When I was working on my PhD several years ago, I was spending many of my waking hours amid the endless stacks of the massive Hayden Library at Arizona State University. During the school year, when I was teaching during the week, I'd go to the library nearly every Saturday and Sunday. During the summers, I'd go to the library nearly every day. I couldn't wait to finish my dissertation, so I was reading and writing constantly. I would trudge up and down the stairwell that separated the floor containing the literary criticism sections and the floor containing the economics sections, carrying a mini-mountain of historical and theoretical books, many with a thin film of Arizona desert dust on them. I would plop myself down at a huge table, spread the texts before, and sample ideas and words back and forth from each other as if sitting at the most tedious and unsanitary buffet ever. I actually enjoyed the research, but needless to say, there was always some place I'd rather be.
But when I went to library, weekend after weekend, summer day after summer day, it didn't take long before I noticed a trend. When I would take my seat and sprawl out, I would look around the rest of the quiet expanse and see familiar faces. And those faces all had something in common. Literally all of them. In fact, I never saw anyone who was different than them, except me.
They, like me, weren't spending their Saturdays tailgating at Sun Devil Stadium. They weren't spending their Sundays sleeping off hangovers or cleaning up frat houses after the previous night's debauchery. And they weren't spending their summers sunbathing. They were in the library--reading, writing, studying, learning--preparing for whatever the world was about to throw at them when they set foot beyond the campus walls.
Though I never spoke to any of those students, I felt a kinship with them. Like we all shared a secret about the world, and in our quietude, we kept our prize safe. I was honored to be the one person there who didn't look like any of them, yet we were all the same. We all wanted to be smarter.
So who were those mysterious and studious superstars? I'll let you find out for yourself. Do a quick Google search of "SAT scores by race." Then type in "college graduation rates by race." Then type in "average household income by race." Maybe there's a connection between those at the top of those charts and those working their tails off in the library all the time.
Tomorrow is Saturday, a new weekend upon us. Where will you be?
But when I went to library, weekend after weekend, summer day after summer day, it didn't take long before I noticed a trend. When I would take my seat and sprawl out, I would look around the rest of the quiet expanse and see familiar faces. And those faces all had something in common. Literally all of them. In fact, I never saw anyone who was different than them, except me.
They, like me, weren't spending their Saturdays tailgating at Sun Devil Stadium. They weren't spending their Sundays sleeping off hangovers or cleaning up frat houses after the previous night's debauchery. And they weren't spending their summers sunbathing. They were in the library--reading, writing, studying, learning--preparing for whatever the world was about to throw at them when they set foot beyond the campus walls.
Though I never spoke to any of those students, I felt a kinship with them. Like we all shared a secret about the world, and in our quietude, we kept our prize safe. I was honored to be the one person there who didn't look like any of them, yet we were all the same. We all wanted to be smarter.
So who were those mysterious and studious superstars? I'll let you find out for yourself. Do a quick Google search of "SAT scores by race." Then type in "college graduation rates by race." Then type in "average household income by race." Maybe there's a connection between those at the top of those charts and those working their tails off in the library all the time.
Tomorrow is Saturday, a new weekend upon us. Where will you be?