Sit pretty much anywhere on campus, close your eyes and listen. You'll hear the sound of the University growing. The distant beeping of earth-moving trucks in reverse. The disembodied voices of construction workers. The far-off roar of engines steering cranes in new positions. Silence, you'd think, is the sound of stagnation. But listen closely, and you'll be hard-pressed to find silence anywhere. Duke, the superorganism, is seldom silent.
In one sense, Duke has always been growing. The single-room schoolhouse of 1838 has become the massive research university of 2016. A series of strategic alliances—first with the Methodist Church, later with a Methodist family, the Dukes—allowed the young institution to grow and flourish through the 19th century. The college didn't come to Durham until 1892. Duke wasn't even called "Duke" until 1924. West Campus would not soar in gothic glory above the central Carolina pinelands until the 1930s.
But, to be clear, the latest round of construction is unprecedented. West Union's thick glass panels are still being lofted into place. A hulking parking deck is taking shape at the end of Science Drive. An arts building is rising on Campus Drive. We will soon break ground on a new East Campus residence hall. Not long ago, forbidding blue fences and towering red cranes stood on either side of Duke Chapel. (Has Duke ever celebrated an LDOC quite like this year’s “Last Day of Crane”?) President Brodhead describes our time on Duke's campus as "the biggest building boom on campus since Duke was created."
Today, I offer my own answer to the question many of us have pondered while walking past the welders bending West Union into being, eating breakfast in a Marketplace redolent of sawdust and spackle or staring forlornly into the sometimes-open-but-always-cordoned-off doors to Duke Chapel: "What's behind all this construction?"
We’ve all heard the staid, conventional explanations for Duke construction. They say, "Duke is all about pioneering and innovation." They say, "You'll love the new spaces for vital student services." They say, "Can’t you tell what progress looks like?" They say, "Glass boxes are the way of the future!"
But behind the luster of “Duke Forward,” I suspect less lofty sentiments are lurking. I wonder if the construction is more cosmetic than transformational. Might it have less to do with a coherent vision of what we should become, and more to do with a nagging sense of inadequacy at what we are?
Duke has always been a school with a chip on its shoulder. We have an Old World look and a new-money endowment. We’re younger than our lighter-blue rival down the road. We've never been in the Ivy League, though we crave the bogus rankings that show how impressively we measure up with those bastions of the Northeast.
Duke will fail if we try to be another Yale. We can build all the spiraling neo-Gothic towers we want—we will not be Yale. We can make admissions ever more selective—we will not be Yale. We can funnel billions into our endowment—we will not be Yale. We can even poach our president from Yale—and we will not be Yale. We are setting ourselves up for failure if our yardstick for success is to become the “Harvard of the South” or the “Stanford of the East.” That’s not because those expectations are too high—it’s because they’re too low. We shouldn’t settle for anything less than our highest potential. We must remain wholly Duke—authentically, irrepressibly Duke.
We arrived at Duke in our adolescence, only to realize that we are not the only ones experiencing growing pains. Duke the institution is sharing in the same sensations many of us are feeling as individuals: intense competition, discomfort about our roots, constant anxiety over status and position, validation only in metrics and rankings and existential uncertainty about who we are and where we’re going. Emerging from adolescence will mean preserving what is best in us while continuing to work on what we know we can improve. It will mean coming to peace with ourselves.
Let’s build from what we already know Duke does well. We have thoughtful, dream-driven students who come from all over the world to study here. We have brilliant, accomplished faculty who for the most part genuinely care about undergraduates. We have a sylvan, sprawling campus. We have a medical system known the world over for groundbreaking research and restorative treatment. We have athletic achievement in spades, matched only by the school spirit it inspires. Above all, we have a sense of striving, the confidence that Duke’s best days aren’t behind us, but on the road ahead.
Then, let’s tackle what we all know we can do better. Let’s expand financial aid, replacing loans with grants so that every Duke graduate can go confidently into the world without the burden of student debt. Let’s prioritize recruiting faculty who will teach with enthusiasm and mentor with verve. Let’s make sure that every student feels fully at home in a cohesive, diverse residential environment. (Does anyone else miss the East Campus experience?) Let’s reconcile our global reach with our local footprint. Let’s go out to support all our athletes, not just our famous friends on the men’s football and basketball teams.
Keats once likened education to "soul-making." The student takes in the wisdom of the world and uses it to discover her ethical bearings or, to employ a word that has lately fallen out of fashion, her soul. Soul-making requires discernment. It demands a synthesis of the flaws and tensions and glories at one’s core.
A more authentic Duke would use this latest round of construction to spark a season of soul-making. It’s time to embrace the creative tensions at Duke’s core: insecurity with what we are and yearning for what we can become, a Methodist past and an ecumenical present, the English liberal arts college and the German research university. The modern university emerged from the “Medieval Synthesis” bridging faith and reason (Eruditio et Religio, anyone?). As Duke matures, we must uncover a new synthesis blending the best of what we are with the most inspiring of what we can become. Until then, we’ll just be a school in search of a soul.
Matthew King is a Trinity sophomore. His column runs on alternate Mondays.
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