how to write first year essay

Writing Repository: The First-Year Essay

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• The First-Year Essay
• The Senior Plan Essay
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Writing the First-Year Essay Handout

• Writing the First-Year Reflection Essay

Writing the First-Year Essay

WRITING THE FIRST-YEAR ESSAY 

GATHER: Collect the basics about your coursework, co-curricular work (anything outside of your courses that relates to your studies) , and FWT information (if you have done it already) to begin. 

List your areas of study so far: 

List your favorite ideas, things, and/or figures in your studies so far (authors, artists, creators, scientists, historical figures, activists, inventors, movements, organizations, etc.). This list is a good way to gather examples for your 2-6 links in the essay: 

OBSERVE: Fill in these sentences. 

INQUIRY & RESEARCH: I’m curious about or I want to learn more about… 

CREATE AND COMMUNICATE: I want to create/make/examine/test/explore… 

ENGAGE: I have engaged with these people/sources/things/groups… 

CONSIDER: Fill in these sentences. 

I wish to develop my skills in… 

I see parallels and connections between… 

I thought that I understood…, but I discovered that I… 

WRITING THE ESSAY 

INTRODUCTION 

• You can begin the essay in a number of ways—with an anecdote, a memory, a fact, an observation, a quote, an idea, or a question. 
• Your audience is your Faculty Advisor and the Provost and Dean’s office, so the tone can be academic and personal. 
• You can organize your reflection in several ways: by answering each of the prompts in the Dean’s letter; by discussing your work thematically; by Capacity (engage, inquire, communicate, research, create), or by writing about courses, co-curricular work, and your FWT experience separately. 
• Do you have a main interest, question, or idea? For example: “My work at Bennington so far has focused on biology, but I’m also drawn to contemporary photography and its representations of the body.” A focus may emerge from a question, a problem, or an enthusiasm, but it’s not necessary at this point! 

BODY PARAGRAPHS 

• The body paragraphs are a great place for you to add the 2-6 links to your work. You could link to essays, projects, artworks, videos, collaborations, homework, notes, etc. 
• Try to address each of the questions in the Dean’s letter. Most importantly, include specifics for each answer: quotes from texts you read; ideas, images, or facts; anecdotes from class discussion; details and evidence from your projects, research, or creations. Communicate to the reader a vivid picture of what your first term and FWT experiences have been like for you. 
• You can address any of these things: what you have discovered, created, and accomplished so far; the inquiries you have made and the challenges you have encountered; which skills you want to develop; what you wish to learn more about or research; what risks you have taken; what you want to make, test, examine; what you want to engage with more deeply; and, how your Field Work Term and co-curricular work connect to your studies. 

CONCLUSION 

• • What else do you want to add to reflect upon your experiences thus far? What are you proud of? What personal or academic goals do you have? 
• • Which classes do you want to pursue in the coming years at Bennington? Are there faculty you want to work with next year? 
• • How can you end on a powerful note? As in your introduction, you might include an anecdote, a memory, a fact, an observation, a quote, an idea, or a question. 

WRITING TIPS 

• The essay should be 3-5 pages long; it should be double-spaced and include a header with your name, advisor, and a title. It should include 2-6 links to samples of your work. 
• Make time to write a first draft. Often you will discover your best idea at the end of the first draft. Take that idea or argument, and put it in the first paragraph of your next draft. Then, take time to edit and proofread. 
• You may visit a Peer Writing Tutor or the professional ELL and Writing Tutor to work on your reflection essay: https://bennington.mywconline.com . 
• Share your essay with a friend. One of the best ways to edit your writing is to read it out loud; you will often hear your mistakes and be able to generate ideas to fix them. 
• Edit generalities like “Since the dawn of time, people have liked to tell stories.” Always use specifics! 
• If necessary, have you properly cited your quotations and evidence according to the expectations of your disciplines (MLA, APA, or Chicago styles)? 
• Check your punctuation. Have you accurately used commas, semicolons, quotation marks, colons, dashes, brackets, etc.? 
• << Previous: Plan Writing
• Next: The Senior Plan Essay >>
• Last Updated: Jun 16, 2023 1:56 PM
• URL: https://libraryguides.bennington.edu/writingrepository

How to Write Your College Essay: The Ultimate Step-by-Step Guide

Getting ready to start your college essay? Your essay is very important to your application — especially if you’re applying to selective colleges.

Become a stronger writer by reviewing your peers’ essays and get your essay reviewed as well for free.

We have regular livestreams during which we walk you through how to write your college essay and review essays live.

College Essay Basics

Just getting started on college essays? This section will guide you through how you should think about your college essays before you start.

• Why do essays matter in the college application process?
• What is a college application theme and how do you come up with one?
• How to format and structure your college essay

Before you move to the next section, make sure you understand:

How a college essay fits into your application

What a strong essay does for your chances

How to create an application theme

Learn the Types of College Essays

Next, let’s make sure you understand the different types of college essays. You’ll most likely be writing a Common App or Coalition App essay, and you can also be asked to write supplemental essays for each school. Each essay has a prompt asking a specific question. Each of these prompts falls into one of a few different types. Understanding the types will help you better answer the prompt and structure your essay.

• How to Write a Personal Statement That Wows Colleges
• Personal Statement Essay Examples
• How to Write a Stellar Extracurricular Activity Essay
• Extracurricular Essay Examples
• Tips for Writing a Diversity College Essay
• Diversity Essay Examples
• Tips for Writing a Standout Community Service Essay
• How to Write the “Why This Major” Essay
• How to Write a “Why This Major” Essay if You’re Undecided
• How to write the “Why This College” Essay
• How to Research a College to Write the “Why This College” Essay
• Why This College Essay Examples
• How to Write The Overcoming Challenges Essay
• Overcoming Challenges Essay Examples

Identify how each prompt fits into an essay type

What each type of essay is really asking of you

How to write each essay effectively

The Common App essay

Almost every student will write a Common App essay, which is why it’s important you get this right.

• How to Write the Common App Essay
• Successful Common App Essay Examples
• 5 Awesome College Essay Topics + Sample Essays
• 11 Cliché College Essay Topics + How to Fix Them

How to choose which Common App prompts to answer

How to write a successful Common App essay

What to avoid to stand out to admissions officers

Supplemental Essay Guides

Many schools, especially competitive ones, will ask you to write one or more supplemental essays. This allows a school to learn more about you and how you might fit into their culture.

These essays are extremely important in standing out. We’ve written guides for all the top schools. Follow the link below to find your school and read last year’s essay guides to give you a sense of the essay prompts. We’ll update these in August when schools release their prompts.

See last year’s supplemental essay guides to get a sense of the prompts for your schools.

Essay brainstorming and composition

Now that you’re starting to write your essay, let’s dive into the writing process. Below you’ll find our top articles on the craft of writing an amazing college essay.

• Where to Begin? 3 Personal Essay Brainstorming Exercises
• Creating the First Draft of Your College Application Essay
• How to Get the Perfect Hook for Your College Essay
• What If I Don’t Have Anything Interesting To Write About In My College Essay?
• 8 Do’s and Don’t for Crafting Your College Essay
• Stuck on Your College Essay? 8 Tips for Overcoming Writer’s Block

Understand how to write a great hook for your essay

Complete the first drafts of your essay

Editing and polishing your essay

Have a first draft ready? See our top editing tips below. Also, you may want to submit your essay to our free Essay Peer Review to get quick feedback and join a community of other students working on their essays.

• 11 Tips for Proofreading and Editing Your College Essay
• Getting Help with Your College Essay
• 5 DIY Tips for Editing Your College Essay
• How Long Should Your College Essay Be?
• Essential Grammar Rules for Your College Apps
• College Essay Checklist: Are You Ready to Submit?

Proofread and edited your essay.

Had someone else look through your essay — we recommend submitting it for a peer review.

Make sure your essay meets all requirements — consider signing up for a free account to view our per-prompt checklists to help you understand when you’re really ready to submit.

Advanced College Essay Techniques

Let’s take it one step further and see how we can make your college essay really stand out! We recommend reading through these posts when you have a draft to work with.

• 10 Guidelines for Highly Readable College Essays
• How to Use Literary Devices to Enhance Your Essay
• How to Develop a Personalized Metaphor for Your College Applications

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Top tips for writing your first university essay

28 October 2021

Moving from A-level (or equivalent) standard of writing to the expectations required for a degree might seem a little daunting, so to help, UCL student Saumark Bhaumick lists her top tips for writing effective essays.

1. Set the standard 

Understanding your academic discipline in relation to your year is the first step to writing a great university essay.  A final-year history essay is going to be very different from a biology essay set for a first-year student.

You should identify what the basic requirements of essays in your field are. This includes common essay structure, tone, and referencing.

If you’re not sure on the answers to these, ask your module tutor for essay examples from previous first year students with similar work from relevant sources. 

2. Understand structuring

Now that you’ve identified what the expectation is for your first essay, you can begin to think about your structure.  To do this, consider what the word limit is. Using essay examples from step 1, allocate a rough percentage for each section in your structure.

For example, you may decide to give 20% of the word count for each main body paragraph, and 10% each to the introduction and conclusion.

3. Plan your essay

At this stage, creating a plan and allocating the appropriate time for each of the stages will really help you. Here’s an example:

• Research two points for my main argument (3 days)
• Research two points for my counter argument (3 days)
• Write the main argument (1 day)
• Write up the counter argument (1 day)
• Write my introduction and conclusion (1 day)
• Referencing and asking someone for feedback (1 day)

4. Research your sources

The research stage will most probably be the most interesting, and the most time-consuming.  Here you should focus on learning and building up your notes, so that when it comes to writing, you can simply reword what you’ve already found.

To do this, know which websites to use for sources (journals, papers etc.) such as UCL Explore , Google Scholar , JSTOR . You can also do this by asking your Module Tutor for recommended sites and databases.

Make sure to read through sources efficiently and track what parts are relevant to your essay question by making your own notes from these sources.

5. Write from your sources and reference correctly

Now you can use the most relevant parts of your research notes to write the essay.

Make sure you don’t copy your notes (created from the sources) word for word! You don’t want to plagiarise for a number of reasons, and UCL’s Turnitin System will find out. 

Add in the sources for each relevant idea to get references. You can reference properly at the end or as you go – both are fine – but make sure you have a rough way to keep track of which sources you’ve used!

Having identified which style of referencing you should use (e.g. Harvard, Vancouver etc.), you can use websites such as Mybib , Citethisforme or Mendeley to easily create a proper, error-free Bibliography and In-text citations.

Find out more about academic integrity at UCL

6. Get feedback 

If you have enough time for this stage, you’ve done well! It would be wise to send your essay draft to your Module Tutor or Personal Tutor and ask for some feedback. 

Nice job! You have written your first university essay. The good news? Every time you write one it gets easier, and you get better!

Photo by Corinne Kutz on Unsplash  

Related News

College Essay Tips for First-Gen Students

tl;dr: Writing a first-gen student essay can be a daunting task, but it's an amazing opportunity to showcase your personality and be the host of your own immersive world. Start by choosing a challenge you have faced as a first-gen student and then outline why it was significant, what you learned, and how others can learn from it. Make sure to captivate your audience with a strong introduction, add immersive descriptions, and talk about your future in the conclusion. Don't forget to ask for help from teachers and peers to edit your essay for grammar and feedback!

What is a First-Generation Student?

A first-generation student is someone who is the first generation in their family to attend a 4-year college or university. This can encompass many different types of students from diverse backgrounds.  While some of these students' families may have been living in the United States for a long time, others may have been born in the U.S. to immigrant parents 👪 or a naturalized American citizen.

For more information about first-gen students, check out this article from CollegeVine !

What is a First-Gen Student Essay?

A first-generation student essay is different from a regular college essay because the reader wants to hear about the struggles you experience as a first-gen student. First-gen essays are mostly found in scholarship prompts but can be used as your personal essay on the Common or Coalition Application. Being that these prompts are found in scholarships, not all first-gens are required to write them! The prompts tend to follow the guideline of “describe a challenge you have faced as a result of being a first-gen student.” First-gen essays allow you to describe the aspects of your life that have been challenged due to being a first-gen and how those obstacles strengthened 💪 your spirit; in this essay, you have the chance to highlight your culture first hand.

Although these are not first-gen student essays, reading these sample essays can help you understand essay structure and brainstorm essay topics !

How to Structure Your First-Gen Student Essay

Most of the time, first-gen essays are found in scholarship prompts, meaning that other students might face the same struggles as you. What’s important to remember 💭is how you flourished despite those struggles or moments, how the lessons learned have altered your future, and how you can use your growth to benefit others. This essay is more than an “essay”; it's an opportunity to exhibit your personality and be the host of your own immersive world the reader will want to come back to. It’s your moment to pull a Gatsby, throw an elaborate party to win the heart of Daisy–even if you die at the end 👀, at least the party holds your memory.  

The first step in developing your essay is choosing your tribulation or a moment of struggle in your life that has stayed with you. In an outline 📝, describe why this event was significant, what you learned, how others can learn from this, and how you might have approached the situation differently. These questions will get you thinking, and hopefully, you can produce at least five solid ideas. From those thoughts, you can cross some moments out.

During this process, it is essential to remember 🧠 that every moment you experienced has value. Crossing out a moment on a list doesn’t mean it’s being crossed out of your life; these moments have made you strong and better prepared for your future. You know you have chosen the right moment when you can write a “novel long” 📖 description of it; however, if the key lesson you learned is omitted from your “novel,” try again.

Now that you have a topic, it is time to captivate the reader. Just like in every English class, you need a strong opening statement! Your essay can be well written but a waste if there’s no eye-catching, breath-holding, heart-racing 😯 intro. This is probably the most important and equally tricky aspect of your essay, so you should designate a decent amount of time and attention to your introduction. You might not get it on the first try, but it’s ok! That is why the delete ❎ key exists.

Once you have your intro, it's time for your essay’s body, meat, and party. Your reader is your guest and if you don’t have the “perfect” theme, guests, food, music, party favors, they’re going to leave unsatisfied eventually. Although you might have all these party 🎉 plans in your head, they aren’t executed in the “real world” until you make it real! In this step, you describe your story, add immersive descriptions, make the reader feel as though they are living your struggles–the highs and the lows included. Don’t leave them wanting a cake slice 🍰. Although this is your opportunity to write a “sob story,” remember that what will make you stand out is the growth you have learned, achieved, and will continue to follow. How did your growth benefit you, your community, your future? Although you are creating a “perfect” party, you still want the reader to come back to celebrate 🙌 with you again.

As with all parties, your essay must come to an end, so make sure the guests are leaving satisfied! To close off your essay, talk about your future. Don’t stray from the lessons and personal growth 🌱 you have achieved. Talk about how you will follow through and use what you learned to uplift and inspire others. You’re the host of the party, and you always want your guests to leave on a positive note.

Tips to Remember

Continuing with the party analogy, although other people might host the same party, it’s imperative to put your own 💃 spin on it. You and another host might have the same theme, but what do you have that they don’t? These essays allow you to show off your personality and your challenges in a manner of different ways.

Being a first-gen student myself, I understand the difficulty in opening up and revealing your tribulations, pain, and vulnerability. However, readers are eager to read about your life–writing a first-gen essay allows you to present a personal glimpse of who you are 🤩.

It’s important to understand that good writing is not only about grammar; many first-gen students learned English as their second language. What's important is the effectiveness in delivering your ideas clearly and being able to communicate 🗣 effectively. After you write your essay, ask a teacher or a peer to edit your essay in order to better your grammar or receive comments that better strengthen your essay.

During this entire writing process, don't listen to the pessimistic voice 🙊 in your head, no matter how persistent it may be. That voice inside you roots from the unnecessary burden of centuries before you. This process might make you question your life, value, or identity, but what matters is that after every struggle you've marched on with your pride intact and spirits high, shaping who you are today. This may be a stressful moment, but you owe it to yourself to step back and relax 🧘. After all, the best parties always have a host that is enjoying themselves as well. Happy writing!  

For more tips about college essay writing, watch this video !

Next, check out these great TikToks and tweets for advice about the college application process!

Guide Outline

Related content, first-gen: preparing for the college application, what extracurriculars should high school sophomores do, college checklist: what to accomplish in your junior year, 5 goals for your freshman year of high school, 10 goals for your freshman year of high school.

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Writing a great essay

This resource covers key considerations when writing an essay.

While reading a student’s essay, markers will ask themselves questions such as:

• Does this essay directly address the set task?
• Does it present a strong, supported position?
• Does it use relevant sources appropriately?
• Is the expression clear, and the style appropriate?
• Is the essay organised coherently? Is there a clear introduction, body and conclusion?

You can use these questions to reflect on your own writing. Here are six top tips to help you address these criteria.

1. Analyse the question

Student essays are responses to specific questions. As an essay must address the question directly, your first step should be to analyse the question. Make sure you know exactly what is being asked of you.

