this amazing place.

Have you ever wondered what Sarah Lawrence faculty talk about over lunch, after we schlep our trays from Bates over to the confines of the elegant Faculty Dining Room?

We talk about high-minded things, like philosophy, and everyday things, like the weather, and things in between, like politics or the latest movie we’ ve seen. And some of the time, we talk about you.

Partly, we complain—that’ s human nature. We can go through a ninety-minute class without having to leave for a bathroom break; why is it that our classrooms seem to have a constant stream of students entering and leaving? We bemoan students who miss conferences without warning, or propose making up for missing a class by giving us a “ bonus” paper to evaluate. Sometimes we worry that all we’ re doing is training students how to BS effectively.

But it isn’ t all complaints.

Professors at other colleges labor under the educational equivalent of Aristotelean physics: the instant a professor stops pushing a student (through assignments or the threat that “ this will be on the exam” ), the student comes to rest. But at Sarah Lawrence, education has undergone a Newtonian revolution: a student once set in motion remains in motion. It still amazes me. There was a week late last semester when I became a little overwhelmed and dropped some balls. I failed to create new assignments or give students new benchmarks for their conference projects. And yet somehow the work students were doing for my class continued unabated. Conference project drafts appeared, unasked for. Students pressed forward with the reading, using the syllabus to judge what was coming up next. Links to features related to our course work appeared in my inbox. To you, this seems unremarkable, but ask your friends at other institutions what would happen if, in a class with no exams, the professor neglected to assign homework or reading for a week.

Sarah Lawrence students worry that their degree will not give them the qualifications they need to get a good job. They’ re right. Sarah Lawrence graduates are completely unqualified for just about anything. But since when has being unqualified stopped you? After all, you were “ unqualified” for every intermediate or advanced level course you ever took here! Unlike other colleges, we don’ t say “ if you get a C or higher in such-and-such a course, then you are qualified to take this other course.” We laugh at “ qualifications.” Instead, you interview, trying to work out with the faculty member teaching the course whether it is right for you. It’ s not just the art of BS—if you fake your way into a course you’ re not ready for, you’ re the one who’ s going to be floundering. It’ s the art of presenting yourself as someone who can flourish and contribute to the course, not as someone who is “ qualified” for it.

Remember what it felt like when you went to your first course interview at Sarah Lawrence? You had no idea what this was all about. Maybe you had a list of questions you thought you were “ supposed” to ask, but even that felt like an assignment, as if the list of questions was something the professor has asked you to produce. Or you squirmed while a professor stared back impassively, waiting for you to get to a point you didn’ t have. Or you spent the fifteen minutes in stilted small talk, only to leave the interview thinking “ what was that all about?”

Now consider your most recent set of interviews. (For seniors, they were your last ever at Sarah Lawrence!) When Sarah Lawrence seniors interview for a class, they are civil and relaxed. Their personal style is evident, be it brash, formal, friendly, or dramatic. But that style enriches the interview, rather than distracts from it. The Sarah Lawrence senior asks questions they’ d like answered, provides information their interviewer wants to know (often before it’ s even asked for), and understands that the interview is as much about setting mutual expectations for the course as it is about getting into it. The Sarah Lawrence senior already knows quite a bit about the class before the first word is said—they’ ve read the syllabus, talked to students who took the class before, perhaps researched the instructor on the Web.

Fast forward to your first interview for a “ real” job after college. On paper, you don’ t have exactly what they’ re looking for. Nowhere in the job listing are “ Harold and Kumar Go Back in Time,” “ The Talking Cure,” “ The Miraculous Sublime,” or “ Drugs and the Brain” given as desirable courses. It is unclear whether Midnight Cabaret or Stitch N’ Bitch count as prior experience.

So you look into the company, and the open position. You think about how you could fit in and what you would like to do. Getting dressed in “ interview clothes” feels a little silly—the last time you wore this outfit was for a skit in, um… Midnight Cabaret, come to think of it. You check to make sure that your Tale of Genji-inspired tattoo isn’ t showing, and head off to the interview.

Now think for a moment about who your competition is for that same job. Maybe it’ s a little easier to line up their transcript with what’ s requested in the job listing—they’ re more “ qualified.” But as far as interviewing for something like this goes, they are where you were when you first came to Sarah Lawrence! Half of them will walk through that door having no idea what the company or agency even does. Most of the rest will have given no thought to anything beyond landing the job which, ironically, makes it less likely they’ ll interview well.

Then, once you get the job, you spend about three weeks scoping out how everything works. After that, in addition to doing the day-to-day work, you decide on something else to pursue independently. Ten weeks later you have pitched the idea to your boss, done all the research, written it up, and given your employer some product or idea the world has never seen before.

Ordinary people can’ t do these things. Even most people who end up being somewhat extraordinary can’ t do these things right out of college. But you can. And that qualifies you to do all those things for which no qualification is possible; the things that have never been done before; the things that make the biggest difference to the future of an organization.

