Theory is For Everyone
The other day, while I was looking over my coursework, I overheard a girl defeatedly tell her friend, ”I guess critical theory just isn’t for everyone.”
I didn’t grasp much more of their conversation, nor did I know the exact text they were discussing, but nonetheless I had to hold myself back from yelling, “YOU’RE WRONG, YOU’RE SO, SO WRONG.”
From the start, I didn’t exactly like school, or, to be more exact, school didn’t exactly like me. In fact, I have stacks and stacks of paperwork recording just how poorly we got along. According to the first Individualized Learning Plan (IEP) I received, “[I] was found eligible for special education services for a specific learning disability in kindergarten.” For the eight years following kindergarten, I worked closely with special educators to ensure that I met the educational benchmarks expected of me. While I was always grateful for their support, I was highly cognizant of what their help meant—I was the kind of student who needed hand-holding, who couldn’t learn on her own.
Entering high school, I left the special education program, fully intent on being the entirely average student I knew myself to be. Yet, my freshman year guidance counselor derailed my plan, telling my parents that I should be evaluated for Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. Suddenly, I was back in yet another testing room, chatting with another well-meaning administrator. After what seemed like endless appointments and evaluations, I was diagnosed with AD/HD.
In the DSM5, AD/HD is defined as a ”chronic neurodevelopmental disorder marked by persistent inattention, hyperactivity, and sometimes impulsivity.”
Individuals who have AD/HD often:
- Fail to give close attention to details or make careless mistakes
- Have difficulty sustaining attention in tasks or play activities
- Avoid, dislike, or are reluctant to engage in tasks that require sustained mental effort
- Become easily distracted by extraneous stimuli or unrelated thoughts
- Blurt out an answer before a question has been completed
These are not exactly the habits one associates with a star student or serious academic. Luckily, I had access to doctors and specialists who helped me develop an effective treatment plan for my ADHD. After addressing these issues, my academic performance took a notable turn. My report cards, which were once cluttered with straight Bs, suddenly contained only As.
While I certainly enjoyed my improved marks, the way I saw myself as a student failed to change accordingly. Having identified myself as an average, if not problematic, leaner early on, I wasn’t about to reevaluate a core piece of my identity.
Much to my surprise, as I began taking classes as an undergrad at Lehigh University, the success I’d found at the end of high school followed me to college. Every A I earned, or positive comment I received, felt like a fluke. Even during my final semester of college, when I was preparing to accept the Presidential Scholarship which would allow me to pursue a masters degree in English, I remained adamant that I was only an average student.
Roughly three and a half months ago, on the 3rd of September, I sat in Lehigh’s Fairchild Martindale Library and thought to myself, “well, you tried, but grad school just clearly is not for you.” In the margins of Wendy Brown’s book, Walled States, Waning Sovereignty, the text I’d been assigned to read for class, I’d written, “YOU DON’T GET IT. YOU DON’T GET ANY OF IT. QUIT NOW BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.”
I’d sat down to read Walled States with enthusiasm, naively unaware how esoteric most critical theory is. Each page left me more confused, furiously looking up definitions for words I thought I already knew. Notions like sovereignty and theology suddenly seemed to no longer conform to my previous understanding of them. Wikipedia, with all its inaccuracy, become my most treasured resource, filling in the gaping holes of knowledge I’d apparently been missing. Brown’s arguments, which were brilliant from what I could ascertain, eluded my understanding. My fleeting moments of celebration, when I thought I grasped an entire concept, were few and far between, strung together by continual confusion and dejection.
Faced with the dire realization that I may, in fact, have to attend class without understanding the reading, I frantically began googling concepts. Unsurprisingly, my searches came up with few results and even fewer answers.
Leaving the library, I felt like a fraud. This was the kind of work graduate students were expected to do, they work they were supposed to enjoy doing, and I’d failed entirely. Academia was meant for the intellectual elite, the chosen few who could grasp complex content, and that certainly wasn’t me.
At that moment, I’d never been more convinced I was just an average student. Someone had clearly made a serious mistake in letting me into grad school, I had no right to be there.
Walking into my class, Theory and Criticism: Organizing People/Building Community, I didn’t want to look my peers in their eyes. My Professor’s opening remarks, which I normally enjoyed, sounded like an executioner’s final regards. I was sure, within a matter of minutes, they were all going to know what I fake I truly was.
Yet, what actually happened in the following 65 minutes, reminded me that, even in adult life, there is still room for surprises.
As my classmates started discussing Walled States, Brown’s ideas became increasingly clear to me. Their insights made Brown’s work come to life and what seemed like disjointed moments of clarity the night before, suddenly transformed into a larger, cohesive understanding of the text.
Beyond offering clarity, which I was greatly appreciative of, my peers helped me realize why Walled States mattered, why critical theory mattered. Making connections to their personal lives and relating the text to figures I’d never imagined entering the classroom, I realized that critical theory surrounded me every day. The work I was reading for class wasn’t some manual I needed to memorize, it was an opportunity to think about the issues and figures I already cared about.
Talking about critical theory had turned out to be the opposite experience of reading it alone. I reluctantly left class that day, eager to return on Thursday to discuss new material. I realized, class wasn’t some test to see who grasped the material best, sometimes a partial understanding was all I was going to get on my own. Class was a time where I was expected to do nothing more than think about today’s issues, hear the thoughts of my brilliant peers, and form new structures of thinking in the process.
When my mom called me later that evening and asked how my classes were I paused for a moment, and tentatively responded, “class was actually pretty fun,” using an adjective I’d never thought I would ascribe to school.
I didn’t think I was the kind of person who read critical theory and truthfully, my first experience reading it alone only confirmed that fact. Yet, given the chance to talk about it with my friends, the powerful ideas hidden beneath all that intimidating, academic language came alive.
So, if I ever hear another person say, “I guess critical theory just isn’t for everyone,” I know exactly how I’ll respond. No matter what material they’re struggling with, even if it’s Foucault, I’ll ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”