At Penn, we’re no strangers to thinking about our education as an extraordinary financial burden. With an estimated cost of $95,612 for those living on campus this academic year, Penn’s price tag soars far above America’s median annual income. For many, that number speaks louder than the student experience ever could. If Penn really costs that much, it had better be worth it in the minds of those who shell out such high prices, right?
The unintended consequence of such a high price is that students see time at Penn as a product — not a privilege. With that notion of consumership comes a sense of entitlement that students at a university are not rightly due. In one common example, a Sidechat user expressed their dismay at the fact that professors have the right to mandate attendance at their class when they “pay $90k to go here.”
Here, the perspective that a student is buying something expensive from Penn collapses the distinction between education and transaction. It reframes the classroom as a service being rendered and the professor as simply an employee whose authority derives not from expertise, but from customer satisfaction. Ultimately, universities are not vendors and students are not clients. Yet, the cost of attendance at Penn has necessitated this commodification.
The sense of irreconcilable financial burden warps the students’ perspective of their education’s value. Any moment spent in class, studying, or even living at Penn must be justified financially, not just through its own pedagogical merit. Education isn’t supposed to be assessed by its return on investment. Rather, it is to be experienced and used as a tool to better oneself and, in turn, better the world. This concept is lost at Penn — our University’s price tag makes it impossible.
This vicious cycle is reinforced every time a professor reminds their class that “someone” paid a lot of money for them to be here. You can’t miss class because that costs someone money — a parent, donor, or scholarship fund invested in you — and you can’t let them down. All of these examples feed into the idea that education is a transaction rather than a journey. They tether every lecture to a dollar amount, subtly suggesting that the primary obligation of a Penn student is to maximize the monetary value of their seat in the classroom.
Penn students should see themselves not as customers extracting value but as participants in a scholarly community entrusted with opportunity. The point of being here is not to win a four-year cost-benefit analysis. It’s to be challenged and transformed by an education that can’t be replaced with the money you would’ve spent on tuition otherwise.
None of this is meant to say that it’s not worth investing in a Penn education. Our University is incredibly well resourced and produces some of the world’s most successful alumni. In reality, Penn has a very strong return on investment. Yet trying to justify the investment in that way while you are still a Penn student is misguided and diminishes the student experience.
After all, most students are not even making that financial investment. While $90,000 is a lot of money, not everyone pays that, and those who do usually have families that can afford to do so without a major burden. Penn’s financial aid office meets 100% of demonstrated financial need. While the merits of this claim can be contested, at least to some extent, Penn students are seldom going into debt or facing extreme financial strain to attend. That should, in theory, help us resist the commodification of our education.
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Regardless of the actual cost, Penn students invariably invest a lot of themselves into their education. Four years is a lot of time, and graduating takes a lot of work. Student satisfaction is important. But satisfaction should stem from intellectual growth and meaningful engagement, not from the feeling that one has successfully optimized a purchase.
If we want to protect the integrity of the undergraduate experience, we can’t let the looming concept of the $90,000 annual price tag get in our way. Yes, you have to go to class no matter how much you pay. No, you’re not your professor’s boss. And, most importantly, the value of Penn cannot be captured by a return on investment. When we stop asking whether our efforts are “paying off” and start asking whether they enlightens us, we reclaim the purpose of being here.
Editorials represent the majority view of members of The Daily Pennsylvanian Editorial Board, who meet regularly to discuss issues relevant to the Penn community. This body is led by Editorial Board Chair Jack Lakis and is entirely separate from the newsroom. Questions or comments should be directed to letters@thedp.com.