Generally, essay questions contain three component parts:

• Content terms: Key concepts that are specific to the task
• Limiting terms: The scope that the topic focuses on
• Directive terms: What you need to do in relation to the content, e.g. discuss, analyse, define, compare, evaluate.

Look at the following essay question:

Discuss the importance of light in Gothic architecture.

• Content terms: Gothic architecture
• Limiting terms: the importance of light. If you discussed some other feature of Gothic architecture, for example spires or arches, you would be deviating from what is required. This essay question is limited to a discussion of light. Likewise, it asks you to write about the importance of light – not, for example, to discuss how light enters Gothic churches.
• Directive term: discuss. This term asks you to take a broad approach to the variety of ways in which light may be important for Gothic architecture. You should introduce and consider different ideas and opinions that you have met in academic literature on this topic, citing them appropriately .

For a more complex question, you can highlight the key words and break it down into a series of sub-questions to make sure you answer all parts of the task. Consider the following question (from Arts):

To what extent can the American Revolution be understood as a revolution ‘from below’? Why did working people become involved and with what aims in mind?

The key words here are American Revolution and revolution ‘from below’. This is a view that you would need to respond to in this essay. This response must focus on the aims and motivations of working people in the revolution, as stated in the second question.

2. Define your argument

As you plan and prepare to write the essay, you must consider what your argument is going to be. This means taking an informed position or point of view on the topic presented in the question, then defining and presenting a specific argument.

Consider these two argument statements:

The architectural use of light in Gothic cathedrals physically embodied the significance of light in medieval theology.

In the Gothic cathedral of Cologne, light served to accentuate the authority and ritual centrality of the priest.

Statements like these define an essay’s argument. They give coherence by providing an overarching theme and position towards which the entire essay is directed.

3. Use evidence, reasoning and scholarship

To convince your audience of your argument, you must use evidence and reasoning, which involves referring to and evaluating relevant scholarship.

• Evidence provides concrete information to support your claim. It typically consists of specific examples, facts, quotations, statistics and illustrations.
• Reasoning connects the evidence to your argument. Rather than citing evidence like a shopping list, you need to evaluate the evidence and show how it supports your argument.
• Scholarship is used to show how your argument relates to what has been written on the topic (citing specific works). Scholarship can be used as part of your evidence and reasoning to support your argument.

4. Organise a coherent essay

An essay has three basic components - introduction, body and conclusion.

The purpose of an introduction is to introduce your essay. It typically presents information in the following order:

• A general statement about the topic that provides context for your argument
• A thesis statement showing your argument. You can use explicit lead-ins, such as ‘This essay argues that...’
• A ‘road map’ of the essay, telling the reader how it is going to present and develop your argument.

Example introduction

"To what extent can the American Revolution be understood as a revolution ‘from below’? Why did working people become involved and with what aims in mind?"

Introduction*

Historians generally concentrate on the twenty-year period between 1763 and 1783 as the period which constitutes the American Revolution [This sentence sets the general context of the period] . However, when considering the involvement of working people, or people from below, in the revolution it is important to make a distinction between the pre-revolutionary period 1763-1774 and the revolutionary period 1774-1788, marked by the establishment of the continental Congress(1) [This sentence defines the key term from below and gives more context to the argument that follows] . This paper will argue that the nature and aims of the actions of working people are difficult to assess as it changed according to each phase [This is the thesis statement] . The pre-revolutionary period was characterised by opposition to Britain’s authority. During this period the aims and actions of the working people were more conservative as they responded to grievances related to taxes and scarce land, issues which directly affected them. However, examination of activities such as the organisation of crowd action and town meetings, pamphlet writing, formal communications to Britain of American grievances and physical action in the streets, demonstrates that their aims and actions became more revolutionary after 1775 [These sentences give the ‘road map’ or overview of the content of the essay] .

The body of the essay develops and elaborates your argument. It does this by presenting a reasoned case supported by evidence from relevant scholarship. Its shape corresponds to the overview that you provided in your introduction.

The body of your essay should be written in paragraphs. Each body paragraph should develop one main idea that supports your argument. To learn how to structure a paragraph, look at the page developing clarity and focus in academic writing .

Your conclusion should not offer any new material. Your evidence and argumentation should have been made clear to the reader in the body of the essay.

Use the conclusion to briefly restate the main argumentative position and provide a short summary of the themes discussed. In addition, also consider telling your reader:

• What the significance of your findings, or the implications of your conclusion, might be
• Whether there are other factors which need to be looked at, but which were outside the scope of the essay
• How your topic links to the wider context (‘bigger picture’) in your discipline.

Do not simply repeat yourself in this section. A conclusion which merely summarises is repetitive and reduces the impact of your paper.

Example conclusion

Conclusion*.

Although, to a large extent, the working class were mainly those in the forefront of crowd action and they also led the revolts against wealthy plantation farmers, the American Revolution was not a class struggle [This is a statement of the concluding position of the essay]. Working people participated because the issues directly affected them – the threat posed by powerful landowners and the tyranny Britain represented. Whereas the aims and actions of the working classes were more concerned with resistance to British rule during the pre-revolutionary period, they became more revolutionary in nature after 1775 when the tension with Britain escalated [These sentences restate the key argument]. With this shift, a change in ideas occurred. In terms of considering the Revolution as a whole range of activities such as organising riots, communicating to Britain, attendance at town hall meetings and pamphlet writing, a difficulty emerges in that all classes were involved. Therefore, it is impossible to assess the extent to which a single group such as working people contributed to the American Revolution [These sentences give final thoughts on the topic].

5. Write clearly

An essay that makes good, evidence-supported points will only receive a high grade if it is written clearly. Clarity is produced through careful revision and editing, which can turn a good essay into an excellent one.

When you edit your essay, try to view it with fresh eyes – almost as if someone else had written it.

Ask yourself the following questions:

Overall structure

• Have you clearly stated your argument in your introduction?
• Does the actual structure correspond to the ‘road map’ set out in your introduction?
• Have you clearly indicated how your main points support your argument?
• Have you clearly signposted the transitions between each of your main points for your reader?
• Does each paragraph introduce one main idea?
• Does every sentence in the paragraph support that main idea?
• Does each paragraph display relevant evidence and reasoning?
• Does each paragraph logically follow on from the one before it?
• Is each sentence grammatically complete?
• Is the spelling correct?
• Is the link between sentences clear to your readers?
• Have you avoided redundancy and repetition?

See more about editing on our  editing your writing page.

6. Cite sources and evidence

Finally, check your citations to make sure that they are accurate and complete. Some faculties require you to use a specific citation style (e.g. APA) while others may allow you to choose a preferred one. Whatever style you use, you must follow its guidelines correctly and consistently. You can use Recite, the University of Melbourne style guide, to check your citations.

Further resources

• Germov, J. (2011). Get great marks for your essays, reports and presentations (3rd ed.). NSW: Allen and Unwin.
• Using English for Academic Purposes: A guide for students in Higher Education [online]. Retrieved January 2020 from http://www.uefap.com
• Williams, J.M. & Colomb, G. G. (2010) Style: Lessons in clarity and grace. 10th ed. New York: Longman.

* Example introduction and conclusion adapted from a student paper.

Looking for one-on-one advice?

Get tailored advice from an Academic Skills Adviser by booking an Individual appointment, or get quick feedback from one of our Academic Writing Mentors via email through our Writing advice service.

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How to Write an Open Letter: A Guide to Our Opinion Contest

Six steps to help you understand the format and write a powerful open letter of your own — with help from Times texts along the way.

By Katherine Schulten

When introducing a new contest, we Learning Network editors try hard to put ourselves in the shoes of teachers and students. As former educators ourselves, we know that the more we can spell out exactly what we’re looking for, the easier it will be for everyone.

But because this new 2024 challenge replaces what had become an institution on our site — the Student Editorial Contest that ran for a decade and garnered nearly 100,000 submissions — we tried to be especially careful.

Below, a set of steps that we hope can help teenagers see that they, too, can write powerful open letters that can change hearts and minds. After all, we often heard from the teenage winners of our Editorial Contest that their work had gone on to have real-world results, such as changing school policies and earning their authors large public platforms.

As we planned this guide, we received invaluable advice from a team of teachers and librarians at Brooklyn Technical High School who have collaborated this year to help their students write open letters. Thank you to the librarians Joanna Drusin, Joy Ferguson and Katrina Kaplan, and the English teachers Annalise Armenta, JoAnna Bueckert-Chan, Ella DeCosta, Elliott Johnston and Adam Virzi for sharing ideas, experiences and materials.

Whether you’re submitting to our challenge or not, enjoy this guide, and please ask any questions you might have, either by posting a comment here or on the contest announcement , or by writing to [email protected].

Teachers: Please preview the open letters you assign from our list below to make sure they are appropriate for your students.

How to write an open letter:

Step 1: understand the format., step 2: read selected examples., step 3: decide whom you’d like to write to and what you want to say., step 4: write your first draft as a letter, not an essay., step 5: make sure the tone is appropriate to your audience and purpose., step 6: remember that an open letter is a type of opinion essay, so you’ll still need to make a strong argument., step 7: edit your letter and submit..

Letters are personal. That’s what makes them special. Think about how you feel when you receive one, whether from an old friend, your grandma or someone you’re romantically involved with. You expect to read something written just for you.

Opinion essays, on the other hand, are for everyone. They try to convince all kinds of people, very few of whom the author has probably ever met, that some kind of change is needed.

Open letters bring the two formats together. Crafted to read as a personal entreaty to an individual or group, they can have an intimate, even casual, tone and voice. And because they seem to be addressed to someone else, you can feel as if you are listening in on private thoughts.

Of course, their real purpose is to be read by the public. Like any opinion piece, they seek to persuade by making a strong case via facts, examples and appeals to logic and emotions.

The official definition of an open letter is “a published letter of protest or appeal usually addressed to an individual but intended for the general public.” As we wrote in our contest announcement, you’re likely familiar with the many “Dear Taylor Swift” open letters you can find online. Though they’re addressed to Ms. Swift, they’re really a way for the writer to share opinions and feelings on feminism, ticket sales, the music industry or other topics.

As we take you through the steps below, please remember this: An open letter simultaneously addresses an explicit , or stated, audience — the person whose name follows “Dear” — as well as an implicit or general audience — those of us out in the world who are reading the piece.

Let’s see how it works by starting with a 2016 piece by Michael Luo headlined “ An Open Letter to the Woman Who Told My Family to Go Back to China ” (student version; here is the original ). Here is how it begins:

Dear Madam: Maybe I should have let it go. Turned the other cheek. We had just gotten out of church, and I was with my family and some friends on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. We were going to lunch, trying to see if there was room in the Korean restaurant down the street. You were in a rush. It was raining. Our stroller and a gaggle of Asians were in your way. But I was, honestly, stunned when you yelled at us from down the block, “Go back to China!

What do you notice in just the first two paragraphs? In what ways does it read as a letter rather than an essay?

As you continue through the piece, note all the places in which it follows the conventions of a letter. For instance, the writer addresses a real person:

You had on a nice rain coat. Your iPhone was a 6 Plus. You could have been a fellow parent in one of my daughters’ schools. You seemed, well, normal.

When you finish, consider why Mr. Luo may have chosen to craft this as an open letter, not an essay. How might it read differently if it were an essay?

Now read it a second time. This time — perhaps using a different symbol or color — note all the places in which it reads like a traditional opinion piece. Where and how is it clearly addressing a general audience?

For example, he writes, “Ask any Asian-American, and they’ll readily summon memories of schoolyard taunts, or disturbing encounters on the street or at the grocery store.” Then he embeds responses from social media that echo this claim. How does that help you understand that this is a societal issue that should concern us all?

Finally, ask yourself, how is this open letter — or any open letter — a hybrid, both a letter to an individual, and a plea to a general audience?

Open letters that have been published in The New York Times:

An Open Letter to Governor Lee on the Slaughter of Our Children (2023)

Letters Helped Brittney Griner Survive. Here’s One for Her Future. (2022)

Open Letter to President Biden From a Dispirited Black Voter (2022)

A Letter to My Conservative Friends (2021)

A Letter to My Liberal Friends (2021)

An Open Letter to John Lewis (2020)

Dear Harry and Meghan, Some Friendly Canadian Advice (2020)

A Letter to My Father, Gabriel García Márquez (2020)

An Open Letter to President Trump (2020)

An Open Letter to Mark Zuckerberg (2019)

Dear Walmart C.E.O.: You Have the Power to Curb Gun Violence. Do It. (2019)

T.I. Writes Open Letter to Barack Obama: ‘Your Legacy Will Live On’ (2017)

An Open Letter to the Woman Who Told My Family to Go Back to China (2016)

Dear White America (2015)

Dear Graduate (2009)

An Open Letter to the Founder of Starbucks (2008)

An Open Letter to Coach Mangini: Use the P-Word (2006)

An Open Letter to My Two Mothers (1989)

Open Letter to Madison Square Garden (1982)

Open letters from outside The Times:

Letter From Birmingham Jail (1963)

Pause Giant A.I. Experiments: An Open Letter (2023)

An Open Letter to Taylor Swift (2023)

An Open Letter to Autistic High Schoolers (2022)

An Open Letter From a Teenager to High School Teachers Everywhere (2016)

A Letter From Young Asian Americans To Their Families About Black Lives Matter (2016)

Letters to the Next President: Letters from America’s Youth During the 2016 Presidential Election (2016)

Dear Mr. Manning … (2014)

An Open Letter to America From a Public School Teacher (2014)

Time magazine: 6 Open Letters That Changed the World

First, just scan the headlines of the pieces above:

What do you notice about the variety of subjects to whom these open letters are addressed? How many are written to groups and how many to individuals? Which are written to someone famous and which to ordinary people?

Judging the headlines, do you think an open letter can be written to any group or individual? Why or why not?

Do the headlines of any of these pieces give you ideas for your letter? How so?

Now choose one or more to read in full.

Who is the explicit, or stated, audience? Who is the implicit, or unstated, audience? How do you know?

Who is the writer of the letter? What authority does the writer seem to have on this topic? Why should we listen?

What is the purpose of this letter, in your opinion? What does the writer want to have happen?

What lines stand out for you? Why?

What makes this a letter? That is, how does it read differently than if it were a persuasive essay? What lines or words show that?

Even though it is written as a letter, in what ways is it like other opinion essays you have read or written? Where in the piece do you see that?

Why do you think the author chose to write an open letter instead of a traditional essay? Was that effective, in your opinion?

Some of you will come to this contest already motivated to write to a particular person or group.

Others will be inspired by an issue or cause, and will need to choose the right person or group to address about making change.

Either approach can work, and our Student Opinion forum “ To Whom Would You Write an Open Letter? ” can show you how.

Read through the forum and answer the questions that are relevant to you, then post your answers in the comments section and join the public conversation, or discuss them with your classmates.

As you’ll see in the steps to come, the idea is to come up with a focus for a letter you’re genuinely motivated to write. And, as you may have discovered if you did the exercises above, almost any topic and audience can work as long as you have something meaningful to say.

Need more help? Here is a list of 310 prompts we have published that ask you to take a stand. They may help you find a topic, and each links back to a free Times piece you can use for your research.

If you’ve followed our steps so far, you’ve begun to tease out the differences between an open letter and other kinds of opinion writing, but you might still be confused.

In fact, you might be wondering why you can’t just take a persuasive essay you’ve already written for school, slap a “Dear [recipient]” on top of it and a “Sincerely, [your name]” on the bottom and call it an open letter.

To help explain, we’re going to ask you to do an experiment. Try this:

Once you have a focus for your letter — both the person you’d like to address and the issue you’ll explore — find a place to write comfortably.

Now, set a timer for seven minutes, and put “Dear [recipient]” at the top of a fresh page.

Next, write. For seven minutes, pour your heart out. Keep the person or group you’re addressing in mind, and say anything and everything you’d like to say, exactly the way you want to say it. If you get stuck, remind yourself that this is just an experiment and that no one but you will read the results. Be as honest as possible.

Now stop and look over what you wrote. What parts of your letter jump out? Underline or circle those lines or sections. If you’d like, try reading some of your favorite lines aloud to others in your class who have done the same exercise — assuming, of course, that those lines are appropriate for a classroom!

Next, discuss.

How was writing this letter different from writing a persuasive essay? What was easier? What was harder?

Now that you’ve reviewed your piece, how would you say your voice and tone sound different than they would if you had written this as an essay instead of a letter? In what lines does that come through especially well?

We asked you to try this to help demonstrate just how different it can be to write a letter, even an “open letter,” than to write a formal essay. If you’re like most students, you’ve been composing school essays for years, and you’ve absorbed a lot of rules around them. Not so with letters, and we hope you’ll use that relative freedom to your advantage.

Of course, you have to keep in mind that this was just a draft, and you have several steps to go before this piece is suitable for a public audience. But we hope some of your real voice and personality made it onto the page, and that you can keep that authenticity in your final draft.

