What are the humanities worth?
From time to time I read articles about college and jobs. As my children are nearing college age, I always pay attention.
For instance, this article in the Washington Post makes the point that the humanities shouldn’t be shunned, explaining,
In today’s fast-changing global economy, the most successful enterprises aren’t looking for workers who know a lot about only one thing. They are seeking employees who are nimble, curious and innovative. The work done by lower-level accountants, computer programmers, engineers, lawyers and financial analysts is already being outsourced to India and the Philippines; soon it will be done by computers. The good jobs of the future will go to those who can collaborate widely, think broadly and challenge conventional wisdom — precisely the capacities that a liberal arts education is meant to develop.
I can relate to parents who push their kids toward “STEM” careers. But as the article points out, college is not a technical school; it is an education. The difference between job training and education is that job training offers knowledge, whereas education shapes a mind. It molds a certain kind of character, one that’s comfortable with inquiry and problem-solving.
I feel anxiety about the onslaught of the technical. I want my kids to be positioned well for supporting themselves and functioning in an informed way in modern society. But at the same time, I recognize the value of their creative gifts — gifts that may not receive financial remuneration, but that nevertheless equip them for lives of purpose and connection in the human community.
For example, I have a 13-year-old who writes like this:
Next came the fish. Most of them were in droves and moved so quickly you could only see an orange or silver shimmer, but the single ones were incredible. Not even Spray had ever seen anything like them. The smallest were three feet long, masses of frills and spines, and covered in such a complex pattern of color they looked like swimming rainbows. Jewel-like crabs scuttled under curving arcs of red, blue, and a hundred other colors of coral. Eels slithered about, so fast you could only see the blink of a scaly tail disappearing under a rock. Rays, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, swept past on massive black and grey wings, their barbed tails swishing behind, a reminder of what danger was concealed by their grace.
And speaking of danger, even the largest fish scattered when an armada of glistening blue jellies floated past, deadly stingers trailing innocently behind. Alex winced at this point. Ever since an unfortunate encounter with a Sarlacc a few years back, she’d found tentacles disgusting at best.
No sooner had the jellies drifted past then a magnificent shark appeared to the left. Though it was obvious the bubble was impenetrable, everyone flinched back a little. The shark was a magnificent creature, twenty feet long at least, and was a shimmery grey that reflected on the faces of the watchers. He also had teeth the length of your middle finger, and his nose was a long horn of flesh that made him look like, well, a Star Wars monster.
Everything about that kind of writing is valuable, from its keen eye for observation and detail, to its imaginative exuberance, to its effectiveness at putting an imagined scene out where others can see and be interested, even captivated, by it. We need engineers. But we also need creatives — those who help expand our awareness of beauty, adventure and possibility beyond the commonplace.
