Through the course of my research, I’ve reached the conclusion that the primary task of public schooling should not be to impart a fixed curricular package of ‘knowledge’ but should instead be focused on imparting the skills required to build knowledge. It is no small distinction. If I had my way the primary goal of public schooling would be to impart to students the four basic skills required for building a meaningful lifeworld: literacy, numeracy, critical thinking and curiosity. That’s it…
I’ve taught at all levels of our education system, and the one thing that I’ve learned from those experiences is that even our so-called ‘good students’ are usually anything but… In the upper reaches of the academy, for example, the ‘good students’ that I’ve encountered are generally [but not always] the ones who know how to play the game, and their primary goal is to find out what the professor is looking for and provide it to him/her with as little effort as is possible. Despite all of the high and mighty rhetoric often thrown around about education, the pursuit of academic degrees is now almost totally subsumed beneath an instrumental logic that renders a good deal of what passes for schooling down to performance ritual.
This blast of cynicism was sparked by this article in the Chronicle of Higher Education that details the confessions of an academic mercenary who writes papers for students at all levels and who spells out in not so subtle language that we are producing crop after crop of college graduates who cannot organize their thoughts into anything resembling coherence let alone write an academic paper. As a Sociology instructor, I am constantly faced with the question: Is it my job to not only teach my content area but to also teach the 100+ students I work with every semester how to organize and write a paper?
In the past year, I’ve written roughly 5,000 pages of scholarly literature, most on very tight deadlines. But you won’t find my name on a single paper.
‘ve written toward a master’s degree in cognitive psychology, a Ph.D. in sociology, and a handful of postgraduate credits in international diplomacy. I’ve worked on bachelor’s degrees in hospitality, business administration, and accounting. I’ve written for courses in history, cinema, labor relations, pharmacology, theology, sports management, maritime security, airline services, sustainability, municipal budgeting, marketing, philosophy, ethics, Eastern religion, postmodern architecture, anthropology, literature, and public administration. I’ve attended three dozen online universities. I’ve completed 12 graduate theses of 50 pages or more. All for someone else.
You’ve never heard of me, but there’s a good chance that you’ve read some of my work. I’m a hired gun, a doctor of everything, an academic mercenary. My customers are your students. I promise you that. Somebody in your classroom uses a service that you can’t detect, that you can’t defend against, that you may not even know exists…
You would be amazed by the incompetence of your students’ writing. I have seen the word “desperate” misspelled every way you can imagine. And these students truly are desperate. They couldn’t write a convincing grocery list, yet they are in graduate school. They really need help. They need help learning and, separately, they need help passing their courses. But they aren’t getting it.
For those of you who have ever mentored a student through the writing of a dissertation, served on a thesis-review committee, or guided a graduate student through a formal research process, I have a question: Do you ever wonder how a student who struggles to formulate complete sentences in conversation manages to produce marginally competent research? How does that student get by you? [...]
It is late in the semester when the business student contacts me, a time when I typically juggle deadlines and push out 20 to 40 pages a day. I had written a short research proposal for her a few weeks before, suggesting a project that connected a surge of unethical business practices to the patterns of trade liberalization. The proposal was approved, and now I had six days to complete the assignment. This was not quite a rush order, which we get top dollar to write. This assignment would be priced at a standard $2,000, half of which goes in my pocket.
A few hours after I had agreed to write the paper, I received the following e-mail: “sending sorces for ur to use thanx.”
I did not reply immediately. One hour later, I received another message:
“did u get the sorce I send
please where you are now?
Desprit to pass spring projict”
Not only was this student going to be a constant thorn in my side, but she also communicated in haiku, each less decipherable than the one before it. I let her know that I was giving her work the utmost attention, that I had received her sources, and that I would be in touch if I had any questions. Then I put it aside.