Choose any of the winning opinion essays from our Student Editorial Contest.

How would that editorial have to change in order to become an effective open letter?

If it were an open letter instead of an editorial, to whom might it be written? Come up with at least three different recipients.

How would choosing different explicit, or stated, audiences for this letter change the writer’s tone and argument? For example, how would this essay on fast fashion sound and read if it were written as an open letter to H&M or Zara? How might it sound and read if it were written to the author’s fellow students as they considered what to wear to the school dance? Why?

In 2019, John Lewis, the civil rights leader and member of Congress, announced that he had advanced cancer. Soon thereafter, the Times Opinion columnist Margaret Renkl wrote an open letter to Mr. Lewis, whom she called “a moral compass for our nation.” Here is how it began:

Dear Mr. Lewis, I write with a heavy heart. Stage 4 pancreatic cancer is a brutal diagnosis, so it’s no surprise that last Sunday night the internet erupted with anguish as news of your illness became public. Treatment may give you a “fighting chance” to continue working “for the Beloved Community,” as you wrote in a statement, but it’s painful to think of what you will be called on to bear in the coming months. You have already borne so much for us.

Without reading further, how would you describe the tone of this letter? What words get that across?

Why do you think Ms. Renkl chose to frame her thoughts as a letter to John Lewis rather than an essay about him? In other words, what was her purpose, and how did making it an open letter achieve that? How does her tone follow her purpose?

Mr. Lewis died at age 80 in July 2020, a few months after his announcement. Study the full piece to see how Ms. Renkl detailed for her audience of general Times readers what was notable about his life, all while seeming to address Mr. Lewis instead of us. For example, how does she quote him, yet work those quotes in seamlessly, even though they are part of a letter, not a traditional essay?

Ms. Renkl’s tone is serious, as befits her subject. By contrast, take a look at this open letter, written in 2006 by a Times sports columnist to the New York Jets’ head coach. Headlined “ An Open Letter To Coach Mangini: Use the P-Word ,” it begins:

Dear Coach, It’s time to stop being coy about refusing to use the “p-word,” as in playoffs. It’s time for you, the Jets’ rookie coach, to use the word itself — “playoffs” — in every team meeting, in every news conference, in every television and radio spot. Because the Jets, at 5-5 and with each of their final six games against a team with a losing record, are still very much in the playoff picture in the American Football Conference despite yesterday’s 10-0 loss to the Bears. Don’t perish the thought of the playoffs. Preach the playoffs. After upsetting the Patriots a week ago, your Jets were soaring at 5-4, tied with two other teams for sixth place (and the last wild card) in the A.F.C. playoffs, but the only “p-word” you used all week was progress. Feel free to say the word “playoffs” out loud. If you think your players aren’t quite sure what it means, spell it out for them: p-l-a-y-o-f-f-s. After they watch game tapes, make them write it 100 times in their playbooks.

How would you describe the tone of this letter? What lines show that especially well? What do you think was the writer’s purpose for writing the piece? Do you think his tone helped?

But what if the motivation for writing an open letter is anger?

Maybe the draft of the letter you began in Step 3 was motivated by your rage at an injustice, and maybe, since we asked you to write as honestly as possible, you expressed that rage in colorful language.

How do you channel that strong emotion into a letter that is civil, suitable for a newspaper like The Times and respectful of both its stated recipient and a general audience — but is still strongly worded enough to make your point?

Perhaps more important, how do you make your case in a tone that your audience will be moved by? For example, though an angry rant about your parents’ curfew policy might have felt good to write, would that rant be the most effective way to get your mom and dad to change their minds? Or might you need to moderate your tone to reach them?

To explore this more, let’s read two political letters to U.S. presidents. As you do, keep in mind that, because they were published in The Times, it is quite possible that the letters were actually read by those leaders, or by staff members who could have conveyed their messages.

Here is the beginning of “ An Open Letter to President Trump .” It was written by the Times Opinion columnist Thomas L. Friedman in March 2020, just as the Covid-19 pandemic began.

Dear President Trump, I have not been one of your supporters, but when it comes to combating the coronavirus, saving lives and getting as many Americans back to work as quickly as possible, I am praying for your success, because so much is riding on the decisions that you, and only you, can make. So what I am about to say is truly in the spirit of being constructive: You need a plan.

Just from this first paragraph, how do you think Mr. Friedman felt about how Mr. Trump was handling the pandemic? How can you tell? What was his purpose for writing? How urgent was this purpose? How would you describe the tone? How well does that tone work to get his message across?

Now read the rest of the piece, noting lines in which Mr. Friedman’s frustration comes through. For example: “In all honesty, though, sir, you immediately and crudely jumped into that discussion.” How does this line convey real emotion, but do so in a civil way? Do you think an angrier, less respectful tone would have been more effective? Why or why not?

Now read another political open letter, “ Open Letter to President Biden From a Dispirited Black Voter ,” by the Times Opinion columnist Charles M. Blow in 2022.

Here are some lines from the middle of the piece. What do you notice about the tone?

As far as I can tell, Tuesday’s brief comments were the first public statements you have made about passing voting rights legislation since January, and that’s from my search of the White House’s own collection of your comments published on the White House site. Is that what “never stop fighting” looks like to you? Where did you learn to fight, in a pillow factory?

Here is the end of the letter:

The truly frustrating thing is that in a two-party system, Black people are stuck. You, Mr. President, are the best and only option when the Republicans have declared war on truth, Black history and Black voters and sworn allegiance to Donald Trump. But Black people are weary of this political dance, of being drawn near and then pushed away, of having individuals elevated but the collective damaged, of having sweet nothings whispered in our ears only to be denied in public. Mr. President, do better. Signed, A Dispirited Black Voter

Read the full piece. How does Mr. Blow express his anger and frustration? Do his feelings come across differently than Mr. Friedman’s did? What lines show it? Is the writer still civil and respectful? Is it OK that he made a comment like “Where did you learn to fight, in a pillow factory?” to a president? Is his letter effective in your view?

Ask yourself …

What is my purpose for writing a letter? What do I hope will happen as a result?

Who is my explicit, or stated, audience? Who is my implicit, or unstated, audience? (Note: If you are writing for our contest, your implicit audience will be New York Times readers.) What is my relationship to those audiences?

What is my tone? Is it appropriate for my subject, purpose and audience — both explicit and implicit? Why or why not?

How can I appeal to my explicit audience in a way that will move people to action or reflection? Does that kind of appeal also work for my implicit audience?

How have I expressed my emotions and opinions? Am I clear and forceful? Am I civil and respectful? What lines stand out to show that?

As you now understand, the writer of an open letter has to keep two audiences in mind — both the explicit, or stated, recipient, and the implicit, or unstated, reading public.

In the previous step, you developed the parts of your essay that will more closely resemble a personal letter. In this section, you’ll develop the aspects that share qualities with other essays you might have read in the Times Opinion section or in past Student Editorial Contests .

Here are some important things to consider.

Authority: Who are you, and why should we care about what you have to say?

Those questions might sound harsh, but they are key to finding a meaningful subject and writing a compelling letter.

What could your letter about climate change, college admissions or gun violence, for example, say that the work of others couldn’t? What special background, experience or knowledge do you bring that makes you an authority on the subject? (If you have studied rhetorical strategies, you might be familiar with the concepts of ethos, pathos and logos, and will recognize that here we are describing ethos. More on that later.)

These are questions that we often asked the participants of our Student Editorial Contest, so you only have to scan the work of the teen winners to see how personal authority plays a role.

For example:

Lucas Cohen-d’Arbeloff wrote about what the Florida bill labeled “Don’t Say Gay” by its detractors means for same-sex parents and their children , like him.

Ketong Li explored what it means to participate in “voluntourism ” after a trip to Myanmar left her feeling guilty.

Asaka Park wrote about being disabled and how social media is a lifeline for teens like her.

Aria Capelli extolled the joys of multigenerational living thanks to her time in a pandemic bubble with her grandparents.

But how does this work in open letters? Read just the salutation and first line of this next piece. Who is writing to whom? How do you know?

Mark, In 2010, I wrote “The Social Network” and I know you wish I hadn’t.

If you guessed that this is an open letter to Mark Zuckerberg from Aaron Sorkin , you’d be right. The piece, from 2019, is about what Mr. Sorkin sees as Facebook’s dangerous policies around political speech. In the letter, he weaves in his experience making “The Social Network,” a film about Facebook’s origins — and battling Sony and Facebook for permissions to say what he wanted to say — to show his authority on this topic.

The comedian Monica Heisey takes a different approach in “ Dear Harry and Meghan, Some Friendly Canadian Advice .” Written in 2020, when the couple was considering moving to Toronto or Vancouver, the letter includes a humorous description of her expertise on the topic:

As my own family’s problematically ginger second-born and someone who fled Canada for England, I’ve recently completed something of a reverse-Harry and am therefore in a perfect position to dispense some classic, North American-style unsolicited advice.

But do you have to be famous or powerful to write an open letter? Of course not. In a 1982 “ Open Letter to Madison Square Garden ,” a 22-year-old fan is incensed that the Madison Square Garden Corporation was considering moving the New York Rangers to New Jersey. As you read this opening, ask yourself, what is his authority on this topic? Is it enough?

Gentlemen: I am driven to write this letter, after 15 years of patronage, by the “potential” transfer of the New York Rangers to the Meadowlands. Protesting will obviously serve no useful purpose, so in lieu of an “outraged condemnation,” I thought I might share with you some of my thoughts about our relationship. I am 22 years old, and a resident of Brooklyn. My family recently submitted payment for our 24th consecutive season subscription to the Rangers. We saw them in the old Garden; we saw them in the new. What stands out most about my 15 seasons of Ranger games are the good times. The Ratelle-Gilbert-Hadfield goal-a-game line. Walter Tkaczuk and Billy Fairbairn killing penalties. Bobby Rousseau on the point during the power play. Harry Howell steady as a rock on the blue line. Jim Neilson and Rod Seiling on defense. Beating the Islanders. Eddie Giacomin making save after save after save.

Now ask yourself:

What special knowledge, experience or background with my issue do I have that will give me credibility? Do I have an insider perspective of some kind?

How can I express or explain that?

Call to action: Make the purpose for writing your letter clear.

Go back to the rough draft you wrote at the beginning of Step 3. Did you make your purpose clear? What did you say and how did you say it?

In our rules, we state that you must have some kind of call to action, whether the change you seek is something tangible, like asking Congress to enact a law or demanding a company stop a harmful practice, or something more abstract, like inviting your audience to reflect on an issue that they may have never considered.

Let’s look at how some Times writers have done it. Sometimes, the call to action is clear, as in Margaret Renkl’s “ An Open Letter to Governor Lee on the Slaughter of Our Children ,” from 2023. Read the letter, and identify what she wants Bill Lee, the governor of Tennessee, to do, both in the immediate aftermath of the shooting at the Covenant School in Nashville and in the longer term.

Now look at how the young Rangers fan ends his letter to Madison Square Garden. What is he asking? Is it a serious request that he expects to be honored, or is it just another way of making his point?

I would like to thank you for bringing me so many memories, and berate you for denying me more. Finally, I would like to ask, respectfully of course, that when the Rangers — the NEW YORK Rangers — play in New Jersey, they not be identified as New Yorkers. After all, they will not be. Perhaps, if you are reluctant to alienate your once-devotees by calling them the New Jersey Rangers, you could call them the Tri-State Rangers. Maybe then you’ll even make some money in Connecticut.

Finally, what if your letter’s purpose is to honor someone and explain their role in your life? What is your call to action then? Take a look at the rapper T.I.’s open letter to former President Barack Obama , written in 2017 in his final month in office. Here is the ending of the piece. Who is he trying to move to action? Is it Mr. Obama — or can the call to action be to us, the implicit, unstated, audience? Is that just as effective?

For every one of US who has been touched by you and tasked with a choice between finding a way or walking away, I say we can and must do more. We cannot afford to live in a prolonged state of grief, but must remember that we have no choice but to dust ourselves off, wipe off our wounds and move beyond this barren state of shock. We will forever be grateful to you and your family, the graceful intelligent compassionate first lady, Mrs. Obama, as well as your beautiful daughters Sasha and Malia for their collective sacrifices for US. WE will continue to stand with you and alongside those who make a personal investment in US. We will continue to remain committed to causes that are bigger than ourselves. We will continue to remind ourselves that, Yes, We still can!

Is my call to action something tangible that the recipient of my letter has the power to change?

Or, is it more abstract, like asking my audience to understand or reflect on something important?

Who am I really addressing in my call to action? As you saw in the examples above, sometimes it is a direct request of a person with power, but other times it is more of a plea to the general reader. Sometimes, it can be both. No matter to whom the call to action is directed, however, it should be meaningful and compelling to both your stated and unstated audience.

Context: What background information do we need to understand your issue?

Let’s say you’re writing a letter to a good friend you haven’t talked to in awhile. You’ve been at summer camp for a few weeks, and you’re excited to explain to your friend that, even though she knows you’ve always been afraid of the water, now you’re so comfortable you can swim across a lake. But since the two of you took a disastrous swim class together back in third grade, you can also refer to your inside jokes on the topic to help her appreciate how far you’ve come.

Now think about how this might work in an open letter. Some employ that same kind of insider knowledge. For instance, many of the open letters to Taylor Swift on the internet riff off the titles of her songs, allude to moments from her past or scatter the kinds of “ Easter eggs ” — or secret messages — that Ms. Swift is known for herself. If the writer’s stated audience is Ms. Swift, and his or her unstated audience is fans of hers, that works well; the readers understand the references.

But what if your audience isn’t that specialized, and you can’t predict what they will know? That is the case with most Times pieces, which are written for a general reader. They assume some background knowledge, but tend to detail anything crucial the reader needs to know. In fact, the way the writer explains those details can be a big part of making their case.

The opening lines of Kurt Streeter’s open letter to Brittney Griner in a 2022 Sports of The Times column are a good example. How do they show that the writer is addressing an audience well beyond Griner, the basketball star?

Welcome home, Brittney. At long last, welcome home. Like so many others, I wondered if this day would ever come. Now you are home and safe after nearly 10 months of brutal uncertainty and fear. Home and safe after isolating imprisonment in a Russia that has cast aside international norms. Home and safe after getting trapped in a web of geopolitics that grew thicker each day as the war in Ukraine dragged on. What you endured over the last 10 months is nearly unfathomable. As a Black, openly gay woman, you were in particular danger as a prisoner in a country with dangerous, retrograde views on race and sexuality.

What background information do these opening lines supply for those who may not remember all the details of Ms. Griner’s imprisonment? How does Mr. Streeter’s description of this history and context encourage the reader’s sympathy and respect for Ms. Griner?

Continue reading. How does Mr. Streeter weave in details, facts and quotes to build context and background, and to further his case? Mark all the places where he does that effectively.

To focus on just one example, note how elegantly he includes a quote from an important and relevant person, and how he makes sure, we, his Times audience, know who this person is. Yet he doesn’t do it by citing his source, as you would in an academic essay. Instead, he weaves it in as one would if they were writing a personal letter — as if he’s just letting Ms. Griner know what someone had to say about her:

When I spoke to Vince Kozar, the Mercury’s president, this week, he mentioned the letters you exchanged over the last several months. “At all times, she was asking about other people,” said Kozar, your boss and friend. “Her concern was about other people. First and foremost, she asked how her teammates were doing, asking us to ensure we were taking care of her wife.”

Choose any of the essays from the list at the top of this article that you have already read. This time, focus on how they impart background information. What does the writer let you, the general reader, know that the stated recipient would probably already know? How do they do this well, with strategies you might use in your own writing?

Then ask yourself:

What does my general audience need to know and understand to appreciate my letter and be persuaded by it?

What facts, quotes and details might it help to include? How can I work those in seamlessly, so they are not jarring to the reader?

How can I impart background and context that helps me build my argument? What should I include and what should I leave out?

Evidence: Why is this topic important? What facts can compel us to care?

In the example above, we showed how background information can help build readers’ understanding. But where does this information come from?

If you’re participating in our contest, you’ll need to cite evidence from at least two sources, including one from The Times and one from outside The Times. Of course, make sure those sources are trustworthy .

In the letter to Ms. Griner, you saw one example of how facts can be woven in to bolster a persuasive piece. Here is another: “ An open letter to the founder of Starbucks ,” written by a Times Business columnist in 2008.

It’s been almost a year since you wrote that now-famous memo to your executive staff: the one in which you bemoaned what you called “the watering down of the Starbucks experience.” The one where you defended each individual decision that had led to that diminished experience — like the switch to automated espresso machines — yet still urged your staff to find a way to recapture the “romance and theater.” Starbucks stores, you wrote, “no longer have the soul of the past and reflect a chain of stores vs. the warm feeling of a neighborhood store.” As a hard-core Starbucks customer, I couldn’t have agreed more. What has happened since then?

What facts and details does he use to answer is own question? Why is that appropriate for readers of the business section?

