A unique phenomenon is happening at Harvard University. At one of the world's most prestigious academic institutions, with some of the world's brightest minds, students are clamoring to get into a class that isn't required, isn't part of any degree offering, and offers almost no future payoff or career benefit. And the hurdles don't stop there.
No shortcuts. No technology. No absences. No easy grades. And absolutely no apologies for any of it.
The course is called Humanities 10, and according to a recent Wall Street Journalarticle by Pamela Paul, applications have increased by 40 percent. Yes, you have to apply to take the class. This past year, roughly 180 students competed for 90 seats. That's right. At a university filled with extraordinary educational opportunities, students are fighting for the privilege of doing more and harder work.
And not just a little more work. A lot more work. I mean a TON!
As part of Humanities 10, students are expected to read an entire book every week, and we're not talking about comic books here. We're talking Homer, Plato, Shakespeare, and other smart folks who use lots of big words and no pictures.
Attendance is mandatory. Essays are frequent. Laptops and phones are not allowed. There is no pass/fail option, and it is made abundantly clear that showing up unprepared is not an option.
In an online, AI- and tech-obsessed world, Harvard has stumbled upon a wildly popular course that seems determined to make learning harder.
And the students love it.
At first glance, this seems counterintuitive. We live in a world where nearly everything is designed to eliminate friction. Groceries arrive at our doorstep. Algorithms anticipate our preferences. Artificial intelligence can summarize a thousand-page book before we've finished our morning coffee. We have become remarkably proficient at removing the effort from almost everything we do.
Yet, some of the brightest young people in America are voluntarily choosing an experience that requires more effort, not less.
Why?
Perhaps because somewhere along the way, we've confused making things easier with making things better. We've assumed that if students struggle, something must be wrong with the instruction. If expectations are demanding, perhaps they should be adjusted. If the work is difficult, maybe we should reduce the workload.
But what if we've misunderstood the relationship between effort and enjoyment? What if the things that ask the most of us are sometimes the very things that give back the most?
The Harvard students seem to be discovering a particular satisfaction in doing something difficult simply because it is difficult. They take pride in preparation, confidence in competence, and a sense of belonging that comes from being surrounded by people equally committed to a common purpose.
But you already knew that.
For decades, music teachers have understood and operated their classrooms on the same principles. High expectations. Individual accountability. Collective responsibility. Daily preparation. Public demonstrations of learning. And an ardent belief that real improvement requires real effort.
And then we make it considerably more complicated by asking them to read a new language, coordinate their minds and bodies, listen critically, respond to others, accept correction, and repeat the same passage until they can perform it consistently.
That is akin to Humanities 10 being taught in a different language, with students learning while juggling.
There is no shortcut to learning the clarinet. No artificial intelligence can develop your embouchure. No app can practice your scales for you. Technology can certainly help, but at some point, a young person must pick up an instrument, make a sound, listen to the result, and try again.
And again. And again. And again!
Our students don't just tolerate it; they love it. They (mostly) willingly arrive early, stay late, practice at home, attend summer camps, and spend weekends rehearsing and performing. They celebrate achievements that would have been unimaginable just months earlier, then immediately start working toward something even harder.
Sound familiar, Harvard? You call it Humanities 10; we call it rehearsal.
And while students have to apply, gain entrance, and apply for access to Humanities 10 (no small feat), music teachers accept everyone who wants to take on the challenge.
That may be the most important lesson of all. That anyone can rise to any challenge - and that collectively, we will ensure that you meet and succeed at that challenge.
I sometimes worry that as parents, in our understandable desire to protect our kids from frustration, disappointment, and failure, we may inadvertently protect them from the very experiences that build confidence and resilience. We have become so concerned with ensuring every student feels successful that we occasionally forget the importance of letting them become successful.
Those are not the same things.
Success that is given feels good for a moment. Success that is earned has a way of staying with us.
Ask a student about their most meaningful memories, and they won't begin by describing the easiest rehearsal, the shortest concert, or the least demanding director. They'll tell you about the piece they thought they could never play. The performance that required everything they had. The season when the ensemble struggled, persevered, and eventually became something none of them could have accomplished alone.
They'll remember the work because the work gave meaning to the achievement.
That's what you do every day.
You create environments where hard work is common, preparation is expected, improvement is celebrated, and students are challenged to exceed their comfort levels. You don't eliminate struggles. You give them purpose.
So congrats to Harvard for recognizing the extraordinary educational value of rigor, responsibility, community, and shared intellectual effort.
I could have saved them a lot of time and effort. I could have just sent them to your rehearsal.
Have a great week, friends.
Scott