Google “useless college degrees.” “Music,” along with a crappy stock photo of a confused man/woman in a graduation gown scratching his/her head in worried bewilderment, is on that list. I assure you.

I have heard it so, so, so many times. From unimpressed aunts and uncles, from my sometimes unsure parents, from inexplicably shocked fellow students. It’s a tough life, and it often feels unfair that this course of study that I’m embarking upon, with every passion I have within me, pales in comparison to the science-technology-engineering-mathematics fields. It doesn’t exactly help that UC Davis is a premier research university. My music degree, in comparison to the highly-regarded STEM universe, often feels like a death sentence. I know so many people who work in labs, who study in bays and farms, who have dreams of medical school, who take internship opportunities that will lead them to prosperous days of discovery — and for a living nonetheless.

And you have me, lost, not sure and maybe a little scared of the future, studying something I’m passionate about.

It’s not that I don’t have the opportunities I need. I have great classes. Many professors share the passion that their students strive to maintain. For example, I am enrolled in an amazing jazz composition class; our class is four students big and every Thursday our own, original material is read by student musicians and workshopped by our fantastic instructor. In another class, I’m finally learning the distinctions between European styles of opera and the way political influences informed music making in the Baroque era. My academic future is busy and bright: more composition, more one-on-one learning with a private instructor, more interaction with a small faculty. It’s nothing short of awesome.

And yet I still feel that skeptical dullness in your eyes when I tell you I’m a music major.

I know a lot of people will nod and say, “Oh, cool!” at some sort of attempt at sincere interest. But I don’t blame you for looking down on me. It’s been internalized since childhood that engineers make a lot of money. That high school teachers are underpaid. That doctors are the breadwinning geniuses of the world. That musicians won’t make a buck. That lawyers hold a noble, generously-paid occupation. That artists are often called “starving” for a reason. But know that, even with all that stigma, I want to be a musician — just like you want to be a doctor, or an anthropologist, or a mechanical engineer brainiac. I want to be a musician. Because you know what? My future is just as valid as yours.

Of course, it’s impossible to rewire year upon year of arts and humanities shaming in a heartbeat. Don’t forget — many music majors struggle with that same internalized self-doubt, with that same skepticism, with that same harmful expectation that we will never be as successful as we want. But we study in spite of what you think, what they think and most incredibly of all, what we ourselves think.

It’s indubitably a struggle to continue sometimes. I don’t have those same move-out-of-my-parents’-house, job-secure, food-on-the-table prospects to resort to when I feel like I’m falling. And it happens a lot, because I’m a college student just like you, just like every first- or second- or fourth- or fifth- or sixth year-student in Davis. I have my highs and I have my lows. Sometimes learning is the best, most fulfilling thing; sometimes it drives me to tears. I feel on top of the world, and in the next moment, the burden of my future crushes me to anxious crying, shattered remains.

I’m not asking you to kiss the feet of every music major that you see, to profusely apologize to every arts and humanities major that you’ve so discourteously wronged. I’m beseeching you to look upon us with validity, with respect, with dignity. Look me in the eye when I tell you I’m a music major, and just as I imagine you with your doctor coat or chemist goggles or engineering gloves, imagine me making a difference in peoples’ lives through the art of sound.

STEVEN ILAGAN enjoys light literary discourse, for he is also an English major! Contact him at smilagan@ucdavis.edu.

When I was in eighth grade, I got sent to the office in the middle of geometry class because of the skirt I was wearing. Really. That’s it. A skirt. It wasn’t even a particularly offensive skirt. It didn’t have any images of weapons or defamatory slogans on it. It was just a plain old denim skirt. It was tacky maybe, but definitely not offensive. So why, you ask, would anyone send such a respectful student like myself to the office for such a harmless offense?

Well, the answer is the school dress code.

Ah, the school dress code. The term brings back vivid memories of casual shirts tucked haphazardly into pants and sneakers worn with virtually every type of outfit imaginable because other kinds of shoes simply were not allowed at my public school. I remember telling myself in the eighth grade, at least I was no longer subjected to those hideous brown, yellow and green uniforms that my old private school required. This was comforting knowledge, but I ended up failing my geometry test because I missed the entire review session while I was changing out of my skirt into the more “appropriate” hand-me-down sweatpants that were left in the lost and found. They had odd stains and smelled like somebody else’s body odor, but hey, at least my thighs weren’t showing.

School dress codes weren’t always a thing. In fact, a lot of public schools were hesitant to implement dress codes, probably because they didn’t see a need to police the bodies of 10-year-olds. But dress codes have become increasingly popular over the years, requiring students to wear clothing that is considered to be appropriate and non-distracting. The question that has recently sparked the most controversy, however, is whose learning environment is being protected? And, more importantly, at whose expense?