Remember “ An Open Letter to the Woman Who Told My Family to Go Back to China ,” Michael Luo’s piece? Not every open letter bombards you with facts and statistics, yet the writer is still able to make his or her case by showing the larger importance of the issue. Here is one way Mr. Luo does it, by both explaining the context and using a contemporary example that shows it:

Maybe you don’t know this, but the insults you hurled at my family get to the heart of the Asian-American experience. It’s this persistent sense of otherness that a lot of us struggle with every day. That no matter what we do, how successful we are, what friends we make, we don’t belong. We’re foreign. We’re not American. It’s one of the reasons that Fox News segment the other day on Chinatown by Jesse Watters , with the karate and nunchucks and broken English, generated so much outrage.

Rhetorical Strategies: How will you make us care?

If you have done argumentative writing in school, chances are you’ve heard of ethos, pathos and logos. If you haven’t, the video above, “ What Aristotle and Joshua Bell Can Teach Us About Persuasion ,” explains them beautifully. If you need more work with these concepts, our related lesson plan suggests that students choose viral content from their social networks and identify ethos, pathos and logos at work. The good news, however? Without naming them, you have already noticed all three concepts in the letters we’ve looked at so far.

But to review, here are how the concepts are defined:

Ethos (ethical appeal): Appeal to the credibility and authority of a speaker. Using ethos, a writer can convey trustworthiness through tone and style as well as by establishing her credentials in a field. An author’s reputation can also influence pathos. Pathos (emotional appeal): Appeal to an audience’s heart and emotions. An author or speaker using pathos seeks to persuade someone emotionally using personal connections, stories or testimonials, and maybe spirituality. Pathos can aim to evoke hopes and fears and often employs figurative language. Logos (rational appeal): Appeal to the audience’s logical reasoning ability. Examples of logos include facts, statistics and anecdotes.

Now try this:

Go back and choose one of the open letters from the list at the top of this post. Then ask yourself:

What lines do I find most affecting? Why? Do any of them work because they make an appeal to ethos, pathos or logos? How?

What do I notice about the balance of ethos, pathos and logos in this letter?

Does the author emphasize one technique more than the others? Does that choice seem appropriate for the topic and audience? Is it effective?

Now look back at your own draft, whether it is the one you began way back in Step 3, or whether you’re further along. Answer the questions above about your own work. Or, if it is ready to be seen by others, switch with a classmate and analyze each other’s for these appeals.

When we invent a contest, like this one, we can’t wait to see how teachers and students will respond. We know there is a lot of information here, and we hope it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It might help to return to that very first rough draft again and notice how far you have come.

Once you have a polished piece that you are happy with, we hope you’ll enter it into our Open Letter Contest , which runs from March 13 to May 1. Be sure to read all the rules and guidelines before submitting your entry.

Another way to go? Borrow an idea from the team at Brooklyn Tech who helped advise us. They plan to celebrate their students’ work by publishing the strongest pieces in their school newspaper, The Survey . (Remember, however, that if you are also submitting to our contest, you must wait until after all your students have submitted to publish their work elsewhere.)

Katherine Schulten has been a Learning Network editor since 2006. Before that, she spent 19 years in New York City public schools as an English teacher, school-newspaper adviser and literacy coach. More about Katherine Schulten

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Sob stories? Trauma dumps? Black kids worry about writing college essays after affirmative action ban

When the Supreme Court ended affirmative action in higher education, it left the college essay as one of few places where race can play a role in admissions decisions.

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CHICAGO (AP) — When she started writing her college essay, Hillary Amofa told the story she thought admissions offices wanted to hear. About being the daughter of immigrants from Ghana and growing up in a small apartment in Chicago. About hardship and struggle.

Then she deleted it all.

“I would just find myself kind of trauma-dumping,” said the 18-year-old senior at Lincoln Park High School in Chicago. “And I’m just like, this doesn’t really say anything about me as a person.”

When the Supreme Court ended affirmative action in higher education , it left the college essay as one of few places where race can play a role in admissions decisions. For many students of color, instantly more was riding on the already high-stakes writing assignment. Some say they felt pressure to exploit their hardships as they competed for a spot on campus.

Amofa was just starting to think about her essay when the court issued its decision, and it left her with a wave of questions. Could she still write about her race? Could she be penalized for it? She wanted to tell colleges about her heritage but she didn’t want to be defined by it.

In English class, Amofa and her classmates read sample essays that all seemed to focus on some trauma or hardship. It left her with the impression she had to write about her life’s hardest moments to show how far she’d come. But she and some of her classmates wondered if their lives had been hard enough to catch the attention of admissions offices.

“For a lot of students, there’s a feeling of, like, having to go through something so horrible to feel worthy of going to school, which is kind of sad,” said Amofa, the daughter of a hospital technician and an Uber driver.

This year’s senior class is the first in decades to navigate college admissions without affirmative action. The Supreme Court upheld the practice in decisions going back to the 1970s, but this court’s conservative supermajority found it is unconstitutional for colleges to give students extra weight because of their race alone.

Still, the decision left room for race to play an indirect role: Chief Justice John Roberts wrote universities can still consider how an applicant’s life was shaped by their race, “so long as that discussion is concretely tied to a quality of character or unique ability.”

“A benefit to a student who overcame racial discrimination, for example, must be tied to that student’s courage and determination,” he wrote.

Scores of colleges responded with new essay prompts asking about students’ backgrounds. Brown University asked applicants how “an aspect of your growing up has inspired or challenged you.” Rice University asked students how their perspectives were shaped by their “background, experiences, upbringing, and/or racial identity.”

Wondering if schools ‘expect a sob story’

When Darrian Merritt started writing his essay, he knew the stakes were higher than ever because of the court’s decision. His first instinct was to write about events that led to him going to live with his grandmother as a child.

Those were painful memories, but he thought they might play well at schools like Yale, Stanford and Vanderbilt.

“I feel like the admissions committee might expect a sob story or a tragic story,” said Merritt, a senior in Cleveland. “And if you don’t provide that, then maybe they’re not going to feel like you went through enough to deserve having a spot at the university. I wrestled with that a lot.”

He wrote drafts focusing on his childhood, but it never amounted to more than a collection of memories. Eventually he abandoned the idea and aimed for an essay that would stand out for its positivity.

Merritt wrote about a summer camp where he started to feel more comfortable in his own skin. He described embracing his personality and defying his tendency to please others. The essay had humor — it centered on a water gun fight where he had victory in sight but, in a comedic twist, slipped and fell. But the essay also reflects on his feelings of not being “Black enough” and getting made fun of for listening to “white people music.”

“I was like, ‘OK, I’m going to write this for me, and we’re just going to see how it goes,’” he said. “It just felt real, and it felt like an honest story.”

The essay describes a breakthrough as he learned “to take ownership of myself and my future by sharing my true personality with the people I encounter. … I realized that the first chapter of my own story had just been written.”

A ruling prompts pivots on essay topics

Like many students, Max Decker of Portland, Oregon, had drafted a college essay on one topic, only to change direction after the Supreme Court ruling in June.

Decker initially wrote about his love for video games. In a childhood surrounded by constant change, navigating his parents’ divorce, the games he took from place to place on his Nintendo DS were a source of comfort.

But the essay he submitted to colleges focused on the community he found through Word is Bond, a leadership group for young Black men in Portland.

As the only biracial, Jewish kid with divorced parents in a predominantly white, Christian community, Decker wrote he constantly felt like the odd one out. On a trip with Word is Bond to Capitol Hill, he and friends who looked just like him shook hands with lawmakers. The experience, he wrote, changed how he saw himself.

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“It’s because I’m different that I provide something precious to the world, not the other way around,” he wrote.

As a first-generation college student, Decker thought about the subtle ways his peers seemed to know more about navigating the admissions process. They made sure to get into advanced classes at the start of high school, and they knew how to secure glowing letters of recommendation.

If writing about race would give him a slight edge and show admissions officers a fuller picture of his achievements, he wanted to take that small advantage.

His first memory about race, Decker said, was when he went to get a haircut in elementary school and the barber made rude comments about his curly hair. Until recently, the insecurity that moment created led him to keep his hair buzzed short.

Through Word is Bond, Decker said he found a space to explore his identity as a Black man. It was one of the first times he was surrounded by Black peers and saw Black role models. It filled him with a sense of pride in his identity. No more buzzcut.

The pressure to write about race involved a tradeoff with other important things in his life, Decker said. That included his passion for journalism, like the piece he wrote on efforts to revive a once-thriving Black neighborhood in Portland. In the end, he squeezed in 100 characters about his journalism under the application’s activities section.

“My final essay, it felt true to myself. But the difference between that and my other essay was the fact that it wasn’t the truth that I necessarily wanted to share,” said Decker, whose top college choice is Tulane, in New Orleans, because of the region’s diversity. “It felt like I just had to limit the truth I was sharing to what I feel like the world is expecting of me.”

Spelling out the impact of race

Before the Supreme Court ruling, it seemed a given to Imani Laird that colleges would consider the ways that race had touched her life. But now, she felt like she had to spell it out.

As she started her essay, she reflected on how she had faced bias or felt overlooked as a Black student in predominantly white spaces.

There was the year in math class when the teacher kept calling her by the name of another Black student. There were the comments that she’d have an easier time getting into college because she was Black.

“I didn’t have it easier because of my race,” said Laird, a senior at Newton South High School in the Boston suburbs who was accepted at Wellesley and Howard University , and is waiting to hear from several Ivy League colleges. “I had stuff I had to overcome.”

In her final essays, she wrote about her grandfather, who served in the military but was denied access to GI Bill benefits because of his race.

She described how discrimination fueled her ambition to excel and pursue a career in public policy.

“So, I never settled for mediocrity,” she wrote. “Regardless of the subject, my goal in class was not just to participate but to excel. Beyond academics, I wanted to excel while remembering what started this motivation in the first place.”

Will schools lose racial diversity?

Amofa used to think affirmative action was only a factor at schools like Harvard and Yale. After the court’s ruling, she was surprised to find that race was taken into account even at some public universities she was applying to.

Now, without affirmative action, she wondered if mostly white schools will become even whiter.

It’s been on her mind as she chooses between Indiana University and the University of Dayton, both of which have relatively few Black students. When she was one of the only Black students in her grade school, she could fall back on her family and Ghanaian friends at church. At college, she worries about loneliness.

“That’s what I’m nervous about,” she said. “Going and just feeling so isolated, even though I’m constantly around people.”

The first drafts of her essay focused on growing up in a low-income family, sharing a bedroom with her brother and grandmother. But it didn’t tell colleges about who she is now, she said.

Her final essay tells how she came to embrace her natural hair. She wrote about going to a mostly white grade school where classmates made jokes about her afro. When her grandmother sent her back with braids or cornrows, they made fun of those too.

Over time, she ignored their insults and found beauty in the styles worn by women in her life. She now runs a business doing braids and other hairstyles in her neighborhood.

“I stopped seeing myself through the lens of the European traditional beauty standards and started seeing myself through the lens that I created,” Amofa wrote.

“Criticism will persist, but it loses its power when you know there’s a crown on your head!”

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Writing My Autobiography

A re you still writing?” he asked.

“I am,” I answered.

“What are you working on at the moment?”

“An autobiography,” I said.

“Interesting,” he replied. “Whose?”

The implication here, you will note, is that mine hasn’t been a life sufficiently interesting to merit an autobiography. The implication isn’t altogether foolish. Most autobiographies, at least the best autobiographies, have been written by people who have historical standing, or have known many important people, or have lived in significant times, or have noteworthy family connections or serious lessons to convey . I qualify on none of these grounds. Not that, roughly two years ago when I sat down to write my autobiography, I let that stop me.

An autobiography, to state the obvious, is at base a biography written by its own subject. But how is one to write it: as a matter of setting the record straight, as a form of confessional, as a mode of seeking justice, or as a justification of one’s life? “An autobiography,” wrote George Orwell, “is only to be trusted when it reveals something disgraceful. A man who gives a good account of himself is probably lying, since any life when viewed from the inside is simply a series of defeats.” Is this true? I prefer to think not.

Autobiography is a complex enterprise, calling for its author not only to know himself but to be honest in conveying that knowledge. “I could inform the dullest author how he might write an interesting book,” wrote Samuel Taylor Coleridge. “Let him relate the events of his own life with Honesty, not disguising the feelings that accompanied them.” One of the nicest things about being a professor, it has been said, is that one gets to talk for fifty minutes without being interrupted. So one of the allurements of autobiography is that one gets to write hundreds of pages about that eminently fascinating character, oneself, even if in doing so one only establishes one’s insignificance.

The great autobiographies—of which there have not been all that many—have been wildly various. One of the first, that of the Renaissance sculptor Benvenuto Cellini, is marked by an almost unrelieved braggadocio: No artist was more perfect, no warrior more brave, no lover more pleasing than the author, or so he would have us believe. Edward Gibbon’s autobiography, though elegantly written, is disappointing in its brevity. That of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, heavily striking the confessional note, might have been told in a booth to a priest. Ben Franklin’s autobiography is full of advice on how the rest of us should live. John Stuart Mill’s is astounding in its account of its author’s prodigiously early education, which began with his learning Greek under his father’s instruction at the age of three. Then there is Henry Adams’s autobiography, suffused with disappointment over his feeling out of joint with his times and the world’s not recognizing his true value. In Making It , Norman Podhoretz wrote an autobiography informed by a single message, which he termed a “dirty little secret,” namely that there is nothing wrong with ambition and that success, despite what leftist intellectuals might claim, is nothing to be ashamed of.

Please note that all of these are books written by men. Might it be that women lack the vanity required to write—or should I say “indulge in”—the literary act of autobiography? In Mary Beard’s Emperor of Rome , I recently read that Agrippina the Younger, the mother of Nero, wrote her autobiography, which has not survived, and which Mary Beard counts as “one of the great losses of all classical literature.” I wish that Jane Austen had written an autobiography, and so too George Eliot and Willa Cather. Perhaps these three women, great writers all, were too sensibly modest for autobiography, that least modest of all literary forms.

A utobiography can be the making or breaking of writers who attempt it. John Stuart Mill’s autobiography has gone a long way toward humanizing a writer whose other writings tend toward the coldly formal. Harold Laski wrote that Mill’s “ Autobiography , in the end the most imperishable of his writings, is a record as noble as any in our literature of consistent devotion to the public good.”

If Mill’s autobiography humanized him, the autobiography of the novelist Anthony Trollope did for him something approaching the reverse. In An Autobiography , Trollope disdains the notion of an author’s needing inspiration to write well. He reports that “there was no day on which it was my positive duty to write for the publishers, as it was my duty to write reports for the Post Office,” where he had a regular job. “I was free to be idle if I pleased. But as I had made up my mind to undertake this second profession [that of novelist], I found it to be expedient to bind myself by certain self-imposed laws.” Trollope recounts—emphasis here on “counts”—that as a novelist he averages forty pages per week, at 250 words per page. He writes: “There are those who would be ashamed to subject themselves to such a taskmaster, and who think that the man who works with his imagination should allow himself to wait till inspiration moves him. When I have heard such doctrine preached, I have hardly been able to repress my scorn.” Trollope then mentions that on the day after he finished his novel Doctor Thorne , he began writing his next novel, The Bertrams . For a long spell the literati refused to forgive Trollope for shearing inspiration away from the creation of literary art, for comparing the job of the novelist to a job at the post office. Only the splendid quality of his many novels eventually won him forgiveness and proper recognition.

A serious biography takes up what the world thinks of its subject, what his friends and family think of him, and—if the information is available in letters, diaries, journals, or interviews—what he thinks of himself. An autobiography is ultimately about the last question: what the author thinks of himself. Yet how many of us have sufficient self-knowledge to give a convincing answer? In her splendid novel Memoirs of Hadrian , Marguerite Yourcenar has Hadrian note: “When I seek deep within me for knowledge of myself what I find is obscure, internal, unformulated, and as secret as any complicity.” The unexamined life may not be worth living, but the scrupulously examined one is rare indeed.

My own life has not provided the richest fodder for autobiography. For one thing, it has not featured much in the way of drama. For another, good fortune has allowed me the freedom to do with my life much as I have wished. I have given my autobiography the title Never Say You’ve Had a Lucky Life , with the subtitle Especially If You’ve Had a Lucky Life . Now well along in its closing chapter, mine, I contend, has been thus far—here I pause to touch wood—a most lucky life.

My title derives from the story of Croesus, who ruled the country of Lydia from circa 585–547 b.c. , and who is perhaps today best known for the phrase “rich as Croesus.” The vastly wealthy Croesus thought himself the luckiest man on earth and asked confirmation of this from Solon, the wise Athenian, who told him that in fact the luckiest man on earth was another Athenian who had two sons in that year’s Olympics. When Croesus asked who was second luckiest, Solon cited another Greek who had a most happy family life. Croesus was displeased but not convinced by Solon’s answers. Years later he was captured by the Persian Cyrus, divested of his kingdom and his wealth, and set on a pyre to be burned alive, before which he was heard to exclaim that Solon had been right. The moral of the story is, of course: Never say you have had a lucky life until you know how your life ends.

