who were doulas or who were otherwise involved in the birth world! I’m sure they’re out there…I do know (only via Facebook) Sarah Fox, who is also a poet and a doula. And I know one another doula who is also a poet, but she doesn’t live in my local area. But there are a ton of books geared towards expectant parents, so there’s obviously overlap with people who like writing and people who like the world of pregnancy, childbirth, and postpartum. Or maybe those people are just getting paid to write those books—how can I break into that?!
What advice would you give other writers who are finishing MFA programs who feel as you did about academia?
You have options! It’s awesome to be an academic writer, but that’s not the only path to creativity, happiness and success.
Carrie Murphy is the author of the poetry collection PRETTY TILT (Keyhole Press, 2012) and the chapbook, MEET THE LAVENDERS (Birds of Lace, 2011). Her second full-length book, FAT DAISIES, is forthcoming in 2014 from Big Lucks Books. She received an MFA from New Mexico State University. Originally from Baltimore, MD, Carrie works as a teacher, freelance writer, and birth doula in Albuquerque, NM.
I’ve spent the past week immersed in Prizes, the selected short stories of Janet Frame. I was introduced to Frame, one of New Zealand’s most celebrated writers, through Jane Campion’s adaptation of Frame’s autobiography, An Angel At My Table. I watched this film in a deep, lightless Michigan winter, during a time when I lived alone; huddled on a loveseat with sinking cushions, I let the washed blue light of Campion’s filming and the harsh, scrubbed look of the rural New Zealand landscape open up before me.
Frame’s stories, like some of my favorite poems, are invested in occupying a slightly absurd space between reality and fantasy (“’The Sun,’ they said, ‘is unmentionable. You must never refer to it.” But that ruse did not work. People referred to the sun…” begins one story.) When she was in her early twenties, Frame had a breakdown and was committed to a mental hospital, where she narrowly escaped a lobotomy operation because her first book of stories won a major prize. (Literary prizes appear in Prizes, but like most triumphs in Frame’s work, they are double-edged.)
As someone who tried and gave up on teaching when she was young, Frame must have thought once in a while about how to contend with those who believed writing, particularly poetry and fiction writing, was not work, and how others holding this view could corner a writer into becoming something else, while believing he was doing so in the service of writing. In “The Triumph of Poetry,” a young man named Alan (“…meaning that in the future the area of himself would be known as Alan”) wishes to become a poet. The expected tension surfaces: not a suitable career. Other people tell him this. “But how will you keep yourself?” they say. Frame offers commentary:
One must be kept, swept, turned inside out, shaken free of insects, polished, pleated, trimmed, preserved in brine which is collected in opaque green bottles from the sea or from tears which fall in the intervals between each death.
The self, in the hands of Frame-impersonating-Alan’s-elders, is a household object, subject to entropy: to dust, to wrinkling, to overgrowth. The self is also a liquid that takes the shape of its container. There are all sorts of containers. The question “what do you want to be?” (or “what will you do with that degree?” or “but how do you make your money?” or, as I heard this weekend, “Creative writing. So, do you work for a newspaper?”), reflects a fear about what that shape will turn out to be. A lawyer is a familiar shape, as is a nurse. A poet – what shape is that? Alan’s nameless, faceless elders seem to say to him: we’ve done you the favor of giving the amorphous blob of you a name; now what will you do with it, where will you put it?
But if Frame had kept on in the “squares go home” mode, her story might have turned out much more adolescent. Alan doesn’t quite rage against the machine. He tries on a few shapes: he writes poems, does it well enough, earns praise for it. He goes to university, and to the beach, and to meet girls. He takes pride in his success at school. It’s important to feel you do well at something. But Alan’s time for writing seems scarce, and that’s when the story begins to hinge on the idea of a day job. Alan “found a job as porter in a hospital morgue, attaching tickets and tying toes together, and looking for vacant spaces on the shelves of the refrigerator in order to keep a state of efficiency. He found that the atmosphere stimulated his thinking, but only while he was among the corpses, for as soon as he went to his digs to carry out his plan of writing at night, his thoughts seemed to vanish.”
Among the corpses! As I type this, I am carrying out my plan of writing at night, and I can second Alan (can you?) in the sentiment that as long as you are somewhere you’d rather not be, the ideas come easily. At my first job out of college, indignant at being bored in the office when I would have rather gone home and written, I drew elaborate cartoons that I hung on my cubicle walls. I know a poet who wrote her first book while in law school. Legend has it that at least one well-known novelist has finished a draft while locked in his white-collar office.
“It’s the revenge of the dead,” Alan hypothesizes, but at that point he is beginning to be fatigued. The world’s reluctance to let him be a poet – without thought to how he will ‘keep himself’ – is becoming evident. “But he knew it was not the revenge of the dead. Their toes were tied with pink tape, in bows, as for a festive occasion. Their faces were in unsealed envelopes, forwarded at half-rates with five conventional words of greeting. All was in order. The dead did not need revenge.” The dead, too, have their shape; in their way, are kept.
I won’t give away the end of the story, but you’ve probably guessed it: poetry does not quite triumph. (“The Triumph of Poetry,” as it turns out, is the name of a little magazine that heralds Alan’s early work long after he can reasonably be called “a promising young poet.”) In the end, what we all fear happens to Alan: a youthful attempt to build room for poetry into one’s life is overtaken by the act of building a room (from bricks of employment, family, trappings of middle-class life).
This is something I wrestle with, when I sit through a long staff meeting and can’t quite focus my eyes; when I come home and open up a Word document and can’t make any image come clear; when I sit across a bar from a friend and explain to her that my 9-5 job is, actually, the best way I can “make room” in my life for writing. Day job, sometimes I have my doubts. Not because I want to be a destitute elderly person one day, or because I still think wistfully about academia (although I sometimes do), but because I wonder if trying to give our writing a room of its own sometimes means that we’re cordoning it off, organizing it out of the rest of our lives.
I’d like to end on a more hopeful note, so I’ll make a recommendation, for myself, and for anyone who feels like taking it. I prescribe letting the work – the real work, the honest work, work that you would not disown even if fifty magazines rejected it – spill over once in a while. Let the liquid get out of its container. Write at your day job: a few sentences at lunch, a line scribbled on the last page of your legal pad at an endless meeting. Take notes when you’re on the phone or when your students are working quietly, on how people interrupt or repeat themselves when they talk, how the fluorescent light looks on everyone’s skin. Once in a while, for the sake of the work you love, let everything in your life run together, and wrinkle, and rust.
This week in the skillz and accomplishments of MFA Day Job featured writers and contributors:
Not bad, you lot.
When you applied to college, did you know what the f* you were doing? Not me. I thought I might like to live in New York, where my father grew up; I sent away (ah, I date myself) for Columbia’s fancy paper application. When my parents and I visited a few colleges, I liked the combed green of Swarthmore’s campus and the uncombed hair of the wiry tour guide. Eventually, I had a list of brand-name schools, plus the university where my father taught (I could go there for free) and a school in rural Pennsylvania which would offer me a full scholarship.
Of the fancy schools, I got into one. I went there, turning down full rides at my dad’s university (too close to home) and the rural PA school (too fratty, I told myself). My father allowed me to do this, believing that the connections I would make, not to mention the quality of the education and the overall experience, would be better at the private liberal arts school I attended.
But what does it mean to have a better college experience? Yesterday’s Purdue-Gallup poll of college graduates suggests that most of the things middle- and upper-class parents and kids believe matters about college (how hard it is to get into; public or private; its size) barely matter at all. What matters – and for those of you about to click away because this isn’t about MFAs, hang in there – is how good the student’s experience is. Continue reading