A young scribe with better credentials beat me to the wire on an expose of lax college grading standards. I had that one on the back burner for a couple years, but things got in the way. You know how it goes.
Said piece appears in the latest Atlantic Monthly on p. 95 (frequent readers of this page might think I subscribe to the A.M., but it's really the only thing kicking around the office on a slow day). The article targets no less a vaunted institution than Harvard University.
Now, I'm always sure visitors to our home pass my wall of diplomas with the gold leif parchment from good ol' MIDWEST U displayed prominently. I feel this gives an appearance of intellectual effort I would like people associating with my name.
But to pop the head off this _ to say it was all EASY, a breeze _ would cause terrible damage. Right? Well, not necessarily. In light of this article, it appears every college degree earned by our generation is a bit of a joke. Even a Harvard B.A.
Take out that piece of paper and look at it. In the bright reflection of its plastic sheath you might see yourself and remember that paper in 200-level poetry class, "Whitman's Transcendentalism Echoed in Punk" OR "Gender Confusion and Cosmo Magazine." Tracts inspired not so much by research, but by the contents of a dorm room. I wrote my share of those.
That paper doesn't shine the same now, does it? I've given away my secret, but I feel a weight of dishonesty has been lifted. If you visit our apartment in a few months, you might see a new diploma on my wall _ from Clark's Barber College.
Finally, an honest job.