I have known serious sadness in my life. I have undergone a divorce. I have become a member of that most dolorous of clubs, parents who have buried one of their children. Yet I have had much to be grateful for. In the final paragraph of a book I wrote some years ago on the subject of ambition, I noted that “We do not choose our parents. We do not choose our historical epoch, or the country of our birth, or the immediate circumstances of our upbringing.” In all these realms, I lucked out. I was born to intelligent, kindly parents; at a time that, though I was drafted into the army, allowed me to miss being called up to fight in any wars; and in the largely unmitigated prosperity enjoyed by the world’s most interesting country, the United States of America.

Writing is a form of discovery. Yet can even writing ferret out the quality and meaning of one’s own life? Alexis de Tocqueville, the endlessly quotable Tocqueville, wrote: “The fate of individuals is still more hidden than that of peoples,” and “the destinies of individuals are often as uncertain as those of nations.” Fate, destiny, those two great tricksters, who knows what they have in store for one, even in the final days of one’s life? I, for example, as late as the age of eighteen, had never heard the word “intellectual.” If you had asked me what a man of letters was, I would have said a guy who works at the post office. Yet I have been destined to function as an intellectual for the better part of my adult life, and have more than once been called a man of letters. Fate, destiny, go figure!

T he first question that arises in writing one’s autobiography is what to include and what to exclude. Take, for starters, sex. In his nearly seven-hundred-page autobiography, Journeys of the Mind , the historian of late antiquity Peter Brown waits until page 581 to mention, in the most glancing way, that he is married. Forty or so pages later, the name of a second wife is mentioned. Whether he had children with either of these wives, we never learn. But then, Brown’s is a purely intellectual autobiography, concerned all but exclusively with the development of the author’s mind and those who influenced that development.

My autobiography, though less than half the length of Brown’s, allowed no such luxury of reticence. Sex, especially when I was an adolescent, was a central subject, close to a preoccupation. After all, boys—as I frequently instructed my beautiful granddaughter Annabelle when she was growing up—are brutes. I came of age BP, or Before the Pill, and consummated sex, known in that day as “going all the way,” was not then a serious possibility. Too much was at risk—pregnancy, loss of reputation—for middle-class girls. My friends and I turned to prostitution.

Apart from occasionally picking up streetwalkers on some of Chicago’s darker streets, prostitution for the most part meant trips of sixty or so miles to the bordellos of Braidwood or Kankakee, Illinois. The sex, costing $3, was less than perfunctory. (“Don’t bother to take off your socks or that sweater,” one was instructed.) What was entailed was less sensual pleasure than a rite of passage, of becoming a man, of “losing your cherry,” a phrase I have only recently learned means forgoing one’s innocence. We usually went on these trips in groups of five or six in one or another of our fathers’ cars. Much joking on the way up and even more on the way back. Along Chicago’s Outer Drive, which we took home in those days, there was a Dad’s Old Fashioned Root Beer sign that read, “Have you had it lately?,” which always got a good laugh.

I like to think of myself as a shy pornographer, or, perhaps better, a sly pornographer. By this I mean that in my fiction and where necessary in my essays I do not shy away from the subject of sex, only from the need to describe it in any of its lurid details. So I have done in my autobiography. On the subject of sex in my first marriage (of two), for example, I say merely, “I did not want my money back.” But, then, all sex, if one comes to think about it, is essentially comic, except of course one’s own.

On the inclusion-exclusion question, the next subject I had to consider was money, or my personal finances. Financially I have nothing to brag about. In my autobiography I do, though, occasionally give the exact salaries—none of them spectacular—of the jobs I’ve held. With some hesitation (lest it seem boasting) I mention that a book I wrote on the subject of snobbery earned, with its paperback sale, roughly half-a-million dollars. I fail to mention those of my books that earned paltry royalties, or, as I came to think of them, peasantries. In my autobiography, I contented myself with noting my good fortune in being able to earn enough money doing pretty much what I wished to do and ending up having acquired enough money not to worry overmuch about financial matters. Like the man said, a lucky life.

If I deal glancingly in my autobiography with sex and personal finances, I tried to take a pass on politics. My own political development is of little interest. I started out in my political life a fairly standard liberal—which in those days meant despising Richard Nixon—and have ended up today contemptuous of both our political parties: Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, as the critic Dwight Macdonald referred to them. Forgive the self-congratulatory note, but in politics I prefer to think myself a member in good standing of that third American political party, never alas on the ballot, the anti-BS party.

Of course, sometimes one needs to have a politics, if only to fight off the politics of others. Ours is a time when politics seems to be swamping all else: art, education, journalism, culture generally. I have had the dubious distinction of having been “canceled,” for what were thought my political views, and I write about this experience in my autobiography. I was fired from the editorship of Phi Beta Kappa’s quarterly magazine, the American Scholar —a job I had held for more than twenty years—because of my ostensibly conservative, I suppose I ought to make that “right-wing,” politics. My chief cancellers were two academic feminists and an African-American historian-biographer, who sat on the senate, or governing board, of Phi Beta Kappa.

T he official version given out by Phi Beta Kappa for my cancellation—in those days still known as a firing—was that the magazine was losing subscribers and needed to seek younger readers. Neither assertion was true, but both currently appear in the Wikipedia entry under my name. The New York Times also printed this “official” but untrue version of my cancellation. In fact, I was canceled because I had failed to run anything in the magazine about academic feminism or race, both subjects that had already been done to death elsewhere and that I thought cliché-ridden and hence of little interest for a magazine I specifically tried to keep apolitical. During my twenty-two years at the American Scholar , the name of no current United States president was mentioned. If anything resembling a theme emerged during my editorship, it was the preservation of the tradition of the liberal arts, a subject on which I was able to acquire contributions from Jacques Barzun, Paul Kristeller, Hugh Trevor-Roper, Frederick Crews, and others.

That I was fired not for anything I had done but for things I had failed to do is an indication of how far we had come in the realm of political correctness. I take up this topic in my autobiography, one theme of which is the vast changes that have taken place in American culture over my lifetime. A notable example is an essay on homosexuality that I wrote and published in Harper’s in 1970, a mere fifty-three years ago. The essay made the points that we still did not know much about the origin of male homosexuality, that there was much hypocrisy concerning the subject, that homosexuals were living under considerable social pressure and prejudice, and that given a choice, most people would prefer that their children not be homosexual. This, as I say, was in 1970, before the gay liberation movement had got underway in earnest. The essay attracted a vast number of letters in opposition, and a man named Merle Miller, who claimed I was calling for genocide of homosexuals, wrote a book based on the essay. Gore Vidal, never known for his temperate reasoning, claimed my argument was ad Hitlerum . (Vidal, after contracting Epstein-Barr virus late in life, claimed that “Joseph Epstein gave it to me.”) I have never reprinted the essay in any of my collections because I felt that it would stir up too much strong feeling. For what it is worth, I also happen to be pleased by the greater tolerance accorded homosexuality in the half century since my essay was published.

The larger point is that today neither Harper’s nor any other mainstream magazine would dare to publish that essay. Yet a few years after the essay was published, I was offered a job teaching in the English Department of Northwestern University, and the year after that, I was appointed editor of the American Scholar. Today, of course, neither job would have been available to me.

Do these matters—my cancellation from the American Scholar , my unearned reputation as a homophobe—come under the heading of self-justification? Perhaps so. But then, what better, or at least more convenient, place to attempt to justify oneself than in one’s autobiography?

Many changes have taken place in my lifetime, some for the better, some for the worse, some whose value cannot yet be known. I note, for example, if not the death then the attenuation of the extended family (nephews, nieces, cousins) in American life. Whereas much of my parents’ social life revolved around an extensive cousinage, I today have grandnephews and grandnieces living on both coasts whom I have never met and probably never shall. I imagine some of them one day being notified of my death and responding, “Really? [Pause] What’s for dinner?”

I take up in my autobiography what Philip Rieff called, in his book of this title, the Triumph of the Therapeutic, a development that has altered child-rearing, artistic creation, and much else in our culture. Although the doctrines of Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, and others are no longer taken as gospel, their secondary influence has conquered much of modern culture. My parents’ generation did not hold with therapeutic culture, which contends that the essentials of life are the achievement of self-esteem and individual happiness, replacing honor, courage, kindness, and generosity.

In my autobiography, I note that when my mother was depressed by her knowledge that she was dying of cancer, a friend suggested that there were support groups for people with terminal diseases, one of which might be helpful. I imagined telling my mother about such groups, and her response: “Let me see,” she is likely to have said. “You want me to go into a room with strangers, where I will listen to their problems and then I’ll tell them mine, and this will make me feel better.” Pause. “Is this the kind of idiot I’ve raised as a son?”

T hen there is digital culture, the verdict on which is not yet in. Digital culture has changed the way we read, think, make social connections, do business, and so much more. I write in my autobiography that in its consequences digital culture is up there with the printing press and the automobile. Its influence is still far from fully fathomed.

One of my challenges in writing my autobiography was to avoid seeming to brag about my quite modest accomplishments. In the Rhetoric , Aristotle writes: “Speaking at length about oneself, making false claims, taking the credit for what another has done, these are signs of boastfulness.” I tried not to lapse into boasting. Yet at one point I quote Jacques Barzun, in a letter to me, claiming that as a writer I am in the direct line of William Hazlitt, though in some ways better, for my task—that of finding the proper language to establish both intimacy and critical distance—is in the current day more difficult than in Hazlitt’s. At least I deliberately neglected to mention that, in response to my being fired from the American Scholar, Daniel Patrick Moynihan flew an American flag at half-mast over the Capitol, a flag he sent to me as a souvenir. Quoting others about my accomplishments, is this anything other than boasting by other means? I hope so, though even now I’m not altogether sure.

I have a certain pride in these modest accomplishments. Setting out in life, I never thought I should publish some thirty-odd books or have the good luck to continue writing well into my eighties. The question for me as an autobiographer was how to express that pride without preening. The most efficient way, of course, is never to write an autobiography.

Why, then, did I write mine? Although I have earlier characterized writing as a form of discovery, I did not, in writing my autobiography, expect to discover many radically new things about my character or the general lineaments of my life. Nor did I think that my life bore any lessons that were important to others. I had, and still have, little to confess; I have no hidden desire to be spanked by an NFL linebacker in a nun’s habit. A writer, a mere scribbler, I have led a largely spectatorial life, standing on the sidelines, glass of wine in hand, watching the circus pass before me.

Still, I wrote my autobiography, based in a loose way on Wordsworth’s notion that poetry arises from “emotion recollected in tranquility.” Writing it gave me an opportunity to review my life at the end of my life in a tranquil manner. I was able to note certain trends, parallels, and phenomena that have marked my life and set my destiny.

The first of these, as I remarked earlier, was the fortunate time in which I was born, namely the tail end of the Great Depression—to be specific, in 1937. Because of the Depression, people were having fewer children, and often having them later. (My mother was twenty-seven, my father thirty at my birth.) Born when it was, my generation, though subject to the draft—not, in my experience of it, a bad thing—danced between the wars: We were too young for Korea, too old for Vietnam. We were also children during World War II, the last war the country fully supported, which gave us a love of our country. Ours was a low-population generation, untroubled by the vagaries of college admissions or the trauma of rejection by the school of one’s choice. Colleges, in fact, wanted us.

Or consider parents, another fateful phenomenon over which one has no choice. To be born to thoughtless, or disagreeable, or depressed, or deeply neurotic parents cannot but substantially affect all one’s days. Having a father who is hugely successful in the world can be as dampening to the spirit as having a father who is a failure. And yet about all this one has no say. I have given the chapter on my parents the title “A Winning Ticket in the Parents Lottery,” for my own parents, though neither went to college, were thoughtful, honorable, and in no way psychologically crushing. They gave my younger brother and me the freedom to develop on our own; they never told me what schools to attend, what work to seek, whom or when to marry. I knew I was never at the center of my parents’ lives, yet I also knew I could count on them when I needed their support, which more than once I did, and they did not fail to come through. As I say, a winning ticket.

As one writes about one’s own life, certain themes are likely to emerge that hadn’t previously stood out so emphatically. In my case, one persistent motif is that of older boys, then older men, who have supported or aided me in various ways. A boy nearly two years older than I named Jack Libby saw to it that I wasn’t bullied or pushed around in a neighborhood where I was the youngest kid on the block. In high school, a boy to whom I have given the name Jeremy Klein taught me a thing or two about gambling and corruption generally. Later in life, men eight, nine, ten, even twenty or more years older than I promoted my career: Hilton Kramer in promoting my candidacy for the editorship of the American Scholar , Irving Howe in helping me get a teaching job (without an advanced degree) at Northwestern, John Gross in publishing me regularly on important subjects in the Times Literary Supplement , Edward Shils in ways too numerous to mention. Something there was about me, evidently, that was highly protégéable.

I  haven’t yet seen the index for my autobiography, but my guess is that it could have been name-ier. I failed, for example, to include my brief but pleasing friendship with Sol Linowitz. Sol was the chairman of Xerox, and later served the Johnson administration as ambassador to the Organization of American States. He also happened to be a reader of mine, and on my various trips to Washington I was often his guest at the F Street Club, a political lunch club where he reserved a private room in which we told each other jokes, chiefly Jewish jokes. I might also have added my six years as a member of the National Council of the National Endowment for the Arts, whose members included the actors Robert Stack and Celeste Holm, the Balanchine dancer Arthur Mitchell, Robert Joffrey, the soprano Renée Fleming, the novelist Toni Morrison, the dancer and choreographer Martha Graham, the architect I. M. Pei, the painter Helen Frankenthaler, and other highly droppable names.

Confronting one’s regrets is another inescapable element in writing one’s autobiography. Ah, regrets: the red MG convertible one didn’t buy in one’s twenties, the elegant young Asian woman one should have asked to dinner, the year one failed to spend in Paris. The greater the number of one’s regrets, the grander their scope, the sadder, at its close, one’s life figures to be. I come out fairly well in the regrets ledger. I regret not having studied classics at university, and so today I cannot read ancient Greek. I regret not having been a better father to my sons. I regret not asking my mother more questions about her family and not telling my father what a good man I thought he was. As regrets go, these are not minor, yet neither have I found them to be crippling.

Then there is the matter of recognizing one’s quirks, or peculiar habits. A notable one of mine, acquired late in life, is to have become near to the reverse of a hypochondriac. I have not yet reached the stage of anosognosia, or the belief that one is well when one is ill—a stage, by the way, that Chekhov, himself a physician, seems to have attained. I take vitamins, get flu and Covid shots, and watch what I eat, but I try to steer clear of physicians. This tendency kicked in not long after my decades-long primary care physician retired. In his The Body: A Guide for Occupants , Bill Bryson defines good health as the health enjoyed by someone who hasn’t had a physical lately. The ancients made this point more directly, advising bene caca et declina medicos (translation on request) . For a variety of reasons, physicians of the current day are fond of sending patients for a multiplicity of tests: bone density tests, colonoscopies, biopsies, X-rays of all sorts, CT scans, MRIs, stopping only at SATs. I am not keen to discover ailments that don’t bother me. At the age of eighty-seven, I figure I am playing with house money, and I have no wish to upset the house by prodding my health in search of imperfections any more than is absolutely necessary.

The older one gets, unless one’s life is lived in pain or deepest regret, the more fortunate one feels. Not always, not everyone, I suppose. “The longer I live, the more I am inclined to the belief that this earth is used by other planets as a lunatic asylum,” said George Bernard Shaw, who lived to age ninety-four. Though the world seems to be in a hell of a shape just now, I nonetheless prefer to delay my exit for as long as I can. I like it here, continue to find much that is interesting and amusing, and have no wish to depart the planet.

Still, with advancing years I have found my interests narrowing. Not least among my waning interests is that in travel. I like my domestic routine too much to abandon it for foreign countries where the natives figure to be wearing Air Jordan shoes, Ralph Lauren shirts, and cargo pants. Magazines that I once looked forward to, many of which I have written for in the past, no longer contain much that I find worth reading. A former moviegoer, I haven’t been to a movie theater in at least a decade. The high price of concert and opera tickets has driven me away. The supposedly great American playwrights—Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, Eugene O’Neill, Edward Albee—have never seemed all that good to me, and I miss them not at all. If all this sounds like a complaint that the culture has deserted me, I don’t feel that it has. I can still listen to my beloved Mozart on discs, read Tolstoy, Jane Austen, Dickens, George Eliot, Willa Cather, and the other great novelists, watch the splendid movies of earlier days on Turner Classics and HBO—live, in other words, on the culture of the past.

