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The SAT Measures Money Not Merit

David Trend

In recent weeks, more than 1400 University of California faculty signed a petition to reinstate the ACT and SAT, starting with a math exam for STEM applicants. Humanities faculty soon followed and the system’s Academic Senate began a review. The commotion started with a UC San Diego report showing entering students had been testing at a middle school level since 2020.  The numbers are genuine and the worry is sincere. But the conclusion is where the trouble begins. A faculty panic over a three hour exam is being framed as a return to rigor, and it plays well in the press as a cultural symbol to reassure nervous professors and administrators that student difficulties can be remedied by resurrecting an old barrier.

The promise of relief rests upon an illusion. The SAT has never been merely a measure of academic ability. Rather it was a tool used to categorize the varying experiences of children throughout their lives into one numerical value that represented “merit.” Removing this one factor allowed for more diverse forms of measuring achievement, such as course work completed by each student, all four years of grades, the students’ environment or community context, and examples of how much the student learned through time. The plan to reinstate the test would be detrimental to this progress and would obscure an expansive demographic disaster as a simplistic morality tale with a single factor. Like most single-issue panics concerning education do, this story is clean and well defined but misleading. It confuses the obstacle for the structure behind it.

What do all of these tests really measure? SAT scores are essentially a reflection of how U.S. schools are structured, geographically located, funded, and how unequal students’ access is to higher-level courses. While the SAT does not produce racial inequity, it does launder racial inequity. It takes the existing social structure and creates an arbitrary numerical measurement that can be interpreted as if there were some objective basis for those numbers. A student’s household income affects their ability to perform on the SAT at virtually every point along the way. Wealthy families can afford to purchase private tutors, prep courses, study guides, professional guidance services and most importantly time; something working class families cannot afford. Data from Brookings Institute reveal that the black/white score differential has remained relatively consistent for nearly two decades, with the exception of a slight decline (from .91 SD to .79 SD). In reality, the apparent proof of individual merit that exists in many people’s minds demonstrates little more than an intergenerational transfer of advantage. However, the one thing that the test clearly demonstrates is the infrastructure surrounding a child since he/she entered kindergarten. Continue reading “The SAT Measures Money Not Merit”

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Flipping the Script: Using AI to Motivate and Inspire

Every new information technology has sparked fresh panic about the future of teaching.  Plato warned that writing itself would destroy memory and learning. The printing press set off fears that books would undermine scholarly authority. Thomas Edison said that motion pictures would replace schoolbooks. Radio, television, and personal computers each drew the same anxious forecasts, followed in the 2000s by a wave of predictions that online courses would empty out campuses. None of it happened. Each technology reshaped instruction while leaving the teacher-student relationship intact.

Generative AI has now joined the parade, and once again the loudest voices are asking the wrong question. The issue isn’t whether AI will replace faculty. It’s how instruction must adapt so that the human work stays at the center of teaching.

A good place to start is a recent Forbes interview with Ben Gomes, Google’s Chief Technologist for Learning and Sustainability, in which he made one simple point.  The hardest problem in education is motivation. And it’s a problem AI will never solve. “Technology can improve how you learn and the details of it,” Gomes put it, “but the why you learn is a very human thing.”[1] That sentence should sit at the heart of every conversation about reforming college instruction. AI can deliver content, flag errors, generate practice exercises, and personalize feedback faster than any human. None of that addresses the prior question of why a student would bother engaging in the first place.

Gomes grounded the point in a lifetime of watching learners. He observed that high-achieving people almost never credit a book or a tool for unlocking their potential. They credit a person. A teacher who said something, who treated them differently, who made them feel that the work of learning mattered. Once that feeling took hold, the student could run forward on their own, and the tools became accelerators. But the ignition was always human. Decades of educational research echo the finding, with thousands of studies placing teacher-student relationships and instructor clarity among the strongest predictors of learning, well ahead of any technology.[2] If motivation comes from relationships rather than from content delivery, then any reform that pushes instructors further from their students is moving the wrong direction.

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For Ulysses

This was from the day Ulysses and I drove down to UCI to close up his office, a bittersweet moment that still stays with me. He had just retired after nearly three decades, stepping away, as it happened, at almost the exact moment the art world was finally giving him his due, with a major retrospective making its way in 2022 from Philadelphia to the Hammer. There was something very Ulysses about that timing: unhurried, unbothered by recognition that arrived on its own schedule. I can still hear Alice Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” playing as we looked over all that history that afternoon.

