Mehsina Moo sat on the left side of the classroom, across from the windows. She was a quiet student, always looking down and scribbling along the margins of her paper. When she looked up, she usually stared intently out the windows as if the solution for x lied in the clouds. Then she’d snap out of it and continue to draw, now in a hunched position, her nose almost touching the pad. None of the three other students in her group bothered her. They didn’t even know there were earbuds tucked adroitly underneath her hijab. Music blared in her ears as she sketched her version of an anime character, and as her math teacher explained how to solve for x.
Mehsina, after all the drawing and daydreaming and unfinished classwork and submitting only every other homework, managed to pass her tests and get a B in the class. For the courses she considered “really hard,” a C was tolerable. Basically, as long as she dodged an F, all was well.
This kind of attitude toward school, unfortunately, qualifies Mehsina as a disengaged student. Disengaged students, as educational progressives Elliot Washor and Charles Mojkowski describe in the article “Student Disengagement: It’s Deeper Than You Think,” are the ones who “pass the tests and get passing grades,” but are “unprepared for life-long learning” (Washor). Indeed, if students today normally associate learning with memorizing facts and figures for exams, they give up the chance to be life-long learners, as in, people who are willing to explore and make mistakes and ask questions, those who are eager to know about things, no matter how grand or mundane.
Washor and Mojkowski insist that student disengagement is the reason why 1.3 million students drop out of high school each year. It is considered a product of a restrictive school structure and curriculum, and the school administration’s failure to pay attention and respond to who students are and what they want to become (Washor). In other words, students are disengaged because they feel that schools keep them oblivious to the ways in which they can integrate what they learn in class with their own interests.
Disengaged students are, however, not the only consequence of America’s imperfect educational system. On the other end of the spectrum lie the overachievers — students who would not settle for anything less than perfect, whether it be their test scores or high school GPA. In her book The Overachievers, Alexandra Robbins chronicles the lives of these students from Maryland, and exposes the unhealthy, almost destructive, paths they take to secure a spot in their dream college (Robbins).
In an interview with Robbins, journalist Alex Kingsbury offers an alternative perspective on the issue: “Test scores show American students often lagging. Perhaps it’s good that kids are driven.” To which Robbins retorts, “It’s not the motivation to do well. It’s a motivation to gain recognition and accolades.” That is to say, overachievers go to extremes trying to prove to others — especially college admissions officers — how amazing they are.
But Robbins is afraid these students’ obsession with attending an elite college causes them to fixate on grades, which inhibits the love of learning (Robbins). Overachievers will do whatever is necessary for better-looking transcripts, including taking more Advanced Placement classes than they can handle. Consequently, they dismiss potentially enjoyable classes that do not weigh as much as AP classes (Robbins). These students no longer take classes out of genuine interest, for the fear of risking the status they’ve worked so hard to uphold.
With that said, overachievers are not so different from disengaged students after all: both have ceased to associate school with the love of learning and exploring personal interests. In fact, in my previous high school, I took classes which consisted of both overachievers and disengaged students, whose approach to school and learning, I observed, was fairly similar. Many of them resorted to cheating and copying another classmate’s homework at the expense of fully understanding the given material. Or, when they guessed the correct answer in a multiple-choice question, it didn’t matter why it was the correct answer. In some cases, I had witnessed a couple of students lip-sync their way through music class because they needed one last credit. While others were prohibited from taking art because they needed to fulfill one more science requirement.
The problem is, not many high school students recognize what’s wrong with this. After all, they are only doing their best, and what they are told, to be considered “college-ready.” But if their idea of college readiness excludes the love of learning and exploring personal interests — if they don’t think college is a time for exploration and questioning and being comfortable with not knowing — then it is not surprising why fewer students are pursuing their passion in college today.
Yes, passion — that which stems from genuine interest and is sustained by the love of learning; that which you enjoy doing, but doesn’t necessarily guarantee a stable job or high salary.
Being passionate is such a beautiful thing, yet when we talk about people pursuing their passion, we think the stereotypical starving artist. So, I understand why there is a big push for students to aim for a degree that would enable them to be millionaires within the next ten years, more or less. I exaggerate, but the point is, being wealthy is every American teenager’s aspiration. And certainly, nobody wants it more than students from low-income families living in underserved communities.