“Vho needs dis?” Igor Stravinsky is supposed to have remarked when presented with some new phenomena of the avant-garde or other work in the realm of art without obvious benefit. “Vho needs dis?” is a question that occurred to me more than once or twice as I wrote my autobiography. All I can say is that those who read my autobiography will read of the life of a man lucky enough to have devoted the better part of his days to fitting words together into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into essays and stories on a wide variety of topics. Now in his autobiography all the sentences and paragraphs are about his own life. He hopes that these sentences are well made, these paragraphs have a point, and together they attain to a respectable truth quotient, containing no falsehoods whatsoever. He hopes that, on these modest grounds at least, his autobiography qualifies as worth reading.

Joseph Epstein  is author of  Gallimaufry , a collection of essays and reviews.

Image by  Museum Rotterdam on Wikimedia Commons , licensed via Creative Commons . Image cropped. 

Articles by Joseph Epstein

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• The Case for Marrying an Older Man

A woman’s life is all work and little rest. An age gap relationship can help.

In the summer, in the south of France, my husband and I like to play, rather badly, the lottery. We take long, scorching walks to the village — gratuitous beauty, gratuitous heat — kicking up dust and languid debates over how we’d spend such an influx. I purchase scratch-offs, jackpot tickets, scraping the former with euro coins in restaurants too fine for that. I never cash them in, nor do I check the winning numbers. For I already won something like the lotto, with its gifts and its curses, when he married me.

He is ten years older than I am. I chose him on purpose, not by chance. As far as life decisions go, on balance, I recommend it.

When I was 20 and a junior at Harvard College, a series of great ironies began to mock me. I could study all I wanted, prove myself as exceptional as I liked, and still my fiercest advantage remained so universal it deflated my other plans. My youth. The newness of my face and body. Compellingly effortless; cruelly fleeting. I shared it with the average, idle young woman shrugging down the street. The thought, when it descended on me, jolted my perspective, the way a falling leaf can make you look up: I could diligently craft an ideal existence, over years and years of sleepless nights and industry. Or I could just marry it early.

So naturally I began to lug a heavy suitcase of books each Saturday to the Harvard Business School to work on my Nabokov paper. In one cavernous, well-appointed room sat approximately 50 of the planet’s most suitable bachelors. I had high breasts, most of my eggs, plausible deniability when it came to purity, a flush ponytail, a pep in my step that had yet to run out. Apologies to Progress, but older men still desired those things.

I could not understand why my female classmates did not join me, given their intelligence. Each time I reconsidered the project, it struck me as more reasonable. Why ignore our youth when it amounted to a superpower? Why assume the burdens of womanhood, its too-quick-to-vanish upper hand, but not its brief benefits at least? Perhaps it came easier to avoid the topic wholesale than to accept that women really do have a tragically short window of power, and reason enough to take advantage of that fact while they can. As for me, I liked history, Victorian novels, knew of imminent female pitfalls from all the books I’d read: vampiric boyfriends; labor, at the office and in the hospital, expected simultaneously; a decline in status as we aged, like a looming eclipse. I’d have disliked being called calculating, but I had, like all women, a calculator in my head. I thought it silly to ignore its answers when they pointed to an unfairness for which we really ought to have been preparing.

I was competitive by nature, an English-literature student with all the corresponding major ambitions and minor prospects (Great American novel; email job). A little Bovarist , frantic for new places and ideas; to travel here, to travel there, to be in the room where things happened. I resented the callow boys in my class, who lusted after a particular, socially sanctioned type on campus: thin and sexless, emotionally detached and socially connected, the opposite of me. Restless one Saturday night, I slipped on a red dress and snuck into a graduate-school event, coiling an HDMI cord around my wrist as proof of some technical duty. I danced. I drank for free, until one of the organizers asked me to leave. I called and climbed into an Uber. Then I promptly climbed out of it. For there he was, emerging from the revolving doors. Brown eyes, curved lips, immaculate jacket. I went to him, asked him for a cigarette. A date, days later. A second one, where I discovered he was a person, potentially my favorite kind: funny, clear-eyed, brilliant, on intimate terms with the universe.

I used to love men like men love women — that is, not very well, and with a hunger driven only by my own inadequacies. Not him. In those early days, I spoke fondly of my family, stocked the fridge with his favorite pasta, folded his clothes more neatly than I ever have since. I wrote his mother a thank-you note for hosting me in his native France, something befitting a daughter-in-law. It worked; I meant it. After graduation and my fellowship at Oxford, I stayed in Europe for his career and married him at 23.

Of course I just fell in love. Romances have a setting; I had only intervened to place myself well. Mainly, I spotted the precise trouble of being a woman ahead of time, tried to surf it instead of letting it drown me on principle. I had grown bored of discussions of fair and unfair, equal or unequal , and preferred instead to consider a thing called ease.

The reception of a particular age-gap relationship depends on its obviousness. The greater and more visible the difference in years and status between a man and a woman, the more it strikes others as transactional. Transactional thinking in relationships is both as American as it gets and the least kosher subject in the American romantic lexicon. When a 50-year-old man and a 25-year-old woman walk down the street, the questions form themselves inside of you; they make you feel cynical and obscene: How good of a deal is that? Which party is getting the better one? Would I take it? He is older. Income rises with age, so we assume he has money, at least relative to her; at minimum, more connections and experience. She has supple skin. Energy. Sex. Maybe she gets a Birkin. Maybe he gets a baby long after his prime. The sight of their entwined hands throws a lucid light on the calculations each of us makes, in love, to varying degrees of denial. You could get married in the most romantic place in the world, like I did, and you would still have to sign a contract.

Twenty and 30 is not like 30 and 40; some freshness to my features back then, some clumsiness in my bearing, warped our decade, in the eyes of others, to an uncrossable gulf. Perhaps this explains the anger we felt directed at us at the start of our relationship. People seemed to take us very, very personally. I recall a hellish car ride with a friend of his who began to castigate me in the backseat, in tones so low that only I could hear him. He told me, You wanted a rich boyfriend. You chased and snuck into parties . He spared me the insult of gold digger, but he drew, with other words, the outline for it. Most offended were the single older women, my husband’s classmates. They discussed me in the bathroom at parties when I was in the stall. What does he see in her? What do they talk about? They were concerned about me. They wielded their concern like a bludgeon. They paraphrased without meaning to my favorite line from Nabokov’s Lolita : “You took advantage of my disadvantage,” suspecting me of some weakness he in turn mined. It did not disturb them, so much, to consider that all relationships were trades. The trouble was the trade I’d made struck them as a bad one.

The truth is you can fall in love with someone for all sorts of reasons, tiny transactions, pluses and minuses, whose sum is your affection for each other, your loyalty, your commitment. The way someone picks up your favorite croissant. Their habit of listening hard. What they do for you on your anniversary and your reciprocal gesture, wrapped thoughtfully. The serenity they inspire; your happiness, enlivening it. When someone says they feel unappreciated, what they really mean is you’re in debt to them.

When I think of same-age, same-stage relationships, what I tend to picture is a woman who is doing too much for too little.

I’m 27 now, and most women my age have “partners.” These days, girls become partners quite young. A partner is supposed to be a modern answer to the oppression of marriage, the terrible feeling of someone looming over you, head of a household to which you can only ever be the neck. Necks are vulnerable. The problem with a partner, however, is if you’re equal in all things, you compromise in all things. And men are too skilled at taking .

There is a boy out there who knows how to floss because my friend taught him. Now he kisses college girls with fresh breath. A boy married to my friend who doesn’t know how to pack his own suitcase. She “likes to do it for him.” A million boys who know how to touch a woman, who go to therapy because they were pushed, who learned fidelity, boundaries, decency, manners, to use a top sheet and act humanely beneath it, to call their mothers, match colors, bring flowers to a funeral and inhale, exhale in the face of rage, because some girl, some girl we know, some girl they probably don’t speak to and will never, ever credit, took the time to teach him. All while she was working, raising herself, clawing up the cliff-face of adulthood. Hauling him at her own expense.

I find a post on Reddit where five thousand men try to define “ a woman’s touch .” They describe raised flower beds, blankets, photographs of their loved ones, not hers, sprouting on the mantel overnight. Candles, coasters, side tables. Someone remembering to take lint out of the dryer. To give compliments. I wonder what these women are getting back. I imagine them like Cinderella’s mice, scurrying around, their sole proof of life their contributions to a more central character. On occasion I meet a nice couple, who grew up together. They know each other with a fraternalism tender and alien to me.  But I think of all my friends who failed at this, were failed at this, and I think, No, absolutely not, too risky . Riskier, sometimes, than an age gap.

My younger brother is in his early 20s, handsome, successful, but in many ways: an endearing disaster. By his age, I had long since wisened up. He leaves his clothes in the dryer, takes out a single shirt, steams it for three minutes. His towel on the floor, for someone else to retrieve. His lovely, same-age girlfriend is aching to fix these tendencies, among others. She is capable beyond words. Statistically, they will not end up together. He moved into his first place recently, and she, the girlfriend, supplied him with a long, detailed list of things he needed for his apartment: sheets, towels, hangers, a colander, which made me laugh. She picked out his couch. I will bet you anything she will fix his laundry habits, and if so, they will impress the next girl. If they break up, she will never see that couch again, and he will forget its story. I tell her when I visit because I like her, though I get in trouble for it: You shouldn’t do so much for him, not for someone who is not stuck with you, not for any boy, not even for my wonderful brother.

Too much work had left my husband, by 30, jaded and uninspired. He’d burned out — but I could reenchant things. I danced at restaurants when they played a song I liked. I turned grocery shopping into an adventure, pleased by what I provided. Ambitious, hungry, he needed someone smart enough to sustain his interest, but flexible enough in her habits to build them around his hours. I could. I do: read myself occupied, make myself free, materialize beside him when he calls for me. In exchange, I left a lucrative but deadening spreadsheet job to write full-time, without having to live like a writer. I learned to cook, a little, and decorate, somewhat poorly. Mostly I get to read, to walk central London and Miami and think in delicious circles, to work hard, when necessary, for free, and write stories for far less than minimum wage when I tally all the hours I take to write them.

At 20, I had felt daunted by the project of becoming my ideal self, couldn’t imagine doing it in tandem with someone, two raw lumps of clay trying to mold one another and only sullying things worse. I’d go on dates with boys my age and leave with the impression they were telling me not about themselves but some person who didn’t exist yet and on whom I was meant to bet regardless. My husband struck me instead as so finished, formed. Analyzable for compatibility. He bore the traces of other women who’d improved him, small but crucial basics like use a coaster ; listen, don’t give advice. Young egos mellow into patience and generosity.

My husband isn’t my partner. He’s my mentor, my lover, and, only in certain contexts, my friend. I’ll never forget it, how he showed me around our first place like he was introducing me to myself: This is the wine you’ll drink, where you’ll keep your clothes, we vacation here, this is the other language we’ll speak, you’ll learn it, and I did. Adulthood seemed a series of exhausting obligations. But his logistics ran so smoothly that he simply tacked mine on. I moved into his flat, onto his level, drag and drop, cleaner thrice a week, bills automatic. By opting out of partnership in my 20s, I granted myself a kind of compartmentalized, liberating selfishness none of my friends have managed. I am the work in progress, the party we worry about, a surprising dominance. When I searched for my first job, at 21, we combined our efforts, for my sake. He had wisdom to impart, contacts with whom he arranged coffees; we spent an afternoon, laughing, drawing up earnest lists of my pros and cons (highly sociable; sloppy math). Meanwhile, I took calls from a dear friend who had a boyfriend her age. Both savagely ambitious, hyperclose and entwined in each other’s projects. If each was a start-up , the other was the first hire, an intense dedication I found riveting. Yet every time she called me, I hung up with the distinct feeling that too much was happening at the same time: both learning to please a boss; to forge more adult relationships with their families; to pay bills and taxes and hang prints on the wall. Neither had any advice to give and certainly no stability. I pictured a three-legged race, two people tied together and hobbling toward every milestone.

I don’t fool myself. My marriage has its cons. There are only so many times one can say “thank you” — for splendid scenes, fine dinners — before the phrase starts to grate. I live in an apartment whose rent he pays and that shapes the freedom with which I can ever be angry with him. He doesn’t have to hold it over my head. It just floats there, complicating usual shorthands to explain dissatisfaction like, You aren’t being supportive lately . It’s a Frenchism to say, “Take a decision,” and from time to time I joke: from whom? Occasionally I find myself in some fabulous country at some fabulous party and I think what a long way I have traveled, like a lucky cloud, and it is frightening to think of oneself as vapor.

Mostly I worry that if he ever betrayed me and I had to move on, I would survive, but would find in my humor, preferences, the way I make coffee or the bed nothing that he did not teach, change, mold, recompose, stamp with his initials, the way Renaissance painters hid in their paintings their faces among a crowd. I wonder if when they looked at their paintings, they saw their own faces first. But this is the wrong question, if our aim is happiness. Like the other question on which I’m expected to dwell: Who is in charge, the man who drives or the woman who put him there so she could enjoy herself? I sit in the car, in the painting it would have taken me a corporate job and 20 years to paint alone, and my concern over who has the upper hand becomes as distant as the horizon, the one he and I made so wide for me.

To be a woman is to race against the clock, in several ways, until there is nothing left to be but run ragged.

We try to put it off, but it will hit us at some point: that we live in a world in which our power has a different shape from that of men, a different distribution of advantage, ours a funnel and theirs an expanding cone. A woman at 20 rarely has to earn her welcome; a boy at 20 will be turned away at the door. A woman at 30 may find a younger woman has taken her seat; a man at 30 will have invited her. I think back to the women in the bathroom, my husband’s classmates. What was my relationship if not an inconvertible sign of this unfairness? What was I doing, in marrying older, if not endorsing it? I had taken advantage of their disadvantage. I had preempted my own. After all, principled women are meant to defy unfairness, to show some integrity or denial, not plan around it, like I had. These were driven women, successful, beautiful, capable. I merely possessed the one thing they had already lost. In getting ahead of the problem, had I pushed them down? If I hadn’t, would it really have made any difference?

When we decided we wanted to be equal to men, we got on men’s time. We worked when they worked, retired when they retired, had to squeeze pregnancy, children, menopause somewhere impossibly in the margins. I have a friend, in her late 20s, who wears a mood ring; these days it is often red, flickering in the air like a siren when she explains her predicament to me. She has raised her fair share of same-age boyfriends. She has put her head down, worked laboriously alongside them, too. At last she is beginning to reap the dividends, earning the income to finally enjoy herself. But it is now, exactly at this precipice of freedom and pleasure, that a time problem comes closing in. If she would like to have children before 35, she must begin her next profession, motherhood, rather soon, compromising inevitably her original one. The same-age partner, equally unsettled in his career, will take only the minimum time off, she guesses, or else pay some cost which will come back to bite her. Everything unfailingly does. If she freezes her eggs to buy time, the decision and its logistics will burden her singly — and perhaps it will not work. Overlay the years a woman is supposed to establish herself in her career and her fertility window and it’s a perfect, miserable circle. By midlife women report feeling invisible, undervalued; it is a telling cliché, that after all this, some husbands leave for a younger girl. So when is her time, exactly? For leisure, ease, liberty? There is no brand of feminism which achieved female rest. If women’s problem in the ’50s was a paralyzing malaise, now it is that they are too active, too capable, never permitted a vacation they didn’t plan. It’s not that our efforts to have it all were fated for failure. They simply weren’t imaginative enough.

For me, my relationship, with its age gap, has alleviated this rush , permitted me to massage the clock, shift its hands to my benefit. Very soon, we will decide to have children, and I don’t panic over last gasps of fun, because I took so many big breaths of it early: on the holidays of someone who had worked a decade longer than I had, in beautiful places when I was young and beautiful, a symmetry I recommend. If such a thing as maternal energy exists, mine was never depleted. I spent the last nearly seven years supported more than I support and I am still not as old as my husband was when he met me. When I have a child, I will expect more help from him than I would if he were younger, for what does professional tenure earn you if not the right to set more limits on work demands — or, if not, to secure some child care, at the very least? When I return to work after maternal upheaval, he will aid me, as he’s always had, with his ability to put himself aside, as younger men are rarely able.

Above all, the great gift of my marriage is flexibility. A chance to live my life before I become responsible for someone else’s — a lover’s, or a child’s. A chance to write. A chance at a destiny that doesn’t adhere rigidly to the routines and timelines of men, but lends itself instead to roomy accommodation, to the very fluidity Betty Friedan dreamed of in 1963 in The Feminine Mystique , but we’ve largely forgotten: some career or style of life that “permits year-to-year variation — a full-time paid job in one community, part-time in another, exercise of the professional skill in serious volunteer work or a period of study during pregnancy or early motherhood when a full-time job is not feasible.” Some things are just not feasible in our current structures. Somewhere along the way we stopped admitting that, and all we did was make women feel like personal failures. I dream of new structures, a world in which women have entry-level jobs in their 30s; alternate avenues for promotion; corporate ladders with balconies on which they can stand still, have a smoke, take a break, make a baby, enjoy themselves, before they keep climbing. Perhaps men long for this in their own way. Actually I am sure of that.