One of the most prevalent rules of a dress code prohibits students to wear clothing that reveals too much of their body. No tank tops, no short shorts, no dresses or skirts that bypass the oh-so-infallible “fingertip rule.” This rule, which prohibits a student’s fingertips from going beyond their skirts, shorts, etc., overwhelmingly affects a great deal more girls than it does boys. In my experience, it’s almost impossible to shop for non-revealing clothing when you’re a teen or even a pre-teen girl, especially in the summertime. So it’s really no surprise that, according to the M-A Feminist Club, 64 percent of the 118 female students they surveyed said they’d been punished for violating their school dress code. Compare this to the 12 percent of 111 male students who were surveyed, and the repercussions of these codes become clear.

While girls are sent home or given lost-and-found items to cover up, boys remain in class and “undistracted.” But what does this say to students about their own bodies? The message seems clear: Girls must be sure to cover themselves in order to protect their male peers from losing focus. And boys must remain privy to the idea that they need protecting from female bodies, as if they are virtually unable to use any other portion of their brain that does not revolve around sexual arousal.

As college students, many of whom have attended public schools that implement dress codes, it is necessary to recognize the repercussions of being subjected to these types of rules. Being fearful of our bodies since elementary school has surely had some kind of impact on the ways in which we perceive ourselves. A lot of the time, being told and re-told to be aware of how you present yourself to others makes you overly conscious about your body. This has various results — namely, eating disorders and other types of self-mutilation; but also a strange perception of ourselves and others that has much to do with the problematic ways the school system tells us how to see ourselves. Men too, are largely influenced by dress codes as they learn to see themselves as innately hypersexual criminals that aren’t to be trusted.

What this does is create a kind of collective case of body dysmorphia that influences many aspects of our lives. Although we may have graduated from high school long ago, we haven’t necessarily graduated from the destructive influences of the school dress codes that taught us how to perceive our own bodies.

CHELSEA SPILLER can be reached at ctspiller@ucdavis.edu.

One of the most contemporary debates about higher education concerns the value of going to college. Most of the debate focuses on fiscal reasoning and future economic prospects. But talking about college only in these terms would be ignoring other vital advantages that come with education. The panel above shows Calvin making a rather backhanded argument for skipping his homework. His flippant attitude is indicative of a modern problem in political participation, and can be analyzed to show the growing importance of higher education that often extends beyond job concerns.

One phrase Calvin often advocates (with disastrous results), is that “ignorance is bliss.” I hate when people use this expression. It supposes that being aware of your surroundings (always inevitably negative) has the effect of creating an equally negative temperament in a person. This is a low opinion of learning, which I believe most people find to be a rewarding experience. It ignores the fact that education values problem solving, and that perhaps some optimism could be gained from knowing enough to propose a solution to certain problems.

Here, Calvin argues for willful ignorance. Watterson makes a humorous play on the idea that the most decisive people in history have typically been the stupidest. What the reader ultimately gets is an impression of reality. We have come to view almost all disagreeable political decisions as the result of a kind of willful ignorance: congressman X cannot be this dumb. As political participation declines in the United States, higher education finds that it carries more weight in determining whether citizens perform such basic duties as voting.

The political climate of a college campus has the power to shape a person. Higher education has a generally liberalizing effect on students: Professors tend to be progressive, and they may impart their opinions directly or indirectly to students. In a political climate where extremes are starting to carry more power, students need to be more aware of the socializing power of their institutions.

The only exposure many students have to civic education is in their high school government classes. This is not the most ideal time for students to be exposed to the various types of political participation. As colleges become more competitive, high school students practically have to seek out civic duty as necessary extracurriculars, not as experiences in their own right. For example, I earned the Presidential Volunteer Service Award for 100 hours of work at a soup kitchen. I doubt I would have worked that amount of time without college as an incentive.

Civics is a unique topic that is difficult to teach to an unwilling audience. For many, ignorance is indeed bliss, in the sense that they would rather just not be bothered. This mentality needs to be fostered out at the intermediary age of college, when students are not yet past their youthful certitude. Unfortunately, a passing grade on the AP U.S. government exam has the effect of allowing students the option of not taking any political science courses in college.

For all the downsides to an enormous student population, one advantage may be that students are exposed to a wider variety of opportunities concerning their civic lives. Professors need to encourage students to seek these opportunities and also reward earnest participation. But ultimately, the student is responsible for recognizing that the effort is worth their time, and that even an act as simple as voting represents their self-interests.

I mentioned that disaster often ensues when Calvin treats ignorance as bliss. In one comic he refuses to believe his wagon is going off a cliff. Subsequently, he crashes. Whatever political melancholy may come from civic action seems worth the trouble in the long run. I’ve never been the type to brood, and neither should you.

To involve yourself, you can reach ELI FLESCH at ekflesch@ucdavis.edu or tweet him @eliflesch.