In 2016, a qualitative study was conducted on 10 racially diverse and economically disadvantaged high school students (Liang et al., 284). Researchers found that “four P’s” influence the development of purpose in this sample of college-bound students: people, propensity, passion, and prosocial benefits. In summary, these students find meaning in their lives when people such as family, teachers and mentors support what they do and guide them through purposeful endeavors; when they have the skills (propensity) to fulfill their purpose; and when they enjoy engaging in purposeful activities (passion). In turn, these students strive to give back to their families, whose “hardships and sacrifices,” they acknowledge, will allow them “to achieve their future goals” (Liang et al., 288). Furthermore, the researchers report that these students wish to pursue vocations that could let them “provide material resources…to relieve their families of financial burden, elevate their social status, and raise their standard of living” (288).
If every student possessed the four P’s, then we would be living in a utopia (and you wouldn’t be reading this now). But we do not live in a perfect world, and many students still sacrifice passion for practicality. Remember our friend Mehsina? The girl who was disengaged in math class, but was rather engaged in drawing? She is now a college freshman here at Hunter, whose intended major is computer science.
In an interview via Facebook Messenger, I asked Mehsina to remind me once again why she chose that particular major. She told me her father and sister convinced her to pursue it, despite her deep-seated dislike for “the science and math stuff.” I expressed my confusion, so she explained: “I’m not gonna lie. The money is why I even got the suggestion. And why I even got to consider it.”
Mehsina is aware that Hunter offers studio art as a major. She even confirmed my assumption that, if given the chance — if the choice had no crucial consequence — she would major in studio art. However, she also told me, “having art as my main focus with no plan B is not a very smart thing.” But before I could recall that many consider smart and love incompatible, I asked Mehsina: “Why don’t you think it’s a smart thing? You’d be doing what you love.”
“Yeah,” she replied. “But I’m being safe, I guess.”
I identify with Mehsina. I, too, feel like I am “being safe” by intending to major in nursing — a course of study in which a bachelor’s degree is sufficient to land me a job that pays eighty thousand dollars a year. But I don’t need that much money (for my own survival, at least), and the prospect of being surrounded by sick people all day, under depressing fluorescent lights, makes me cringe. If I were only thinking about myself, I would have already flown to Hawaii to find work in a humble organic farm, or applied to a school in upstate New York to study horticulture, or gotten a job at a bakery to learn the techniques of bread making. But I didn’t. I stayed and decided to push through with nursing because, like the students of the four P’s study, I also have dreams for my parents. I promised my mom a house where she can sleep in a real bedroom, unlike the one she has now, behind a curtain that divides the living room. And I promised my dad a new car so he can stop driving his old, rusty, accident-prone jeep.
Unlike me and Mehsina, Anne Lamott, the author of a national bestselling book, did not give up on her passion despite having financial issues. In the book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Lamott recounts the time when she underwent and overcame the jealousy she felt for her friend’s consecutive successes. The friend was getting published and becoming wealthier, while Lamott, a single mother, was close to being broke (Lamott, 129). But she did not let envy consume her. Despite being plagued by the thought that it is never her turn — to get published or get rich — Lamott kept writing. She wrote about her jealousy, her childhood, and just about anything that allowed her to look inside herself. She wrote until her writing became funnier and more compassionate (Lamott, 130); she wrote until she healed.
After a friend assured her it was normal to feel envious, Lamott later acknowledges the fact that she “was raised in a culture that promotes this competitiveness, this insatiability, this fantasy of needing hundreds of thousands of dollars a year…” At one point, after half-jokingly wishing rich and successful writers bad luck, she declares: “Money won’t guarantee these writers much of anything, except that now they have a much more expensive set of problems. The pressure on their lives has actually intensified” (Lamott, 124).
I believe this is true not only for writers, but for all professions and, more generally, all Americans. Our problems don’t magically disappear when we become wealthy; they just manifest in other forms. And I say this idea is mainly applicable to Americans because we are a society that can’t seem to be content with just enough, or content at all, for that matter. We are a society that constantly yearns for the comparative of the superlative. As the spoiled brat Sharpay Evans (from High School Musical 2) puts it in simpler terms, “We want fabulous, bigger and better than best.”
I suppose thousands, maybe even millions, of Americans can agree that this culture of wanting more continues to pervade American society, thanks to modern technology and popular media. Just observe how television shows depict success: multimillion-dollar mansions, growling sports cars, ornate jewelry, a vacation in Cancun. And because it is human nature to keep looking at things we find attractive, we turn to our ever-accessible smartphones and let ourselves fall into the fascinating abyss of social media, where we covet the perfectly curated lives of celebrities and young adults backpacking across Italy.
