Creating whole departments of ethnic, gender, and other 'studies'

Host:
The university quad lay under a pale moon, the buildings hushed and the air sharp with the scent of winter and nostalgia. The lamp posts threw gold circles of light onto the paths, illuminating patches of old protest posters, now weathered and half-torn — relics of voices that had once demanded to be heard.

Inside one of the oldest lecture halls — its wooden floors creaking with memory — Jack sat at the front, alone, a stack of essays before him. His gray eyes scanned the pages with the methodical fatigue of a man who had long since stopped expecting to be surprised.

Jeeny entered quietly, her boots wet from rain, her coat draped over her arm, and her expression somewhere between compassion and challenge. She watched him for a moment before she spoke, her voice cutting softly through the silence like a bell tolling in a library.

Jeeny: softly, but firm “Thomas Sowell once said, ‘Creating whole departments of ethnic, gender, and other “studies” was part of the price of academic peace. All too often, these “studies” are about propaganda rather than serious education.’”

She walked closer, her heels echoing. “Do you agree, Jack? That these spaces we built for identity and justice have turned into echo chambers?”

Jack: without looking up “Sometimes, yes. They were born from a need for inclusion — but ended up building walls inside the university. Once you make knowledge tribal, you stop sharing it.”

Jeeny: sits across from him, calm “Or maybe, Jack, those walls were already there. Ethnic and gender studies didn’t divide the academy — they revealed the divisions that were already being pretended away.”

Jack: sighs, rubbing his forehead “You’re right about that — they revealed the cracks. But then, instead of mending them, academia just decorated them. It became about belonging, not truth.”

Jeeny: quietly, but with fire beneath her calm “Isn’t belonging part of truth? You can’t talk about knowledge without talking about who’s allowed to have it. For centuries, the only stories told in universities were written by men who looked like you.”

Jack: leans back, tired smile “And so now we correct that by telling only stories written against us? You think that’s justice? That’s just history changing sides — not healing.”

Host:
The old clock on the wall ticked slowly, each second like a measured heartbeat of time itself, listening to them both. The rain tapped gently against the tall windows, the sound rhythmic, like debate breathing.

Jeeny: leaning forward, voice tightening “No, Jack. Justice isn’t revenge — it’s recognition. These studies weren’t created to punish anyone. They were created so that people who were invisible could finally say, ‘We exist.’ You call it propaganda. I call it correction.”

Jack: his voice low, steady “But when correction becomes the new ideology, it stops being education. You can’t trade one orthodoxy for another and call that progress. I’ve seen entire seminars where the goal wasn’t to learn — it was to agree.”

Jeeny: sighs, looking down “That’s not unique to identity studies. Every field has its dogmas. Economics has them. Philosophy has them. The difference is that when the marginalized defend themselves, it’s called propaganda. When the powerful do it, it’s called tradition.”

Jack: nods slowly, conceding “Fair point. But you have to admit — somewhere along the line, the mission changed. It stopped being about exploring identity and started being about enforcing ideology. The classroom became a battleground for purity tests. Students stopped asking why — they started asking which side are you on.”

Jeeny: softly, painfully “Maybe that’s because the world outside the classroom never stopped asking that question.”

Host:
The lights flickered, casting shadows across their faces — two figures caught between cynicism and faith, between what education was meant to be and what it had become.

Jack: after a pause, voice quieter now “You know, I miss when the university was a place of curiosity — not certainty. It used to be about asking impossible questions. Now it’s about protecting fragile answers.”

Jeeny: nods slowly, her tone gentler now “I miss that too. But maybe the cure isn’t to dismantle these departments — it’s to redeem them. To bring them back to dialogue instead of doctrine. Because without space for difference, even inclusion becomes another form of exclusion.”

Jack: looks up at her “You think that’s still possible? That we can find that balance again?”

Jeeny: smiles softly, with hope that feels earned “Yes — if we stop treating education like a battlefield and start treating it like a bridge. Sowell wasn’t wrong about the danger. But he underestimated the possibility — that these studies could evolve from protest to philosophy.”

Jack: half-smiles “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But institutions don’t evolve — people do. Maybe the university isn’t the problem. Maybe we are.”

Host:
The rain subsided, leaving behind a stillness thick with afterthought. The clock ticked on, unbothered by ideology or identity, loyal only to time.

Jeeny: rising, slowly “Then maybe the lesson is this — that every movement, every department, every generation must ask itself: are we still searching for truth, or are we just defending our version of it?”

Jack: stands too, his eyes softer “And maybe leadership in education isn’t about controlling what’s taught — but about keeping the courage to question it all.”

Jeeny: nods “Exactly. Real education doesn’t belong to any camp. It belongs to the conversation between them.”

Host:
They stood there, side by side, the moonlight cutting through the window, silvering the dust that hung in the old air — the dust of books, of ideas, of every debate that had ever filled that room.

Jack: quietly, as though speaking to the ghosts of the thinkers who came before them “Maybe the university’s only purpose is to keep that conversation alive.”

Jeeny: softly “Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”

Jack: nods slowly, almost smiling “Then perhaps propaganda isn’t the enemy of education — silence is.”

Host:
Outside, the clouds parted, the rain-slicked stones glistening under the returning moonlight. The world beyond the window — diverse, divided, alive — reflected in both their faces.

And in that pale light, Thomas Sowell’s words seemed to hover between them, not as accusation, but as a reminder —

that education, when bent by ideology,
becomes a mirror that flatters, not a window that opens;

that truth cannot live in silos of identity
or in shrines of certainty;

and that the real purpose of learning
is not to separate voices,
but to synchronize them —
so that, out of many histories,
we might still find one humanity.