Doing It Wrong Since the Gilded Age: Why Universities Have Failed Us

Philosophy. Economics. Political science. These, along with many other esoteric subjects are core to the curriculum of most American universities.

But why? What practical purpose do these subjects serve that make them worth spending $200,000 and 4 years of your life learning? Most colleges will tell you that they don’t have a practical purpose in the sense of preparing people for their jobs. Instead, their purpose is to transform college students into “well rounded human beings.”

Here’s the problem. That’s a lie.

Over the last few decades, as an increasing number of critics questioned the pragmatism of college curricula, administrators panicked, and asked themselves, “Holy $#!%, why ARE we teaching these kids art history, literary criticism, and the History of Witchcraft, Magic, and the Occult?” It was at that point that some enterprising administrator screamed, “It’s to round students out! Life is about more than just your career. It’s about having a broader understanding of life. You know, things like the History of Surfing, South Park and Contemporary Social Issues, and Tree Climbing.” (Yeah, these are real courses at real colleges for which people pay real money.)

Now, universities aren’t necessarily lying to you intentionally; they’re actually lying to themselves. The truth is, they have no idea why they teach a curriculum so dramatically disconnected from society’s needs. They’re just backing into some answer that seems like it should be right.

“Okay, Jeremy. If college isn’t about creating well rounded human beings, then what is it about?”

Thanks for asking. Colleges are just outdated trade schools.

“Bull$#!%. You’re a madman!”

Just hear me out, and if you’re not completely convinced, I’ll send you a free Porsche.

Religious & Civic Leadership

Prior to a period of time in the U.S. known as The Gilded Age (circa 1870-1900), the goals of members of the upper echelon of American society were to be religious and civic leaders. Sure, the upper class of the 1600s, 1700s, and early/mid 1800s might have had jobs as attorneys, bankers, and shipping merchants, but that was just to pay the biilllzz (as the kids say these days). The way they conceived of themselves and presented themselves to society — the positions they sought and trained for — were as leaders of their churches, towns, colonies, states, and country.

During this same period of time is when the first American universities emerged, and the ONLY people to attend were the children of the upper class. Back then, the goal of these institutions was NOT to create a Renaissance Man. More precisely, their purpose was not to create a well rounded person just for the sake of creating a well rounded person. Universities were created to prepare the children of the upper class for the NEXT STEP in life . . . religious and civic leadership.

So, during THIS time, courses in philosophy, economics, political science, and many other liberal arts topics WERE pragmatic! These college students NEEDED to understand a broad array of perspectives in a variety of disciplines in order to be adequately prepared for their CAREERS . . . in religious and civic leadership. Thus, these liberal arts subjects WERE the job skills for the elites of the 17th thru mid-19th centuries. In other words —

Universities were the trade schools of their day.

“Careful, Jeremy. I really want that Porsche, but you’re dangerously close to convincing me.”

Excellent. Now, let’s talk about how society changed but universities didn’t.

The Rise of Business & Technology

As the Gilded Age progressed and the Second Industrial Revolution roared to life in the mid- to late-1800s, something fundamental changed in American society. The upper class's aspirational career path shifted from religious and civic leadership to something entirely new: business and technology.

Suddenly, success wasn't about being the most respected priest or the most influential district selectman. Success was now measured in industrial output, technological innovation, and profits. Entrepreneurs like Andrew Carnegie, John D. Rockefeller, and J.P. Morgan weren't just making money—they were literally reshaping the nation.

But while society underwent this massive metamorphosis, universities remained frustratingly, stubbornly unchanged. They continued preparing students to be colonial leaders rather than businessmen and engineers. Talk about bringing a quill to a coding challenge.

The societal realities that once made a liberal arts education pragmatic and valuable had completely shifted. Courses in philosophy and political science were no longer roadmaps to leadership—they were increasingly becoming academic relics, disconnected from the economic realities of a rapidly industrializing nation.

No Porsche for You

And colleges STILL haven’t evolved. Rather than understand their roots, admit their shortcomings, and change their ways, they have chosen to stay the course and exercise a healthy dose of post-hoc rationalization by saying that they intentionally teach an impractical curriculum because they’re creating well rounded citizens.

But the truth is, colleges have failed us (and will continue to fail us) not because their curriculum is lacking in pragmatism but, instead, because they ARE teaching a pragmatic curriculum . . . for the 18th century.

“Damn, bruh. As much as I wanted that sweet, sweet ride, I have to say, you convinced me.

Oh, wait! But Jeremy, wouldn’t you say that you were able to have this incredibly unique and powerful insight because of your good looks and your deep knowledge of an esoteric topic like The Gilded Age . . . which is precisely the type of thing that you would learn at COLLEGE?!”

Well, my good looks had nothing to do with it, but thank you for the compliment. As far as my knowledge of The Gilded Age and the Second Industrial Revolution, yes, it was absolutely critical to my insights, but I neither learned about those things at college nor do I think that colleges are good places for learning about those topics anymore.

But that’s a post for another day . . .