The Core in Real Life

Against all odds, my science Core requirement, Science B-47, “Molecules of Life,” is my favorite class this semester. I swore off amino acids and lipids in high school after a nightmarish AP Chemistry experience, but I had one core class left so I picked the one with the best CUE rating and thought I would sit through it quietly.

But what I find so appealing about B-47, other than the lack of labs, is that it makes life make sense. As a humanities concentrator overwhelmed by complicated, postfeminist relationships and a sprawling, postmodern thesis, I like learning how physical and emotional reactions rely on small molecules. When Professor of Biological Chemistry and Molecular Pharmacology Jon Clardy explained that naturally frisky male meadow voles suddenly became faithful and prone to “huddling” with females when injected with a gene of their monogamous cousin the prairie vole, the eyes of every woman in the class lit up. How much more persuasive is the idea “it’s just not in his DNA” than “he’s just not that into you?”

I’m never going into science, or math, and I’m certainly not going to make a career in philosophy. Even after Science A, I cannot now tell you the difference between an ampere and a light year. I could sum up the categorical imperative in three sentences, but I learned much more about moral reasoning from making hard decisions in my extracurricular than I did listening to my peers’ opinions about the justice of cannibalism. Likewise, I’m not sure what my biochemist blockmates are really gaining from their humanities classes other than cocktail party conversation. But are they really paying Harvard tuition to be able to bring up the Ming dynasty on a blind date?

With the exception of Moral Reasoning and Science A, I’ve actually lucked out with Cores. I managed to pick classes that exposed me to new facts about French cinema, lactational amenorrhea, or immigration in straightforward terms, without feeling terribly dumbed-down. I don’t feel very well-rounded in different disciplines, but these classes raised questions and proposed solutions that spoke directly to my life: What impact does government policy have on students? How will changing demographic trends affect my own children? Really, my uterus does that?

The supposed purpose of distribution requirements or required curricula is either to ensure all students graduate with a common body of knowledge or to emphasize the “real-world applications” of a liberal arts education. Since our new General Education follows the latter, utility-based model, the classes selected by the transitional committee should tailor themselves to the needs of students.

But this shouldn’t limit Gen Ed to material only meant for the “real world” beyond graduation. Will someone sit through a class on the environment and then use that knowledge in his investment bank’s analysis of scalable oil markets? Probably not.

The Gen Ed committee should not underestimate the utility of satisfying intellectual experiences. When deciding what classes count or what new classes to teach, I hope they realize that we are not just future global citizens, world leaders or thinkers, but people with questions that we want answered now. I likely will never step foot in a lab again, but at least I grew as a person by learning about the plight of the meadow voles.

Kristina M. Moore ’08 is a history and literature concentrator in Dunster House. She is president of The Crimson.