It ain’t like it used to be (thank goodness?)…
Clearing my office has made me reflect on how university life has changed. I went to university in the mid-1970s and with some slight detours, I never really left. But now as I retire, the changes are obvious.
When I finished primary school, I had to take the dreaded “11+” exam: an array of tests supposedly able to identify children with the intelligence to benefit from an English grammar school education. Most candidates didn’t pass and had to shape their lives on the premise that they were predestined for manual/technical employment. Thus, for many Baby Boomers, education was a barely open door, and even after the 11+ was abolished, it took decades for it to open a little further. If, like me, you were judged worthy at 11, and then continued to secure approval via ever more specialised, subject exams at 16 and 18, you could get a place at university, and tuition was paid. The catch was the government’s tight allocation of places. Only a small proportion of the population could go: about 8% in my time. Now it’s hovering around 50%, but with loans not grants. As a result, it has become a serious financial commitment with graduates carrying a typical debt of £35,000 by the time they receive their bachelor’s degree. In this respect, the UK has Americanised.
University education has inevitably changed due to the expanded student population. It cannot be as personal as mine was. My History degree was taught essentially via tutorials that were mostly one-to-one. You wrote an essay and then spent about an hour defending your argument, etc., while your tutor probed for flaws and foibles. The more you wrote, the better your essays became. Seminars were similar: no more than 4–6 students, usually engaged in interpreting original documents, but even at these, no register was taken. Lectures were decidedly optional, except perhaps for the final year special subject, and if you were serious about your degree, the phrase “reading History at university” was an accurate description because that was what you did: read.
This pedagogical approach delivered very variable outcomes since it depended on the commitment and competence of both faculty and students. Formally, there was no requirement for faculty to have any teacher training, and this probably accentuated the gulf between those who could teach from those who frankly didn’t. I recall one lecturer, famed largely for the legend that he was still wearing the gown in which he had graduated thirty-five years earlier. He was afflicted with a bronchial condition that made his lectures memorable solely for the wide range of throat-clearing techniques he employed. He was also my tutor for late medieval European history, and assigned me an essay on Burgundian politics. I submitted it as required and a week later, arrived for my tutorial. However, when I was called inside, I found my tutor not scanning my essay but with a disassembled motorbike on his desk. “Do you know anything about carburettors?” he asked. I confessed my ignorance. “Well, go away,” he snapped, “you are of no use to me.” To this day, I do not know whether my assessment of Philip the Good was, well, — any good. And since he assigned me no further essays, my class ended on this oblique note until I was required to sit an exam paper on late medieval Europe at the end of my course. The whole grade was entirely based on the exam, and I did not excel. My knowledge of carburettors remains minimal.
Nowadays, students are much more directed. They expect their tutor to provide a module handbook in advance with detailed week-by-week reading, assessment details, and all the learning objectives of the class clearly spelt out. If you say that this module will tackle the American presidency from Truman to Clinton, you had better not miss out Gerald Ford, and if you claim it nurtures the student’s competence in oral communication, you need exercises designed to do just that and to assess it (with a summary report that can be reviewed for quality assurance purposes). Each form of assessment has its own marking criteria, disclosed to the student. Since I have typically had fifty or more students in all my classes, one-hour weekly tutorials on a one-to-one basis has never been a possibility. Instead, they have a weekly lecture to introduce topics that might form the basis of the solitary coursework essay they choose from the handbook, plus seminars in which we look at episodes or themes that will then be assessed in a final timed exam; there is also a grade for group participation and presentations in the seminars. Assessment is done each semester so there are no longer “Finals” in the old-fashioned sense of the word.
Since so much of the degree is earned through continuous assessment, students tend to take a pragmatic approach. Many opt for the essay topics addressed in the early lectures; in theory, to maximise their preparation time. By the second year, they usually want to know if all the seminar topics will appear on the exam paper (apparently, so they can skip some weeks; again, supposedly to focus on the graded essay), and by the final year, some have become adept at securing extra time through a variety of “extenuating circumstances.” This last process is there to respond to the many genuine reasons why they may need extra time. Juggling part-time work and full-time study can be tricky. Some students have caring responsibilities. Even without a pandemic, illness does strike. But at the margin, one occasionally encounters claims that seem unconvincing. The fact that a student’s grandfather has died three times during a single university course looks suspicious (until you remember that now there are many compound families, produced by divorce and re-marriage; you can have three grandfathers!).
Some claims for extra time leave a lasting impression. I will never forget a first year student who came asking for an extension on an essay deadline. A pale and earnest young man, he had been both a regular attendee at lectures and a vocal contributor in seminars; both sufficiently distinctive habits to make me recognise him when he appeared at my door in a distraught state. I asked him to take a seat and explained the policy. There was a form to complete. It required details of the assessment affected and the circumstances involved. Supplementary documentary evidence, like a doctor’s note, was also required. He blanched. “I can’t provide proof,” he said. His voice cracked with emotion.
I waited for him to regain his composure. “I got my place at university late and there were no rooms left in hall,” he explained. “I am living in a shared flat with two older students. One of them has a lot of cash.” He paused again and blushed slightly. “I was trying to write my essay last night for this morning’s deadline. My flatmate brought two girls back and…” The blushing intensified. With a gulp, he continued sotto voce: “They were having sex in the living room where my computer is.” I nodded sympathetically. “I tried,” he declared emphatically. “But I just couldn’t concentrate. They were very noisy,” I gave him my most understanding look. “Well, let me see what I can do.” I went on to explain that I would ask if there was any scope for discretion, but that he had best get the essay in as soon as possible since he risked losing 5% per day as a penalty. Fortunately, the faculty member in charge of such matters was an older woman who had heard and seen it all. “He has had an educational experience,” she declared, and set a new deadline. I remember nothing at all about the essay and the student himself eventually left with an Upper Second Class Honours degree, and a small increase in worldly knowledge.
I had no comparable experience as an undergraduate, really, although I do recall my irritation during the fraught period of finals (10 exams in 10 days) when the paper-thin walls between bedrooms failed to contain the ecstatic cries of my neighbours (life scientists who had finished their exams early). Sex is a multi-disciplinary field and the physics, chemistry and biology on display was tangible. It was like living in a tumble dryer! But I never thought that this might be an extenuating circumstance, just as I never complained about my truncated class in late medieval history.
Quite a few of my examinations were held in the college’s picture gallery, which had an air-conditioning/heating system for the preservation of the paintings. It operated via air ducts in the floor. I can attest that intermittent jets of cool air up the trouser-leg are not ideal for sustained concentration over a three-hour period. One painting had gained a reputation since a succession of candidates seated beneath it had subsequently proved suicidal. The college decided that this situation needed to be addressed. They covered the offending painting with a large purple drape, thus enabling everyone to see its location clearly. I knew as soon as I entered where my seat would prove to be. The painting was entitled “On Human Destiny.” I decided to accept my destiny and I guess that is all each generation can do.
Overall, students now are more consistently taught and most reach a decent standard, but as I went through my old files I noticed that when they were fewer and before tuition fees, I used to get personal notes of thanks. That ended when they started to be customers. And a lot more was lost at the same time; and not just the chance to disassemble your motorbike in the office!