Once, when we first fell in love, I put my head in his lap on a long car ride; I remember his hands on my face, the sun, the twisting turns of a mountain road, surprising and not surprising us like our romance, and his voice, telling me that it was his biggest regret that I was so young, he feared he would lose me. Last week, we looked back at old photos and agreed we’d given each other our respective best years. Sometimes real equality is not so obvious, sometimes it takes turns, sometimes it takes almost a decade to reveal itself.

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How teachers can tell if a student has used ChatGPT in an essay

Experts have revealed the tell-tale signs that an essay has been written by ChatGPT and not a student.

It comes after the rise of generative AI tools, like ChatGPT, has sparked concerns about cheating among pupils in the education sector.

Repetition of words, tautology and paragraphs starting with “however” are some tell-tale features, researchers said.

The writing style of the artificial intelligence tool is “bland” and “journalistic”, according to a Cambridge University Press and Assessment study.

Researchers compared essays written by three first-year undergraduate students, with the aid of ChatGPT, with 164 essays written by IGCSE students.

These essays were marked by examiners and the undergraduates were then interviewed and their essays were analysed.

The study found essays written with the help of ChatGPT performed poorly on analysis and comparison skills compared to non-ChatGPT-assisted essays.

But ChatGPT-assisted essays performed strongly on information and reflection skills.

Researchers identified a number of key features of the ChatGPT writing style, which included the use of Latinate vocabulary, repetition of words or phrases and ideas, and pleonasms.

Essays written with the help of ChatGPT were also more likely to use paragraphs starting with discourse markers like “however”, “moreover”, and “overall”, and numbered lists with items.

The researchers said ChatGPT’s default writing style “echoes the bland, clipped, and objective style that characterises much generic journalistic writing found on the internet”.

The report said: “The students found ChatGPT useful for gathering information quickly.

“However, they considered that complete reliance on this technology would produce essays of a low academic standard.”

Lead researcher Jude Brady, of Cambridge University Press and Assessment, said: “Our findings offer insights into the growing area of generative AI and assessment, which is still largely uncharted territory.

“Despite the small sample size, we are excited about these findings as they have the capacity to inform the work of teachers as well as students.”

She added: “We hope our research might help people to identify when a piece of text has been written by ChatGPT.

“For students and the wider population, learning to use and detect generative AI forms an increasingly important aspect of digital literacy.”

From news to politics, travel to sport, culture to climate – The Independent has a host of free newsletters to suit your interests. To find the stories you want to read, and more, in your inbox, click here .

• Israel-Hamas War

Netanyahu’s Appetite for Confronting U.S. Presidents May Cost Israel This Time

I t was fully expected that Israel would be displeased that the United States abstained on a United Nations resolution calling for a Gaza ceasefire—instead of blocking it with a veto. But Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s reaction was outright ridiculous, as he announced he won’t send his top advisors to Washington for talks about the war. Why did he do that?

Netanyahu has a long history of angering presidents—mostly, although not exclusively, Democrats. After he lectured Bill Clinton in the White House in 1996, the President grumbled to his staff: “Who the f**k does he think he is? Who’s the f**king superpower here?”

While you might think that Israel’s longest serving prime minister would have learned from experience, think about this: He probably has concluded that he always gets away with it. Netanyahu, a self-described expert on the U.S., is taking U.S. support for granted—in the belief that Evangelical Christians and America’s tiny Jewish minority will ensure that Israel is always loved, constantly armed, and repeatedly forgiven for any missteps.

And yet, at this point, after President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris have said that Israel has been bombing indiscriminately in Gaza, and Biden said the military reaction to the Hamas massacres of October 7 has been “over the top,” Netanyahu still thinks he can take a slap at Biden.

It’s getting pretty clear that Israel’s prime minister is gambling, and he’s putting his chips on Donald Trump. Netanyahu—and the rightwing extremists in his government who want to annex the West Bank, and now would like to rebuild Jewish settlements in Gaza—feel that if Trump is back in the White House, he will again let Israel do whatever it wants. And, in their view, if Republicans can capture the Senate and keep the House, then Israel will really have it made.

That’s a lousy bet. No one can count on Trump to stick to whatever position he’s voicing at the moment. In fact, the former president bears a grudge against Netanyahu for congratulating Biden on his election victory in 2020. Trump harshly criticizes American Jews for voting for Democrats, and in an interview with an Israeli newspaper now says the Gaza war looks bad and tells Netanyahu to finish it fast and focus on peace.

For decades, in Israeli politics, the government wanted to look like it was 100% in lockstep with the U.S.—that beacon of a free country that, since the Yom Kippur War of 1973, has been Israel’s main arms supplier and protector in the world’s diplomatic arenas. Israel was proud to say that it maintained bipartisan support in the U.S., and both its diplomats and the American lobby AIPAC took pains to make friends with both Democrats and Republicans.

But Netanyahu has embraced the hubris of thinking he’ll look strong to his political base if he challenges American presidents and other foreign critics. He and his closest officials have strengthened ties with the Republicans—especially hawkish conservatives who admire what the small Jewish state is able to accomplish in an overwhelmingly Muslim region.

Read More: Israel Must Not Let Netanyahu Reject the Biden Peace Plan

When Israeli leaders perceived that many Democrats were questioning Israeli actions, especially its occupation of the West Bank since 1967, Israel turned a cold shoulder to the progressives. And the American Left, no longer admiring Israel as a liberal and enlightened enclave in the Middle East, made Zionism one of its main targets for condemnation.

As statistics and our own sensibilities show, that has contributed to an upsurge in antisemitism —in the U.S. and worldwide—notably since October 7 and the Israeli invasion of Gaza that followed. Jews in many countries are being harassed or attacked by anti-Semites and anti-Zionists, who are cut from the same cloth, on both the political Left and Right.

Netanyahu’s bull-headed insensitivity is partially to blame. In the U.S., he was turning off liberals long before his current feud with Biden. Recall his 2015 address to Congress, after an invitation extended only by Republicans. His speech called on America to reject Barack Obama’s nuclear deal with Iran. Netanyahu preached, then lost. The support Israel forfeited from Democrats has had lasting impact.

The alliance between Israel and the U.S. is not a force of nature that can be taken for granted. Thirty years ago, we wrote a book aimed at deciphering the secrets of an alliance between a superpower and a tiny country in a far-off strategic region. We outlined factors such as shared democratic values, the importance of the Jewish American community, the strong attachment of Evangelicals to the Holy Land, and memories of the Holocaust.

We also warned that the passage of time and changes in U.S. demography could erode support for Israel. It's happening now, with protests on American campuses against the war in Gaza. Many of the protestors consume a diet of self-selected, sometimes fake news and have little understanding of the complexities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Israel still enjoys widespread support in America, though it’s constantly eroded by the behavior of Netanyahu and the extremists in his cabinet. “It seems that U.S. officials speak politely but firmly to their Israeli counterparts,” former Israeli ambassador to Washington Danny Ayalon told us. “But the Israelis pretend they don’t understand what they’re being told.”

For now, the Israeli government and military officials who were going to fly to Washington this week will stay home. They had been invited by the White House to hear alternatives developed by Pentagon and CIA strategists: ways of crushing the last remnants of Hamas, and hopefully liberating hostages, without a huge attack on Rafah, where over a million Palestinian refugees have gathered.

Netanyahu isn’t really interested in those talks. He explicitly declares that the Israel Defense Forces must enter Rafah, to kill or capture the top Hamas military chiefs. That means he, apparently backed by everyone in his post-October 7 war cabinet, feels it is necessary to restore Israeli deterrence by showing the power of the IDF.

To the Biden Administration and most of the world, that looks like indifference toward the tens of thousands of Gaza civilians who have been killed or wounded, and the hundreds of thousands made homeless.

Biden’s decision to abstain at the U.N. – rather than protect Israel, as usual, with a veto – was a message to Netanyahu that enough is enough. Netanyahu thinks he’s able to slap back, but his petulance reminds us of the satirical Peter Sellers movie of 1959, “The Mouse that Roared,” in which a tiny fictitious country declares war on the U.S. in the hope of receiving reconstruction aid.

That was farce, of course. The reality is that Israel cannot afford to endanger the aid that's already flowing. On top of $3.8 billion in annual direct military assistance, the U.S. has sent more than 400 transport planes and 30 ships carrying 20,000 tons of ammunition, rockets, and other essential military equipment to help Israel prosecute the Gaza war. "Without this re-supply, the Israeli army wouldn't be able to keep fighting beyond another six months," a former Israeli general told us.

Darker days for American-Israeli relations could follow, especially if Netanyahu keeps misjudging the country that’s been Israel’s greatest defender.

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The War at Stanford

I didn’t know that college would be a factory of unreason.

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ne of the section leaders for my computer-science class, Hamza El Boudali, believes that President Joe Biden should be killed. “I’m not calling for a civilian to do it, but I think a military should,” the 23-year-old Stanford University student told a small group of protesters last month. “I’d be happy if Biden was dead.” He thinks that Stanford is complicit in what he calls the genocide of Palestinians, and that Biden is not only complicit but responsible for it. “I’m not calling for a vigilante to do it,” he later clarified, “but I’m saying he is guilty of mass murder and should be treated in the same way that a terrorist with darker skin would be (and we all know terrorists with dark skin are typically bombed and drone striked by American planes).” El Boudali has also said that he believes that Hamas’s October 7 attack was a justifiable act of resistance, and that he would actually prefer Hamas rule America in place of its current government (though he clarified later that he “doesn’t mean Hamas is perfect”). When you ask him what his cause is, he answers: “Peace.”

I switched to a different computer-science section.

Israel is 7,500 miles away from Stanford’s campus, where I am a sophomore. But the Hamas invasion and the Israeli counterinvasion have fractured my university, a place typically less focused on geopolitics than on venture-capital funding for the latest dorm-based tech start-up. Few students would call for Biden’s head—I think—but many of the same young people who say they want peace in Gaza don’t seem to realize that they are in fact advocating for violence. Extremism has swept through classrooms and dorms, and it is becoming normal for students to be harassed and intimidated for their faith, heritage, or appearance—they have been called perpetrators of genocide for wearing kippahs, and accused of supporting terrorism for wearing keffiyehs. The extremism and anti-Semitism at Ivy League universities on the East Coast have attracted so much media and congressional attention that two Ivy presidents have lost their jobs. But few people seem to have noticed the culture war that has taken over our California campus.

For four months, two rival groups of protesters, separated by a narrow bike path, faced off on Stanford’s palm-covered grounds. The “Sit-In to Stop Genocide” encampment was erected by students in mid-October, even before Israeli troops had crossed into Gaza, to demand that the university divest from Israel and condemn its behavior. Posters were hung equating Hamas with Ukraine and Nelson Mandela. Across from the sit-in, a rival group of pro-Israel students eventually set up the “Blue and White Tent” to provide, as one activist put it, a “safe space” to “be a proud Jew on campus.” Soon it became the center of its own cluster of tents, with photos of Hamas’s victims sitting opposite the rubble-ridden images of Gaza and a long (and incomplete) list of the names of slain Palestinians displayed by the students at the sit-in.

Some days the dueling encampments would host only a few people each, but on a sunny weekday afternoon, there could be dozens. Most of the time, the groups tolerated each other. But not always. Students on both sides were reportedly spit on and yelled at, and had their belongings destroyed. (The perpetrators in many cases seemed to be adults who weren’t affiliated with Stanford, a security guard told me.) The university put in place round-the-clock security, but when something actually happened, no one quite knew what to do.

Conor Friedersdorf: How October 7 changed America’s free speech culture

Stanford has a policy barring overnight camping, but for months didn’t enforce it, “out of a desire to support the peaceful expression of free speech in the ways that students choose to exercise that expression”—and, the administration told alumni, because the university feared that confronting the students would only make the conflict worse. When the school finally said the tents had to go last month, enormous protests against the university administration, and against Israel, followed.

“We don’t want no two states! We want all of ’48!” students chanted, a slogan advocating that Israel be dismantled and replaced by a single Arab nation. Palestinian flags flew alongside bright “Welcome!” banners left over from new-student orientation. A young woman gave a speech that seemed to capture the sense of urgency and power that so many students here feel. “We are Stanford University!” she shouted. “We control things!”

“W e’ve had protests in the past,” Richard Saller, the university’s interim president, told me in November—about the environment, and apartheid, and Vietnam. But they didn’t pit “students against each other” the way that this conflict has.

I’ve spoken with Saller, a scholar of Roman history, a few times over the past six months in my capacity as a student journalist. We first met in September, a few weeks into his tenure. His predecessor, Marc Tessier-Lavigne, had resigned as president after my reporting for The Stanford Daily exposed misconduct in his academic research. (Tessier-Lavigne had failed to retract papers with faked data over the course of 20 years. In his resignation statement , he denied allegations of fraud and misconduct; a Stanford investigation determined that he had not personally manipulated data or ordered any manipulation but that he had repeatedly “failed to decisively and forthrightly correct mistakes” from his lab.)

In that first conversation, Saller told me that everyone was “eager to move on” from the Tessier-Lavigne scandal. He was cheerful and upbeat. He knew he wasn’t staying in the job long; he hadn’t even bothered to move into the recently vacated presidential manor. In any case, campus, at that time, was serene. Then, a week later, came October 7.

The attack was as clear a litmus test as one could imagine for the Middle East conflict. Hamas insurgents raided homes and a music festival with the goal of slaughtering as many civilians as possible. Some victims were raped and mutilated, several independent investigations found. Hundreds of hostages were taken into Gaza and many have been tortured.

This, of course, was bad. Saying this was bad does not negate or marginalize the abuses and suffering Palestinians have experienced in Gaza and elsewhere. Everyone, of every ideology, should be able to say that this was bad. But much of this campus failed that simple test.

Two days after the deadliest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust, Stanford released milquetoast statements marking the “moment of intense emotion” and declaring “deep concern” over “the crisis in Israel and Palestine.” The official statements did not use the words Hamas or violence .

The absence of a clear institutional response led some teachers to take matters into their own hands. During a mandatory freshman seminar on October 10, a lecturer named Ameer Loggins tossed out his lesson plan to tell students that the actions of the Palestinian “military force” had been justified, that Israelis were colonizers, and that the Holocaust had been overemphasized, according to interviews I conducted with students in the class. Loggins then asked the Jewish students to identify themselves. He instructed one of them to “stand up, face the window, and he kind of kicked away his chair,” a witness told me. Loggins described this as an effort to demonstrate Israel’s treatment of Palestinians. (Loggins did not reply to a request for comment; a spokesperson for Stanford said that there were “different recollections of the details regarding what happened” in the class.)

“We’re only in our third week of college, and we’re afraid to be here,” three students in the class wrote in an email that night to administrators. “This isn’t what Stanford was supposed to be.” The class Loggins taught is called COLLEGE, short for “Civic, Liberal, and Global Education,” and it is billed as an effort to develop “the skills that empower and enable us to live together.”

Loggins was suspended from teaching duties and an investigation was opened; this angered pro-Palestine activists, who organized a petition that garnered more than 1,700 signatures contesting the suspension. A pamphlet from the petitioners argued that Loggins’s behavior had not been out of bounds.

The day after the class, Stanford put out a statement written by Saller and Jenny Martinez, the university provost, more forcefully condemning the Hamas attack. Immediately, this new statement generated backlash.

Pro-Palestine activists complained about it during an event held the same day, the first of several “teach-ins” about the conflict. Students gathered in one of Stanford’s dorms to “bear witness to the struggles of decolonization.” The grievances and pain shared by Palestinian students were real. They told of discrimination and violence, of frightened family members subjected to harsh conditions. But the most raucous reaction from the crowd was in response to a young woman who said, “You ask us, do we condemn Hamas? Fuck you!” She added that she was “so proud of my resistance.”

David Palumbo-Liu, a professor of comparative literature with a focus on postcolonial studies, also spoke at the teach-in, explaining to the crowd that “European settlers” had come to “replace” Palestine’s “native population.”

Palumbo-Liu is known as an intelligent and supportive professor, and is popular among students, who call him by his initials, DPL. I wanted to ask him about his involvement in the teach-in, so we met one day in a café a few hundred feet away from the tents. I asked if he could elaborate on what he’d said at the event about Palestine’s native population. He was happy to expand: This was “one of those discussions that could go on forever. Like, who is actually native? At what point does nativism lapse, right? Well, you haven’t been native for X number of years, so …” In the end, he said, “you have two people who both feel they have a claim to the land,” and “they have to live together. Both sides have to cede something.”

The struggle at Stanford, he told me, “is to find a way in which open discussions can be had that allow people to disagree.” It’s true that Stanford has utterly failed in its efforts to encourage productive dialogue. But I still found it hard to reconcile DPL’s words with his public statements on Israel, which he’d recently said on Facebook should be “the most hated nation in the world.” He also wrote: “When Zionists say they don’t feel ‘safe’ on campus, I’ve come to see that as they no longer feel immune to criticism of Israel.” He continued: “Well as the saying goes, get used to it.”