Those years at UCI were just one chapter in a remarkable career. Born in Los Angeles in 1946, Ulysses had been making video art since 1972, when the medium was brand new, picking up a Portapak when most artists hadn’t yet imagined what moving images could do in the hands of someone determined to tell different stories. Working as what he termed a “video griot,” he drew on oral storytelling traditions, structuring his work around music, poetic recitation, and dynamic performance to interrogate race, representation, and the power embedded in popular culture.

Part of what made him singular was how early he grasped what networked media could become. During the 1980s he worked with the Electronic Café, a grassroots arts group pioneering collaborative telecommunications that connected communities through interactive video, audio, and shared screens, accomplishing this decades before Skype and Zoom. Through his conceptual art band Othervisions, he explored the relationship between spoken word and lyrical content, and as artistic director of Othervisions Studio he brought that same Afrofuturist sensibility to an interdisciplinary practice that kept evolving for fifty years. He joined UCI in 1993 and spent nearly three decades shaping generations of students who went on to cite him as a foundational influence.

In the years that followed we got in the habit of having breakfast at Pann’s near his place every few weeks, as Ulysses became a regular part of my life. The staff adored him and always greeted him by name. I think the idyllic atmosphere of that diner was a kind of antidote to the exhausting ritual of dialysis that took up so much of his last few years. As we were sitting in Pann’s just a couple of days before he passed, he looked across the table and remarked, “This place. All these different kinds of people, together, getting along, in times like these. It’s so wonderful.” Never one to complain very much, Ulysses would often muse this way. He was one of the most relentlessly positive people I knew and at the same time one of the most brilliant. Celebrated in recent years for his visionary understanding of media and politics, Ulysses had that rare gift of intuiting novel ideas. As I was dropping him back at home that day, a different kind of mood hung in the air. Call it a premonition or something else, but I felt I had to tell Ulysses how much his friendship meant to me, both now and across the decades. Looking back now, I realize that he had been extremely frail that day. We even spoke about it briefly and he said he planned more walking. I guess I thought he would bounce back yet one more time.

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The Assessment Crisis is Bigger than AI

The last few months have seen my campus scrambling to get back to in-person assessment and to reopen testing centers. Like many universities that quietly had deemphasized such exams during the COVID years, now at UC Irvine there is rising faculty demand to quickly change course. Many worry about the validity of take-home and online assessments, as campus officials search for rooms or even build new ones. Meanwhile, already stressed students feel increasingly desperate over high-stakes tests that can make or break academic success. While the crisis seems recent at UCI, what’s really happening predates the rise of generative AI and won’t be fixed with more exam rooms.

Much of higher education now sees online assessment as an arms race it can’t win, with over 150 institutions planning to end it this year. Earlier this month, the Law School Admission Council (LSAC) announced t it would return the LSAT to in-person testing by summer 2026, citing “security concerns,” “score inflation,” and “the misuse of technology to facilitate cheating.”[1]  All Ivy League schools also are reverting to standardized tests for admissions after eliminating them during the last decade.  Complicating matters further is the reality of cash-strapped schools facing infrastructure bottlenecks because they’ve  repurposed or sold off testing centers.[2]  Driving this frantic backtracking is the logical but incorrect belief that assessment is losing meaning at a time when ChatGPT can generate answers in a few seconds. Hence the current retreat to blue books, testing rooms, and internet-free conditions.

“Generative AI did not create assessment issues. It revealed them,” according to Emma Ransome of Birmingham City University.[3]  Ransome explains that traditional measures like timed exams, standardized tasks, and recall-based tests historically have done poorly in evaluating skills universities claim to instill such as critical thinking, ethical judgement, and synthesizing ideas. Generative AI has made the disconnect between what is being measured and what is being taught even more apparent. If a large language model can successfully complete a multiple choice pharmacology exam, or if an LLM can generate a decent survey essay about the causes of World War I, one shouldn’t be asking how to stop students from using it.  Instead the issue should be what kind of knowledge those conventional measures assessed in the first place.

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AI Thrives where Instruction Falters

Old-fashioned instruction based on the recitation of facts is driving learners to AI tools like ChatGPT.[1]  When learning is reduced to scores and “answers,” students naturally seek the most efficient paths to get them  This has become especially common in courses relying on grade coercion and threats of failure to drive motivation.  Such effects of teacher-centered instruction are particularly harmful to the growing numbers of students working while in school or juggling other responsibilities.

