A fictional account of a conversation with a half-committed sceptic, in One Act

Out of the blue, an old friend from college called me the other day. Regretfully, we had failed each other as friends, for it had been almost two years when we last spoke. Just as my phone rang I thought of letting it go to voicemail; but the guilt of ignoring him was too much to take, and I answered.

To my surprise, within seconds we overcame the initial awkwardness that comes with knowing we had both dropped the ball (neither of us dared to ask the other “why so long?”) and within minutes it felt as though the years had only been days.

Feeling frustrated, Ichabod Academicus (so I shall call him) was in desperate need of a true friend with whom to commiserate. I, faced with a string of deadlines approaching me like a Greek phalanx, hesitated. Of course, being friends, I wanted to help, but from the tone of his voice—which sounded almost as if he had something lodged in his throat—I knew this would cost me at least an hour, maybe even three. I couldn’t help wondering if this investment of my time would be worth it. Would he remember this? Of course not, because he’ll never know how much harder he’s about to make my life. I couldn’t see any way I’d ever be repaid. But, kalos kindunos, I rolled the dice and offered up my time.

Ichabod, like me, had long since delivered himself over to the world of higher learning but, unlike me, wound up at a small northeastern college that prides itself on offering a stellar liberal arts education. He had just returned from what he described as an utterly devastating meeting of the college’s curriculum committee, of which he was a member, and which was just beginning a comprehensive review of its core.

The committee’s chair had revealed that a private meeting had taken place earlier in the week at the request of the college’s president, provost, and COO in order to discuss with her the changing and, in this case, harsh realities of higher education. Student enrollment, she reported, had decreased the previous four years and was projected to drastically diminish over the next five—a massive shock from which they could never recover. A severe reduction of tuition would cripple the college, and endowment revenue was utterly insufficient to bridge the inevitably increasing gap. Economic forces, it was said, had induced a widespread feeling of anxiety and uncertainty about the future and markets appeared to be signaling to parents that children need an education that guarantees future employment and makes financial security more likely. A liberal arts education had come to be seen as a risk not worth taking, at least to those writing the checks, and this was a reality that simply could not be ignored.

And so, the chair continued, the committee was asked to muster all of its creative resources and employ their talents in resolutely reconsidering the core curriculum from top to bottom. The old world was dying as a new one emerged, like a phoenix rising from its ashes, and the college’s survival depended upon reimagining a liberal arts education for the 21st century.

As Ichabod continued his account of the meeting, I began to wonder where all of this was headed. Why was he so upset? Was he worried about his job? Did he think the college would close? No, it wasn’t that. Instead, he was appalled by the enthusiastic willingness with which his colleagues embraced their charge. Ichabod saw this as an almost unforgivable breach of trust, something akin to spousal infidelity. Indeed, before this conversation I would have described him as a “liberal arts fanatic”—the man acted as if he had imbibed some love potion, like a maniac who had fallen head-over-heels in love with his college. He would drone on and on about the virtues of a liberal arts education, about how real education places persons at the center of things, how the entire college and its curriculum serve the good of students, that wisdom, virtue and real knowledge (not just the accumulation of facts) are what true education is really all about, that he and his fellows were all about liberating students from their bondage and enabling them to live a truly human life. And so on.

Many years ago I had concluded that Ichabod foolishly drank the Kool-Aid they were serving over there. Without caution, it seemed to me, he had abandoned prudence, lost his wits, and totally internalized the school’s rhetoric about itself. I had never disclosed my thought to Ichabod because I reckoned it a harmless pathology. But now I was having second thoughts. Maybe I should have warned him not to trust blindly in the liberal arts ideology because now he seemed to be paying a heavy price.

Over an hour had passed by the time Ichabod finished recounting all of this, and I thought for a split second that I had definitely made the wrong decision to answer his call. Why on earth had he decided to call me? Surely he had fellow travelers among his colleagues. Why wasn’t he crying on their shoulders? Why call me?

Perhaps my years of silence in the face of his ravings had been interpreted as agreement? It’s hard to be sure. In any case, I spent the next two hours (I kept strict account of the time) trying to ever so gently talk him down from the ledge. I pointed out how liberal arts education had begun its slow death after the Civil War, when industrialization overtook the country and created demands for more pragmatic education tailored to the new economic realities. I also reminded him of the even more radical changes that followed in the early 1900s. The notion of a “pure” liberal arts education, I suggested, was a myth that never corresponded to reality. It has always been evolving and adapting to changing circumstances. Why not just acknowledge this and make the best of things?

Unfortunately, none of this had much effect upon him. By the end he seemed as despondent as ever, and I couldn’t help feeling as though I had failed him. And I worried that our friendship might suffer. Did he expect more from me than I could deliver?      

As the call ended, we said our goodbyes and promised to do a better job of keeping in touch. Afterwards, the image of an apple overcame my thoughts. I can’t say why—perhaps it had something to do with all of our talk about the “core.” Then, all of a sudden, my attention was drawn to that mythical image of Aristotle on his deathbed surrounded by his friends and the wise men of his day. Suffering unbearable pain from a fatal illness and certain of his immanent death, there he is, serene and peaceful, holding an apple in his hand and smelling it as he jokes: “Do not think in your hearts that I am happy because I hope to escape from the severe illness which I have; for I know well that I am about to die, and cannot escape, because the pain has greatly increased. And if it weren’t for this apple which I am holding in my hand and whose odor strengthens me and prolongs my life a little while, I would have already expired.” But this consoling image was soon replaced with a more ominous one from Donne’s sermon on the penitential psalms: “The coare of Adams apple is still in their throat, which the blood of the Messias hath washt away in the righteous.”

Ryan Madison is the Associate Director of the Center for Ethics and Culture and a Concurrent Instructor of Philosophy.