Z ionists, and indeed Jewish students of all political beliefs, have been given good reason to fear for their safety. They’ve been followed, harassed, and called derogatory racial epithets. At least one was told he was a “dirty Jew.” At least twice, mezuzahs have been ripped from students’ doors, and swastikas have been drawn in dorms. Arab and Muslim students also face alarming threats. The computer-science section leader, El Boudali, a pro-Palestine activist, told me he felt “safe personally,” but knew others who did not: “Some people have reported feeling like they’re followed, especially women who wear the hijab.”

In a remarkably short period of time, aggression and abuse have become commonplace, an accepted part of campus activism. In January, Jewish students organized an event dedicated to ameliorating anti-Semitism. It marked one of Saller’s first public appearances in the new year. Its topic seemed uncontroversial, and I thought it would generate little backlash.

Protests began before the panel discussion even started, with activists lining the stairs leading to the auditorium. During the event they drowned out the panelists, one of whom was Israel’s special envoy for combatting anti-Semitism, by demanding a cease-fire. After participants began cycling out into the dark, things got ugly.

Activists, their faces covered by keffiyehs or medical masks, confronted attendees. “Go back to Brooklyn!” a young woman shouted at Jewish students. One protester, who emerged as the leader of the group, said that she and her compatriots would “take all of your places and ensure Israel falls.” She told attendees to get “off our fucking campus” and launched into conspiracy theories about Jews being involved in “child trafficking.” As a rabbi tried to leave the event, protesters pursued him, chanting, “There is only one solution! Intifada revolution!”

At one point, some members of the group turned on a few Stanford employees, including another rabbi, an imam, and a chaplain, telling them, “We know your names and we know where you work.” The ringleader added: “And we’ll soon find out where you live.” The religious leaders formed a protective barrier in front of the Jewish students. The rabbi and the imam appeared to be crying.

S aller avoided the protest by leaving through another door. Early that morning, his private residence had been vandalized. Protesters frequently tell him he “can’t hide” and shout him down. “We charge you with genocide!” they chant, demanding that Stanford divest from Israel. (When asked whether Stanford actually invested in Israel, a spokesperson replied that, beyond small exposures from passive funds that track indexes such as the S&P 500, the university’s endowment “has no direct holdings in Israeli companies, or direct holdings in defense contractors.”)

When the university finally said the protest tents had to be removed, students responded by accusing Saller of suppressing their right to free speech. This is probably the last charge he expected to face. Saller once served as provost at the University of Chicago, which is known for holding itself to a position of strict institutional neutrality so that its students can freely explore ideas for themselves. Saller has a lifelong belief in First Amendment rights. But that conviction in impartial college governance does not align with Stanford’s behavior in recent years. Despite the fact that many students seemed largely uninterested in the headlines before this year, Stanford’s administrative leadership has often taken positions on political issues and events, such as the Paris climate conference and the murder of George Floyd. After Russia invaded Ukraine, Stanford’s Hoover Tower was lit up in blue and yellow, and the school released a statement in solidarity.

Thomas Chatterton Williams: Let the activists have their loathsome rallies

When we first met, a week before October 7, I asked Saller about this. Did Stanford have a moral duty to denounce the war in Ukraine, for example, or the ethnic cleansing of Uyghur Muslims in China? “On international political issues, no,” he said. “That’s not a responsibility for the university as a whole, as an institution.”

But when Saller tried to apply his convictions on neutrality for the first time as president, dozens of faculty members condemned the response, many pro-Israel alumni were outraged, donors had private discussions about pulling funding, and an Israeli university sent an open letter to Saller and Martinez saying, “Stanford’s administration has failed us.” The initial statement had tried to make clear that the school’s policy was not Israel-specific: It noted that the university would not take a position on the turmoil in Nagorno-Karabakh (where Armenians are undergoing ethnic cleansing) either. But the message didn’t get through.

Saller had to beat an awkward retreat or risk the exact sort of public humiliation that he, as caretaker president, had presumably been hired to avoid. He came up with a compromise that landed somewhere in the middle: an unequivocal condemnation of Hamas’s “intolerable atrocities” paired with a statement making clear that Stanford would commit to institutional neutrality going forward.

“The events in Israel and Gaza this week have affected and engaged large numbers of students on our campus in ways that many other events have not,” the statement read. “This is why we feel compelled to both address the impact of these events on our campus and to explain why our general policy of not issuing statements about news events not directly connected to campus has limited the breadth of our comments thus far, and why you should not expect frequent commentary from us in the future.”

I asked Saller why he had changed tack on Israel and not on Nagorno-Karabakh. “We don’t feel as if we should be making statements on every war crime and atrocity,” he told me. This felt like a statement in and of itself.

In making such decisions, Saller works closely with Martinez, Stanford’s provost. I happened to interview her, too, a few days before October 7, not long after she’d been appointed. When I asked about her hopes for the job, she said that a “priority is ensuring an environment in which free speech and academic freedom are preserved.”

We talked about the so-called Leonard Law—a provision unique to California that requires private universities to be governed by the same First Amendment protections as public ones. This restricts what Stanford can do in terms of penalizing speech, putting it in a stricter bind than Harvard, the University of Pennsylvania, or any of the other elite private institutions that have more latitude to set the standards for their campus (whether or not they have done so).

So I was surprised when, in December, the university announced that abstract calls for genocide “clearly violate Stanford’s Fundamental Standard, the code of conduct for all students at the university.” The statement was a response to the outrage following the congressional testimony of three university presidents—outrage that eventually led to the resignation of two of them, Harvard’s Claudine Gay and Penn’s Liz Magill. Gay and Magill, who had both previously held positions at Stanford, did not commit to punishing calls for the genocide of Jews.

Experts told me that Stanford’s policy is impossible to enforce—and Saller himself acknowledged as much in our March interview.

“Liz Magill is a good friend,” Saller told me, adding, “Having watched what happened at Harvard and Penn, it seemed prudent” to publicly state that Stanford rejected calls for genocide. But saying that those calls violate the code of conduct “is not the same thing as to say that we could actually punish it.”

Stanford’s leaders seem to be trying their best while adapting to the situation in real time. But the muddled messaging has created a policy of neutrality that does not feel neutral at all.

When we met back in November, I tried to get Saller to open up about his experience running an institution in turmoil. What’s it like to know that so many students seem to believe that he—a mild-mannered 71-year-old classicist who swing-dances with his anthropologist wife—is a warmonger? Saller was more candid than I expected—perhaps more candid than any prominent university president has been yet. We sat in the same conference room as we had in September. The weather hadn’t really changed. Yet I felt like I was sitting in front of a different person. He was hunched over and looked exhausted, and his voice broke when he talked about the loss of life in Gaza and Israel and “the fact that we’re caught up in it.” A capable administrator with decades of experience, Saller seemed almost at a loss. “It’s been a kind of roller coaster, to be honest.”

He said he hadn’t anticipated the deluge of the emails “blaming me for lack of moral courage.” Anything the university says seems bound to be wrong: “If I say that our position is that we grieve over the loss of innocent lives, that in itself will draw some hostile reactions.”

“I find that really difficult to navigate,” he said with a sigh.

By March, it seemed that his views had solidified. He said he knew he was “a target,” but he was not going to be pushed into issuing any more statements. The continuing crisis seems to have granted him new insight. “I am certain that whatever I say will not have any material effect on the war in Gaza.” It’s hard to argue with that.

P eople tend to blame the campus wars on two villains: dithering administrators and radical student activists. But colleges have always had dithering administrators and radical student activists. To my mind, it’s the average students who have changed.

Elite universities attract a certain kind of student: the overachieving striver who has won all the right accolades for all the right activities. Is it such a surprise that the kids who are trained in the constant pursuit of perfect scores think they have to look at the world like a series of multiple-choice questions, with clearly right or wrong answers? Or that they think they can gamify a political cause in the same way they ace a standardized test?

Everyone knows that the only reliable way to get into a school like Stanford is to be really good at looking really good. Now that they’re here, students know that one easy way to keep looking good is to side with the majority of protesters, and condemn Israel.

It’s not that there isn’t real anger and anxiety over what is happening in Gaza—there is, and justifiably so. I know that among the protesters are many people who are deeply connected to this issue. But they are not the majority. What really activates the crowds now seems less a principled devotion to Palestine or to pacifism than a desire for collective action, to fit in by embracing the fashionable cause of the moment—as if a centuries-old conflict in which both sides have stolen and killed could ever be a simple matter of right and wrong. In their haste to exhibit moral righteousness, many of the least informed protesters end up being the loudest and most uncompromising.

Today’s students grew up in the Trump era, in which violent rhetoric has become a normal part of political discourse and activism is as easy as reposting an infographic. Many young people have come to feel that being angry is enough to foment change. Furious at the world’s injustices and desperate for a simple way to express that fury, they don’t seem interested in any form of engagement more nuanced than backing a pure protagonist and denouncing an evil enemy. They don’t, always, seem that concerned with the truth.

At the protest last month to prevent the removal of the sit-in, an activist in a pink Women’s March “pussy hat” shouted that no rape was committed by Hamas on October 7. “There hasn’t been proof of these rape accusations,” a student told me in a separate conversation, criticizing the Blue and White Tent for spreading what he considered to be misinformation about sexual violence. (In March, a United Nations report found “reasonable grounds to believe that conflict-related sexual violence,” including “rape and gang rape,” occurred in multiple locations on October 7, as well as “clear and convincing information” on the “rape and sexualized torture” of hostages.) “The level of propaganda” surrounding Hamas, he told me, “is just unbelievable.”

The real story at Stanford is not about the malicious actors who endorse sexual assault and murder as forms of resistance, but about those who passively enable them because they believe their side can do no wrong. You don’t have to understand what you’re arguing for in order to argue for it. You don’t have to be able to name the river or the sea under discussion to chant “From the river to the sea.” This kind of obliviousness explains how one of my friends, a gay activist, can justify Hamas’s actions, even though it would have the two of us—an outspoken queer person and a Jewish reporter—killed in a heartbeat. A similar mentality can exist on the other side: I have heard students insist on the absolute righteousness of Israel yet seem uninterested in learning anything about what life is like in Gaza.

I’m familiar with the pull of achievement culture—after all, I’m a product of the same system. I fell in love with Stanford as a 7-year-old, lying on the floor of an East Coast library and picturing all the cool technology those West Coast geniuses were dreaming up. I cried when I was accepted; I spent the next few months scrolling through the course catalog, giddy with anticipation. I wanted to learn everything.

I learned more than I expected. Within my first week here, someone asked me: “Why are all Jews so rich?” In 2016, when Stanford’s undergraduate senate had debated a resolution against anti-Semitism, one of its members argued that the idea of “Jews controlling the media, economy, government, and other societal institutions” represented “a very valid discussion.” (He apologized, and the resolution passed.) In my dorm last year, a student discussed being Jewish and awoke the next day to swastikas and a portrait of Hitler affixed to his door.

David Frum: There is no right to bully and harass

I grew up secularly, with no strong affiliation to Jewish culture. When I found out as a teenager that some of my ancestors had hidden their identity from their children and that dozens of my relatives had died in the Holocaust (something no living member of my family had known), I felt the barest tremor of identity. After I saw so many people I know cheering after October 7, I felt something stronger stir. I know others have experienced something similar. Even a professor texted me to say that she felt Jewish in a way she never had before.

But my frustration with the conflict on campus has little to do with my own identity. Across the many conversations and hours of formal interviews I conducted for this article, I’ve encountered a persistent anti-intellectual streak. I’ve watched many of my classmates treat death so cavalierly that they can protest as a pregame to a party. Indeed, two parties at Stanford were reported to the university this fall for allegedly making people say “Fuck Israel” or “Free Palestine” to get in the door. A spokesperson for the university said it was “unable to confirm the facts of what occurred,” but that it had “met with students involved in both parties to make clear that Stanford’s nondiscrimination policy applies to parties.” As a friend emailed me not long ago: “A place that was supposed to be a sanctuary from such unreason has become a factory for it.”

Readers may be tempted to discount the conduct displayed at Stanford. After all, the thinking goes, these are privileged kids doing what they always do: embracing faux-radicalism in college before taking jobs in fintech or consulting. These students, some might say, aren’t representative of America.

And yet they are representative of something: of the conduct many of the most accomplished students in my generation have accepted as tolerable, and what that means for the future of our country. I admire activism. We need people willing to protest what they see as wrong and take on entrenched systems of repression. But we also need to read, learn, discuss, accept the existence of nuance, embrace diversity of thought, and hold our own allies to high standards. More than ever, we need universities to teach young people how to do all of this.

F or so long , Stanford’s physical standoff seemed intractable. Then, in early February, a storm swept in, and the natural world dictated its own conclusion.

Heavy rains flooded campus. For hours, the students battled to save their tents. The sit-in activists used sandbags and anything else they could find to hold back the water—at one point, David Palumbo-Liu, the professor, told me he stood in the lashing downpour to anchor one of the sit-in’s tents with his own body. When the storm hit, many of the Jewish activists had been attending a discussion on anti-Semitism. They raced back and struggled to salvage the Blue and White Tent, but it was too late—the wind had ripped it out of the ground.

The next day, the weary Jewish protesters returned to discover that their space had been taken.

A new collection of tents had been set up by El Boudali, the pro-Palestine activist, and a dozen friends. He said they were there to protest Islamophobia and to teach about Islam and jihad, and that they were a separate entity from the Sit-In to Stop Genocide, though I observed students cycling between the tents. Palestinian flags now flew from the bookstore to the quad.

Administrators told me they’d quickly informed El Boudali and his allies that the space had been reserved by the Jewish advocates, and offered to help move them to a different location. But the protesters told me they had no intention of going. (El Boudali later said that they did not take over the entire space, and would have been “happy to exist side by side, but they wanted to kick us off entirely from that lawn.”)

When it was clear that the area where they’d set up their tents would not be ceded back to the pro-Israel group willingly, Stanford changed course and decided to clear everyone out in one fell swoop. On February 8, school officials ordered all students to vacate the plaza overnight. The university was finally going to enforce its rule prohibiting people from sleeping outside on campus and requiring the removal of belongings from the plaza between 8 p.m. and 8 a.m. The order cited the danger posed by the storm as a justification for changing course and, probably hoping to avoid allegations of bias, described the decision as “viewpoint-neutral.”

That didn’t work.

About a week of protests, led by the sit-in organizers, followed. Chants were chanted. More demands for a “river to the sea” solution to the Israel problem were made. A friend boasted to me about her willingness to be arrested. Stanford sent a handful of staff members, who stood near balloons left over from an event earlier in the day. They were there, one of them told me, to “make students feel supported and safe.”

In the end, Saller and Martinez agreed to talk with the leaders of the sit-in about their demands to divest the university and condemn Israel, under the proviso that the activists comply with Stanford’s anti-camping guidelines “regardless of the outcome of discussions.” Eight days after they were first instructed to leave, 120 days after setting up camp, the sit-in protesters slept in their own beds. In defiance of the university’s instructions, they left behind their tents. But sometime in the very early hours of the morning, law-enforcement officers confiscated the structures. The area was cordoned off without any violence and the plaza filled once more with electric skateboards and farmers’ markets.

The conflict continues in its own way. Saller was just shouted down by protesters chanting “No peace on stolen land” at a Family Weekend event, and protesters later displayed an effigy of him covered in blood. Students still feel tense; Saller still seems worried. He told me that the university is planning to change all manner of things—residential-assistant training, new-student orientation, even the acceptance letters that students receive—in hopes of fostering a culture of greater tolerance. But no campus edict or panel discussion can address a problem that is so much bigger than our university.

At one rally last fall, a speaker expressed disillusionment about the power of “peaceful resistance” on college campuses. “What is there left to do but to take up arms?” The crowd cheered as he said Israel must be destroyed. But what would happen to its citizens? I’d prefer to believe that most protesters chanting “Palestine is Arab” and shouting that we must “smash the Zionist settler state” don’t actually think Jews should be killed en masse. But can one truly be so ignorant as to advocate widespread violence in the name of peace?

When the world is rendered in black-and-white—portrayed as a simple fight between colonizer and colonized—the answer is yes. Solutions, by this logic, are absolute: Israel or Palestine, nothing in between. Either you support liberation of the oppressed or you support genocide. Either Stanford is all good or all bad; all in favor of free speech or all authoritarian; all anti-Semitic or all Islamophobic.

At January’s anti-anti-Semitism event, I watched an exchange between a Jewish attendee and a protester from a few feet away. “Are you pro-Palestine?” the protester asked.

“Yes,” the attendee responded, and he went on to describe his disgust with the human-rights abuses Palestinians have faced for years.

“But are you a Zionist?”

“Then we are enemies.”