The equity side of this is hardly is incidental at a time when AI competence has become widely recognized as a vital job skill and an key component of civic literacy. Institutions that fear and discourage AI are contributing to growing knowledge gap between those with the intellectual tools to critically assess truth claims and others more likely to accept directives from authoritarian figures.

Not helping matters are latent attitudes that cast suspicion on today’s increasingly diverse population of college students. Amid a rising moral panic within the U.S. academia, recent surveys show an alarming 78 percent of U.S. faculty believing that cheating is on the rise and that AI is to blame. According to Beth McMurtie in the Chronicle of Higher Ed, “Virtually all of those surveyed — 95 percent — fear that students will become over-reliant on these tools. And 83 percent think it will decrease students’ attention spans.” [2]  Early in the 2020s a torrent of news reports warned of an “epidemic” of dishonesty in online learning, with some surveys showing over 90 percent educators believing cheating occurred more in distance education than in-person instruction.[3] New technologies often have stoked such fears, in this instance building on the distrust many faculty hold toward students, some of it racially inflected. [4] Closer examination of the issue has revealed that much of the worry came from faculty with little direct knowledge of the digital classroom.

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Outsourcing Effort: How AI Affects the Pleasure of Learning

A quiet transformation is taking place in higher education. Students now turn to artificial intelligence not only for answers but for motivation. At the same time, a new generation of effort-sensitive technologies promises to monitor engagement, track persistence, and infer whether learners are truly trying. These systems are beginning to redefine what colleges count as effort and, by extension, what they count as learning. The goals behind these tools are understandable. Designers hope adaptive systems will make education more equitable and responsive by giving students insight into their habits and struggles. At Carnegie Mellon University, for example, Conrad Borchers created Effort-Sensitive AI for Learning to help students visualize their study patterns before frustration sets in. The intention is reflection rather than surveillance.

But once activity is translated into data, the data begin to influence the behavior they claim to measure. A brief pause can register as disengagement. Rapid typing can signal focus. Students eventually realize that unseen systems are interpreting their actions and may begin performing for algorithmic approval instead of thinking for themselves. What used to be an exchange between learner and teacher becomes a loop between student and machine. This shift matters because effort is no longer understood through experience but through metrics. In a traditional classroom, effort lived in rereading, revising, and wrestling with ideas. In digital spaces, it gets recorded as keystrokes, session length, and completion rates. These numbers are useful but incomplete. They capture what is visible and overlook what is internal. Confusion, insight, doubt, and breakthrough moments rarely leave a trace.

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Diamantling the Academic Hunger Games

Many of higher education’s conflicting values have to do with competition, as the promise of opportunity often collides with the reality of failure. This dilemma has driven a shift in learner attitudes, with many young people viewing the college experience through a lens focused on grades, rankings, and future earnings potential. The ramifications of this shift extend far beyond individual campuses, resonating throughout society and shaping the fabric of our collective future. The intensification of competition in higher education, viewed by some as the great equalizer, has become a powerful engine of stratification.

Such competition, often unacknowledged in institutional rhetoric, serves to magnify existing disparities, creating a system where success becomes increasingly elusive for those facing challenges and disproportionately attainable for those with abundant resources and support. [i] Consider First Gen learners, navigating a labyrinth of academic expectations and cultural norms sometimes with little familial guidance.

For these learners, the playing field may not be level. While some of their peers might seamlessly transition into campus life, buoyed by generations of accumulated social capital, First Gen students can encounter unfamiliar customs and unspoken rules. Even though present throughout academia, these dynamics get worse at elite institutions.[ii]

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Never Good Enough: Learning in a Culture of Perfection

With the start of classes this fall, it’s become increasingly clear that college students find themselves caught in a perfect storm of social pressures, political upheaval, and economic uncertainty, all conspiring to transform the college experience from a time of intellectual growth and self-discovery into a crucible of anxiety and self-doubt. This transformation, while affecting learners across the board, has cast a particularly heavy shadow over those already grappling with systemic inequities and material difficulties.

Indeed, the modern university campus, with its manicured lawns and ivy-covered buildings, has become a battleground where students wage war not just against challenging curricula, but against stress and the ever-present specter of failure.

