Cruel to be Kind

I overheard a conversation at the Hungarian Pastry shop a few weeks ago. Two first-years were talking about their classes. “The student’s mother called in to complain that the professor was mean to her kid in French class,” the girl commented. This was quite a shock to hear after my memories of French school and even international school, where we were not allowed to swear in class, wear a hat indoors, talk back to our teachers, or complain about criticism. Having once sat through a class in which a classmate was openly made fun of for misspelling his name on an exam, and had every terrible grade declared for everyone to hear for a year straight, I could not believe that I was hearing about parents calling a university about an incident of “meanness.” I learned as much sitting by the trash can (capital punishment in the first grade) as I did actually doing my homework. It’s called character building. It’s called learning when to shut up.

My first philosophy class at Columbia was a lecture taught by a stern and opinionated Professor B. Somewhat unkempt, perpetually late, and very impatient, he was everything I expected from a philosophy professor. Professor B. made no attempt to hide that he would much rather be philosophizing with the greats than introducing confused undergraduates to elementary existentialism, but for three hours a week I sat in awe and silence, not daring to comment for fear of insulting his intelligence and being publicly ridiculed by his biting responses. Only the bravest ever asked questions, and they often ended up regretting it and feeling dumb. It made us think twice before wasting everyone’s time with the inevitable reduction ad Hitlerums, and most importantly, forced us to consider our own views critically before voicing them.

Professor B remains one of the few professors I’ve had class with who, to put it crudely, has “balls” and he has left more of an impression than any friendly TA ever could. He made me want to major in philosophy, and he probably doesn’t even know my name. I believe that people would learn more if they weren’t coddled by their teachers—if there was something at stake every time they thought it was a good idea to give their two cents. Teachers would also teach better if they didn’t feel the need to be as inoffensive as possible and to take every ridiculous statement or question beginning with “I feel” seriously. Professors are entitled to their opinion—this is, after all, what got them a job at a university—and students need to learn how to deal with this without running to their parents or to the administration and complaining about it.

It’s not that there’s a problem with being friendly with professors; it’s great that some professors get along with students so well. The problem is that it’s almost as though faculty members are expected to be everyone’s buddy. And it’s not just professor-student relations: I have found that in America everyone is expected to be everyone’s buddy. Now, I apologize if you find this rude, but if I have not met you, I am not your buddy. If I am in a position of authority over you and it is my responsibility to teach you something, I am not obligated to be your buddy. And if I am a professor and you come to class in pajamas, pay no attention to what I am saying, and ask idiotic questions without thinking about what you’re saying, I am most certainly not your buddy!

The casualness of relationships in America is refreshing. I love talking to strangers; it’s great when I can have a laugh with someone after just a handshake. It gets a little weird when friends of friends tell you about their sex life within minutes of introducing themselves, but it’s not all that bothersome so long as they hold the details. Casualness is great in a casual context if it’s sincere, not forced. But the over-friendly cult of universalized perkiness leads to passive-aggressive behavior, misunderstandings, and fakeness. How are you supposed to tell someone they’re doing something completely wrong at work if you habitually call them “sweetie” and compliment them on their shoes? Is it even possible for a professor to tell a student he or she is simply missing the point when the student is too used to praise and may take offense or make a scene?

Life would be boring if we all agreed on everything, and education is meaningless if we constantly regress to niceties and relativism. School shouldn’t be about getting praised or validated—it should be a rewarding intellectual workout. The days of classroom tyrants have been replaced by grade inflation and extensions. And while canes and lashings—both literal and metaphorical—may be a little harsh for our sensitive student body, a dunce cap in every classroom would provide wonderful incentive to think just that much harder.

Atossa Abrahamian is a Columbia College senior majoring in philosophy.
The Children of Marx and Coca-Cola runs alternate Fridays.
Specopinion@columbia.eduM