Freshmen, a confession. In high school, I was anal–retentive. Exhibit A: my junior year, I often left Calc class to hide in the bathroom, my face streaked with tears because I was terrified that I’d receive a B instead of an A on my report card.
But sometime between emailing away my last college apps in January and graduation in June, everything changed. Exhibit B: before winter break, I signed up for an independent study in which I’d act as a student T.A. for a freshman English class taught by one of my old teachers. In my proposal for the project, my reasoning went as follows: “I know the difficulties of being a student well, but I am not nearly as well versed on the trials and tribulations of teaching.”
I immediately ordered books about teaching on Amazon and began daydreaming about how impressive the words “Teaching Assistant” would look on my resume, which was thoroughly padded with activities like “Latin Club” and “Library Associate.” But when we returned after the holidays, my enthusiasm disappeared. I’d skip the class in favor of second lunches. Meetings with my faculty sponsor grew tense as I struggled to invent an excuse for why “Teaching English in Theory and in Practice” had become “Teaching English... Theoretically.”
My sudden attack of apathy was far from unique. All over the country, members of the class of 2006 were experiencing a similar onslaught of sloth—one that the Columbia class of 2012 probably knows all too well. There’s even a clinical term for it: senioritis. Although it seems harmless to anyone born after 1986, enemies of fun the world over would have us believe that senioritis is a dangerous affliction. The ailment’s Wikipedia entry says that its symptoms can include “a feeling of entitlement or privilege and a tendency toward truancy, increased drug use, malingering or feigning illness in order to avoid presence in a school setting,” and, most frightening of all, “cognitive impairments.”
A page on Jostens.com, the website of the company that always tries to get you to buy those hideous class rings, offers more prescriptive advice. Noting that “senior pranks” often occur when carefree 18–year–olds are nearing the end of their high school careers, the article cautions students: “Consider your actions strongly. Excitement is one thing, vandalism is another. Police are on extra alert during these volatile time periods. If the police get involved in your senioritis things could go from fun pranks to big trouble in a hurry.” Jostens warns parents: “If your home is vandalized, be sure to wash off any shaving cream, eggs or food immediately. These items leave a horrible stain.” Just the sort of useful advice one would expect from a corporation whose self–proclaimed mission statement is “to be the world leader in providing achievement and affiliation products.”
Wayne D’Orio, former editorial director of the popular periodical District Administration nicely sums up the consensus: The Magazine of School District Management. In his words: “Senior year is broken, and it needs to be fixed.”
The problem has become so serious that the Federal Department of Education declared that something had to be done. It partnered with various educational foundations to create the National Commission on the High School Senior Year. Serving as chair was former Kentucky Governor Paul Patton, whose 2004 senate run hit a snag when it was revealed that he had been having an affair with a nursing home operator. Then––Secretary of Education Richard Riley laid out the commission’s goals in its first press release : “We need to further a national dialogue to look closely at how to make this critical time more productive and a solid transition to adulthood.”
But let’s be honest. How critical is our last semester of high school? Most of us have probably experienced senioritis (early decision kids perhaps more so), but we still made it to Columbia with our cerebellums intact. And after laboring for three and a half years, sacrificing the best years of adolescence to the art of accruing brownie points, wasn’t a break in order?
According to the Commission, however, the answer is a resounding “no.” “If we go along as we have been,” the first section of its report ominously begins, “one–third to onehalf of our people are more likely to flounder.” “Our people?” When did Doomsday and Senioritis fall under the same purview?
Fear mongering aside, it is indeed worrisome to read that 41 percent of students at public two–year institutions require remediation for basic skills such as reading, writing, and high school math. According to the College Board, a staggering 25 percent of freshmen at four–year colleges and 50 percent of those at two–year colleges drop out before sophomore year—ostensibly thanks to a senior year meltdown.
Yet can one semester of slacking really be the straw that breaks the high school graduate’s back, rendering him unfit to work, get through college, and function in society? Granted, the Commission addresses serious problems within the public school system, and isn’t worried about private school kids. But the Commission heaps blame upon the dwindling days of senior year for a litany of fundamental wrongs that remain unsolved— the scarcity of qualified teachers, the lack of guidance counselors, and the severe underfunding of schools. In true bureaucratic form, the Commission blames students rather than the institution it represents, and whittles down four years worth of issues into four months.
So, fellow students, some moral suasion. During your next four years, broaden your horizons beyond the ruins of Wall Street and consider enrolling in Barnard’s education program—the new frontier in hemming the rising tide of senioritis. Take up the mantle to prevent unsuspecting youngsters from making the same mistakes you did and ending up at an Ivy League university. And maybe throw in a hint of sincere educational reform, too.
HILARY BUSIS is a Columbia College junior. Next year, she plans to take 13 credits total.