The problem is, we tend to wish these successes would come to us as easily as we had come across them. But Anne Lamott did not become the author of a national bestseller by merely scrolling, clicking or swiping through life. I am also pretty sure that passively consuming TV and social media was not part of the process of cultivating her passion. The point is, the digital age has encouraged us to become accustomed to easy and convenient, but working on a passion is not always easy, and it refuses to thrive in convenience.
Besides increasing our affinity for ease — as in, effortlessness — experts also assert that smartphones provide the “illusion of control and certainty.” In the article “Why Are More American Teenagers Than Ever Suffering from Severe Anxiety?”, New York Times author Benoit Denizet-Lewis recounts the workshop he attended at the NW Anxiety Institute in Portland, Oregon. There, he listened to the clinical director, Kevin Ashworth, warn the parents of kids with anxiety of “the ‘illusion of control and certainty’ that smartphones offer anxious young people desperate to manage their environments.” Apparently, before leaving for social events, anxious teens usually check their phones to see who has RSVP’d (Denizet-Lewis). They are also more likely “to go places if they feel like they know everything that will happen and if they know everyone who will be there,” Ashworth said.
In that case, the incessant desire to be in control and the tendency to fear uncertainty may be preventing students from taking on passionate pursuits. As I have mentioned earlier, being passionate comes with the willingness to learn and to explore. It’s about being open to uncertainty and seeing mistakes as opportunity for growth. It’s like skinny dipping alone for the first time, at night, in a remote lake in Montana, while sober. Isn’t that an anxious kid’s worst nightmare?
On that note, a recent study also found that American teenagers today are physically safer compared to teenagers of previous generations (Twenge). In the article “Have Smartphones Destroyed a Generation,” psychologist Jean M. Twenge reports that teens today are less likely to get into a car accident; less likely to leave the house without their parents; and less likely to date, which has led to an observed decline in sexual activity and teen pregnancy. Of course, this is great news (maybe even more so for neurotic parents). However, instead of hanging out with their friends or working a part-time job, teens today prefer to spend their free time in their comfortable beds, being on their phones (Twenge). Now, the same device that makes them susceptible to the allure of ease, control and certainty has also become the thing they run to for safety.
Similar to the case with ease, control and certainty, an unhealthy preference for safety also interferes with pursuing a passion. Being passionate is about taking risks and allowing oneself to be vulnerable. The passionate endeavor might begin with dipping your toes in that lake in Montana, then realizing it’s freezing, but taking the plunge anyway, because you made a commitment. At one point, you might feel something brush the back of your knee and then find yourself flailing like a panicked seal. But afterwards, when you survive, which you always do, you understand that the struggle was part of the process—perhaps, of becoming a better skinny dipper.
While I intend for the analogy to inspire risk taking in my fellow adolescents, others may contend that they do not need any more persuading. In fact, in the article “#NODARETOOSTUPID”, Jessica Firger reveals that more and more teenagers are taking risks by readily undertaking social media challenges. Many of those teens had lit their limbs on fire; some had suffered deep cuts by rubbing an eraser on their arm; others had been rushed to the emergency room after swallowing a tablespoon of cinnamon powder (Firger).
However, fret not, for these risky tendencies are backed by legitimate biological explanations. Dr. Jay Giedd, the chairman of child and adolescent psychiatry at the University of California, San Diego, asserts that “the part of the brain that wants to think things through, think of the consequences and think long term is still under construction until well into their 20s” (qtd. in Firger). This phenomenon, Firger explains, prevents teenagers from “reasoning like rational adults.”
Partaking in these kinds of challenges is indeed quite an immature act. In fact, even my English professor rightfully recognizes them as “the kind that do not generate real growth.” Contrary to burning your throat after swallowing a spoonful of cinnamon, the kind of risk taking involved in pursuing a passion in college is meant to be constructive and productive. It should help overcome obstacles that will strengthen your character and render you a better person. Although others may also consider setting their limbs aflame a passionate pursuit, it is not fruitful, nor is it the kind I advertise. I would love to see students cultivate a passion that is used not only to achieve
personal fulfillment, but also to uplift or improve the world around them.