So why haven’ t Sarah Lawrence alums taken over the world? Well, they have, kind of. Our students in medical, law, and graduate school do very well. An alum recently confided to me, “ I rose so quickly in corporate because I could read and write. That’ s thanks to Sarah Lawrence.” (Presumably her non-SLC-educated colleagues could pass a basic literacy test. But we know what she means.) We’ ve produced the second most powerful politician in America, the most renowned journalist/interviewer ever, and one of the hottest directors in Hollywood (and how many big-time television producers wrote the opening music for their series themselves?).

But as I peruse the Facebook walls and email messages from some of our alums, I see another route many of them take. They end up good at what they do—very good. But for many it means they have an entry-level job where they’ ve quietly turned themselves into the indispensable employee. This is a cliché in movies from the 30’ s and 40’ s—the ü ber-competent girl or guy Friday, in the films inevitably either a woman or a minority, without whom the bigwigs or the leading man can’ t function. The best the women can hope for in these films is a fortunate marriage. The minorities aren’ t even given that option, so the best they can do is land on their feet when the action is over.

There are people who thrive in that kind of life, but some SLC alums seem a bit puzzled by it. They’ re working as an assistant somewhere, and have become the best damn assistant anyone has ever seen. The pay is lousy, the work (despite their best attempts) is not particularly interesting, and there’ s no recognition other than the look of terror in the eyes of their bosses and coworkers if they ever consider leaving.

So why do some SLC grads get stalled in that kind of job? Why are they Saunders from Mr. Smith Goes to Washingtoninstead of Tess from Working Girl?

I think the one element that’ s missing, the one thing we don’ t give you here that a lot of top institutions do, isswagger. Harvard. MIT. The Marines. They’ re each the best at something, and they know it. A Harvard grad has great connections, and has learned how to use them. Someone with a bachelor’ s degree from MIT can build a robot out of a pile of paper clips and an old cell phone. And an ex-Marine knows they can handle anything, from a chaotic battlefield to a corporate boardroom, with discipline and honor. Each of those institutions are the best at what they do. And Sarah Lawrence is, too. No one else does what we do. Select students at other institutions might do one or two projects like our conference projects, if they’ re lucky. Once or twice, if they’ re exceptionally adventurous, they might reach out beyond lowest-common-denominator electives and the standard set of classes required by their major, to take something outside their comfort zone. But they can’ t do what we do—all those other schools won’ t ever be able to do what we do. Conference projects mean 5-credit courses, 5-credit courses mean doing away with majors, doing away with majors means donning and interviews, donning and interviews opens the way to classes with students at different levels and backgrounds, students at different levels and backgrounds requires downplaying tests in favor of round tables, small class sizes, and personalized education,… no one can beat us at our game without going all the way, and that’ s not something other prestige institutions are about to do.

If you graduate from Sarah Lawrence, you’ re better than everyone else at the things that our system cultivates. You can parachute into an area you’ ve never worked in before, find the resources human and otherwise needed to understand it, choose a goal no one has ever thought of, and make a one-day project into a year-long masterpiece or address a year-long project in a frenzied couple of weeks. You can explain what you’ ve done to everyone, regardless of background. You understand ramifications, personal, social, political, and ethical. You’ re the scientist who can sing, or the actor who knows Kant, or the psychologist who understands something about Russian culture. And yeah, you can BS when you need to, and you can recognize it when it’ s coming from someone else. You are comfortable with those above you, below you, at your side, and on the other side. Ironically, you know that “ better” is a meaningless term when it’ s not made specific; everyone has their own areas of strength, and a thoughtful conversation with a janitor may be as valuable as a lecture from a CEO.

Think this is just me pumping you up? By coincidence, just as I was about to send this off, I read a letter Dennis Nurkse wrote to the faculty. He didn’ t intend it for students, but I asked if it was OK for me to quote from it, and he gave me permission:

“ In a previous job, students on fire with the Imagists gathered in my office to discuss the nuances between a B plus and an A minus, for hours that stretched into years. I've had none of that at Sarah Lawrence. It's not that we lack parameters, expectations, and evaluative mechanisms; this place is dedicated to real work, to culture that changes lives.

“ Asked to write a sonnet, a Sarah Lawrence student writes a crown of sonnets. Students write searing political poetry, then debate whether political poetry is manipulative, or a substitute for action. Students write hair-rising confessional poetry, and thrash out when such work is redemptive and when it's self-exploitative.

“ Students here pour their ideas into ghazals, deconstructed ballads, and dramatic monologues… They forge epics, edit them to haiku, and wind up with books. Startlingly often, they produce work which is dazzling and new...Where do these students come from? I've felt profoundly lucky to work with them.”

Like Dennis, I’ ve felt profoundly lucky to work with you. And I hope you too feel lucky to have found somewhere that values your individual talents, somewhere that expects you to produce things magical, deep, and original on a regular basis.

I hope you think about what I’ ve had to say. I hope that whatever your field, whatever your passion, you don’ t settle for less than you want, just because you think you’ re not “ qualified.” Do that, and you and your classmates just might take over the world.

Sincerely,

Scott Calvin