Gone are the days when a solid academic performance and a modicum of extracurricular involvement were sufficient to secure a bright future. In their place, learners increasingly feel expected to excel in every conceivable arena, from maintaining a stellar GPA to cultivating a curated social media presence, all while navigating the intimidating waters of an increasingly competitive job market. This pressure cooker environment disproportionately affects students from under-resources schools, who may lack the financial and social capital to keep pace with their more privileged peers.

This pursuit of perfection is fueled, in no small part, by the ubiquitous presence of social media in students’ lives. Platforms like Instagram and LinkedIn have been transformed from mere communication tools into virtual stages where young people feel compelled to perform their best selves 24/7. Every achievement, no matter how minor, must be broadcast to the world, while moments of vulnerability or failure are carefully hidden from view. This constant comparison to one’s peers,  or rather, to carefully scripted versions of their peers, has created a toxic environment where learners feel they can never measure up, no matter how much they achieve.[i]  For those already struggling with issues of belonging or imposter syndrome, this digital landscape can exacerbate feelings of inadequacy and alienation. Continue reading “Never Good Enough: Learning in a Culture of Perfection”

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The Unwritten Rules of College

The syllabus looks simple enough. Standard language about learning objectives, assignments, and grading policies. Nothing obviously threatening or biased. But beneath those neutral-sounding lines is a web of taken-for-granted assumptions favoring some learners over others. This is the realm of what scholars term the “hidden curriculum” to describe the unspoken rules, norms, and background knowledge that institutions use but never explicitly teach.[i]  The hidden curriculum works through everyday academic practices, such as expecting learners to use formal language in essays, prioritizing, punctuality, and meeting deadlines, and assuming learners have access to quiet spaces for studying.

Students who arrive at college already fluent in these unspoken codes (typically those from privileged backgrounds) navigate faculty expectations with ease. Their success appears natural, even inevitable. Meanwhile, anyone lacking this insider knowledge struggles against invisible barriers, their difficulties rarely attributed to systemic flaws.

Take something as basic as class participation. Most instructors value learners who speak up quickly, offer spontaneous comments, and keep discussion moving. These expectations make sense until one realizes how they privilege a narrow set of behaviors. Students who need more time to process information, prefer to write their thoughts first, or engage best through one-on-one exchanges may appear “disengaged” when they are actually participating in ways the structure of the class doesn’t recognize. The hidden curriculum turns learning differences into markers of academic deficiency. The insidious nature of this system lies in its ability to mask privilege as merit and to personalize any successes or failures. When affluent learners do well, their achievements get credited to individual talent, hard work, or “natural ability.” When an under-resourced student struggles, the blame likewise falls on their own lack of motivation, preparation, or ability. This dynamic effectively launders systemic advantages through the language of personal responsibility, making structural inequities appear like natural outcomes.

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American Anti-Intellectualism Fuels the New War on College

American higher education finds itself under siege, facing unprecedented political attacks that threaten its fundamental mission and autonomy. What makes these assaults particularly devastating is not just their intensity, but the fertile ground of public sentiment that has enabled them to take root and flourish. The convergence of deep-seated anti-intellectual currents with a dramatic erosion of trust in universities has created the perfect conditions for opportunistic politicians to weaponize higher education as a cultural and political battleground.

Once seen as sites of personal and social betterment, universities and colleges nationwide now struggle with a profound crisis of confidence. This shift in perception is hardly anecdotal. Recent surveys reveal that but 36 percent in the U.S. feel positively about higher education, reflecting serious concerns over the institution’s efficacy and fairness.[i] Moreover, a growing partisan divide complicates the erosion of trust. While 59 percent of Democrats express confidence in higher education, a staggering 81 percent of Republican voters now view the institution unfavorably. This chasm speaks volumes about the politicization of education in America, with college increasingly seen as a battleground for antagonistic ideologies.[ii]

A pragmatic shift in educational preferences complements this rift. Mirroring student attitudes is the reality that most Americans now regard trade schools and vocational training as equivalent or superior to four-year institutions in delivering practical education. This pivot reflects changing educational values and an indictment of the entire enterprise of higher education. The growing appeal of alternative educational paths suggests a fundamental reevaluation of what constitutes valuable knowledge and skills in today’s rapidly changing job market. The roots of this mistrust are multifaceted, extending beyond mere economic calculations to encompass broader socio-political undercurrents. Often associated with privilege and intellectual elitism, higher education increasingly is viewed through a lens of class-based suspicion.

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