Another issue with social media dares is, teenagers are not participating just for the thrill of it, but for the likes (). Firger reports that, according to Laurence Steinberg, a professor of psychology at Temple University, puberty is the time when the brain gets flooded with dopamine, “the ‘feel good’ neurotransmitter,” which causes teenagers to “seek out constant stimuli and reward” (Firger). In the case of teenagers posting a video of themselves choking on cinnamon, the rewards are views, likes and favorites. I am not going to lie: accumulating likes does feel good. I remember my naive 13-year-old self, lying on her stomach in front of the laptop. I remember spending hours on Facebook, sharing stupid stuff I found hilarious. I remember how getting a bunch of likes felt so exhilarating. And I just now realize how self-centered, how self-absorbed my actions had been.
This attention-seeking behavior and self-centeredness and trying hard to earn likes — they are all incompatible with passion. In his essay “Liking Is for Cowards. Go for What Hurts,” Jonathan Franzen argues that modern technology and social media have perpetuated a “culture of liking,” which has increased our desire to become likable. That is, we now tend to display more of our pleasant attributes (Franzen), or at least the ones we think others would like to see, or anything that would bring an ounce of good-natured, though immediate, attention to ourselves. But liking (and being liked) only deals with the superficial. Whereas loving means embracing the whole: the likable as well as the flawed.
So, I say being passionate cannot thrive in the world of liking because choosing and pursuing your real interest means exposing your whole, real, flawed self. It means declaring to the world that This is me; I’m doing what I love, and I don’t care what you think. Although, Franzen warns that ditching likability means having to endure the “catastrophically painful” event of being rejected for being your true self, which is why most people are tempted to “stay safely in the world of liking” (Franzen). And as I have mentioned before, the preference for safety hinders the pursuit of a passion.
Therefore, anyone who chooses to be passionate (by giving up safety) is open to the prospect of pain. Though it does not sound promising, Franzen reassures there is beauty in this: “Pain emerges as the natural product and natural indicator of being alive…To go through a life painlessly is to have not lived.” So, if being passionate inevitably comes with pain, then is living passionately the way to live?
Many believe that “follow your passion” is poor advice. Yet, it is often seen printed on posters plastered outside the college counselor’s office, or on the walls of the busiest hallways. “Follow your passion,” written in bold, all-caps, Monotype Corsiva, surrounded by pictures of graduation caps and diplomas and high-school students dressed as professionals. Perhaps high schools intend to convince students to pursue their passion in college, yet, in reality, their intentions run contradictory to what really occurs in the classroom. The problem is, schools fail to reinforce ways of thinking that students can use to cultivate and pursue their passion.
Recall how Washor and Mojkowski claim that student disengagement is the major cause of the increasing high-school dropout rate. In their article, they also emphasize the importance of confronting the issue of student disengagement; they suggest that schools should be able to meet their students’ expectations. Some of those expectations, listed in the form of questions, include: “Do I find what the school is teaching relevant to my interests?”, “Do my teachers help me understand how my learning and work contribute to my community and the world?”, “Do I have opportunities to explore — to make mistakes and to learn from them — without being branded as a failure?” (Washor). Once student expectations are met, and students become cognizant of the value of learning and what they are learning, perhaps they will be more engaged in class, then develop a love for learning.
As I have established earlier, pursuing a passion requires not only the love of learning, but also choosing a genuine interest. Alexandra Robbins, who wrote an exposé on the lives of high-school overachievers, proposes that schools should eliminate class rank to prevent unhealthy competition among students (Robbins). Though not explicitly stated, her advice also works to discourage students from fixating on maintaining the ideal GPA. Thus, when the need to attain a 4.0 becomes obsolete, then students can have the freedom to take classes that actually interest them, instead of classes that will merely boost their average.
Taking interesting classes is, however, only a means to explore. And just because you find a class interesting does not mean you are automatically passionate about it. Last summer, when I was conflicted about what to pursue in college, I also spent a lot of time listening to The Minimalists Podcast. One day, while working on my adult coloring book (emphasis on adult), I chose to listen to the episode titled “Education.” The hosts, also known as the Minimalists, Joshua Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus, talked in great length, and depth, about passion. Though they are nothing but ardent proponents of passionate pursuits, the Minimalists were the ones who introduced me to the idea that “‘Follow your passion’ is shitty advice.” (This is both their claim and an allusion to Cal Newport’s book, So Good They Can’t Ignore You). The Minimalists explain that the advice is counterproductive because people naturally have multiple interests, and pursuing them all at the same time undermines the whole idea of being passionate (“Education”). To be passionate, according to Millburn and Nicodemus, is to pick and work on the one thing that truly gives value to your life, and that enhances the world around you.
