The Death of Big Ideas

Last night I dreamed that I had finally discovered the central truth about teaching college writing.

Our students belonged to a generation too fragile to confront the Big Ideas.

In the dream, the Big Ideas were never clearly defined. They remained tantalizingly out of reach, like a sacred text written in invisible ink. Yet everyone understood their importance. They were the reason genuine professors entered the profession in the first place. They were the intellectual equivalent of the Holy Grail.

And therein lay the tragedy.

The very thing teachers longed to discuss was the very thing students were determined to avoid.

This revelation struck me with prophetic force. I became convinced that I had uncovered the hidden code explaining the modern educational crisis. Naturally, I assumed the world would be grateful.

I was wrong.

Like an itinerant preacher possessed by a dubious revelation, I traveled from place to place proclaiming the Death of Big Ideas. I lectured at colleges. I preached at vacation resorts. I cornered people at spas. I delivered impromptu sermons near construction sites. Everywhere I went, I explained that students no longer wished to wrestle with difficult truths, moral complexity, existential questions, or ideas large enough to rearrange their lives.

My audiences listened with varying degrees of politeness.

Some nodded absentmindedly.

Others stared at me the way one stares at a man enthusiastically describing his collection of antique doorknobs.

Most seemed annoyed.

This bewildered me. I possessed what I considered the most important insight of the century, yet people treated it as if I were recommending a new brand of lawn fertilizer.

Disheartened by the world’s indifference, I suspended my crusade and retreated to a health spa.

There I took a shower using mashed bananas as body wash.

I stood beneath the water, coating myself in a thick yellow foam that smelled like a tropical smoothie having a nervous breakdown. The banana lather clung to my arms and chest while I reflected on the fate of civilization.

As I scrubbed, I could hear construction workers laboring outside.

These men, I thought, needed the Big Ideas.

Perhaps they had never encountered them.

Perhaps they were waiting for me.

Perhaps I was destined to bring them enlightenment.

I rinsed off the banana residue, dressed hurriedly, and rushed outside to share my revelation.

The construction workers were gone.

Every last one of them.

Apparently someone had warned them that an agitated college instructor was approaching with grand theories about society, education, and the meaning of life.

They had wisely chosen to flee.

I awoke sobered by humanity’s universal rejection of my urgent message.

At the same time, I found myself strangely curious about whether mashed bananas might actually make an effective body wash.

One thing was certain: Somewhere along the way, I had completely gone bananas.