Just as the Minimalists advise students to refrain from following their passion, they also suggest that we, as a society, should stop asking each other, “What do you do?” (“Education”). Millburn is particularly appalled by this question because what it really means is: “Where do you work? What’s your job title? How much money do you make so I can compare you to me on the socioeconomic ladder?” (“Education”). That is to say, it entails unnecessary assumptions about a person’s social status and what his/her career should be like. The Minimalists also warn that the answer to this question leads people to associate a person’s job with his/her identity, which (for lack of a more precise word) could be annoying, because no one is ever just one thing (“Education”). Nobody is ever just a teacher, just a lawyer, just a window washer, just a dog walker, just a fish tank cleaner.
Hence, Millburn and Nicodemus recommend that if we really want to get to know people, we must change the course of the conversation by asking this question instead: “What are you passionate about?” The beauty in this question is, people tend to answer it with a verb. For instance, when someone asks, What are you passionate about?, one could answer, I’m passionate about knitting, or I’m passionate about educating the young ones, or I’m passionate about carving pumpkins. Somehow, it has the effect of steering the conversation away from personal identity and into the person’s actions and skills. Ironically, unlike asking What do you do?, asking someone what he/she is passionate about generates a response that contains what the person actually does and, even better, what the person actually loves doing.
While the Minimalists discuss this in the context of meeting new people, it could be wonderful and exciting to bring to the classroom. It may be uncomfortable and nerve-racking at first, but then again, to go through a life painlessly is to have not lived.
Nonetheless, if easing some of that discomfort could further a deep and productive conversation about passion, then I suggest employing the results from a study conducted by psychologists Taehee Kim and Diane Schallert. Essentially, they found that students place more value in the course when teachers and peers show enthusiasm in class discussions, or toward the course itself (Kim). That is, when a student perceives that the teacher puts effort in trying to engage the class, and peers actively participate as well, the student, in turn, becomes engaged in class (Kim). This, then, creates an overall positive classroom environment where students feel comfortable sharing their own thoughts and ruminations.
So, by the time student expectations are met, and the barriers to taking interesting classes are taken down, and more students are engaged in class — when students may have already developed a love for learning and a sense of their own genuine interests — maybe by then, students (and teachers) will be willing to cultivate a healthy, constructive conversation about passion. Of course, this would start with the question, “What are you passionate about?” And the more a student is willing to participate, the closer the teacher gets to discovering and learning about the particular skills associated with the student’s interest.
I emphasize the importance of focusing on the student’s skills relative to his/her passion because, even though the conversation will inevitably involve career options, it would be counterproductive to let the career be the center of conversation. Best case scenario: the career is exactly what the student is passionate about. Worst case scenario: the conversation will revolve around prospective job salary. However, if the student’s teacher (mentor or parent) first helps the student hone the skills associated with his/her passion, then any job where those skills can be applied will be enjoyable.
The point is, if students begin by cultivating the different skills associated with their passion, they will be more engaged in their future jobs. They are more likely to work hard and always give it their best. Once that’s done, a promotion and a raise might follow. But those might not matter as much, because the job itself — and the thought of doing what they love, in some way or form — will be where the true fulfillment lies.
I, for one, have finally decided to pursue nursing (this time, without hesitation), even though I don’t consider it a passion (yet). In fact, it is almost entirely separate from the things I love and the things I love to do. I love food and I love to cook. And, after watching full episodes of The Mind of a Chef, Chef’s Table, and Cooked, I have grown fascinated by people who love to cook. Ironically, though, I find the story of their lives more interesting than their cooking techniques. The more personal and heartfelt, the better. I feel the same way about writers, as well. I could listen to them go on and on about their lives and beliefs and theories all day.
Naturally, those people have compelling stories to tell. After all, I found them on either Netflix or YouTube. Yet, most days I find myself looking at strangers — mostly subway passengers — and wondering, What’s your story?
Right now, I see my genuine interest in people as a motivation to look forward to becoming a nurse. Although the job doesn’t entail a whole lot of storytelling, I hope to use this “skill” to become caring and empathetic toward patients. And if, for some reason, I am required to be emotionally detached from them, at least my interest in people will allow me to become better at listening and paying attention to what others say. So, that makes me, nonetheless, suited for the job.
Perhaps, to truly find value in the work that we do, we must first ask ourselves, What can I offer, or bring, to this job? instead of What can it provide for me? This way, we are driven by the will to contribute. The endeavor becomes less self-serving.
Notice that, when we love, we ask a similar question: What can I offer this person? This community? This world?
Hunter College Writes 