Featured image: The world of academia is pomp and full of elitism.
A cademia is essential to a progressive society. The fundamental aspiration to learn and to educate through the accumulation, development, and dissemination of knowledge reaps massive cultural benefits for us all: we thrive with new perspectives, induce excitement with discoveries, produce more efficiently with new technologies, cure diseases with new medicines, and so forth.
However, institutes of higher learning collectively suffer from an unbecoming image, obscuring their commendable endeavours. Consider what impression they impart on you. I often think of stuffy and inaccessible spaces reserved for a snobby elite: circles of individuals striving to be highly regarded by each other; incomprehensible intellectuals using esoteric jargon; self-preservationists employing fierce gate-keeping, through tuition fees, grade requirements, and interviews, to protect prestige.
Stemming from such elitism are academic titles. They’re traditional and celebrate individual accomplishment—but are they really needed? We learn nothing from them. Worse, they introduce inequalities between people. Here’s why.
The language of a high society
Ancient Greek scholars developed the idea of a university over the course of centuries. At the Old Academy, a society founded by Plato in 4th century BC for people with common interest in philosophical subjects, knowledge was shared through lectures, seminars, and simple dialogue. This exhibited an important, progressive distinction from the inner learning of an individual: it was necessary for people to come together as peers and, by engaging with each other, corroborate ideas. Knowledge was acquired through observation and exchange.
From the Old Academy a model of learning germinated and slowly grew, inspiring intellectual endeavours in art, science, maths, literature, poetry, politics, and beyond all around the world.
The Old Academy (or 'Platonic Academy'): The home of intellectual stimulation.
Such schools were sanctioned by monasteries and cathedrals under the Roman Empire. Later a handful of schools rose to prominence around Europe, such as those in Bologna and Paris, claiming excellence and fostering perceptions of prestige and inspiring the development of many more institutions around Europe.
In the UK religious precincts and lectures from theologians provided the ingredients of learning during the nascent of the university model we know today—most notably, at Oxford and Cambridge. Eventually more secular scholastic gilds emerged throughout the 13th and 14th centuries. Academic institutions subsequently attained the legal recognition and accreditation necessary to deliver formally recognised qualifications.
A modern university: The University of Manchester (where I studied at undergraduate level). The format of learning in higher education today is in keeping with its centuries-old history. So is the nomenclature: Latin and Greek terminology and symbols (e.g. 'et al' and 'Ω') have survived history and litter published literature accordingly. Furthermore, the term 'University' was derived from the Latin expression 'universitas magistrorum et scholarium' (a 'community of teachers and scholars').
From these origins myriads of learning hubs grew and flourished around the world, delivering significantly greater accessibility to higher education. Thankfully, this is true today—but the ancient terminology is still in tow.
During the 13th century systems of degrees with ranked precedence were formally developed. The grades were ‘Scholar’, ‘Bachelor’, or ‘Masters’. Titles were created in correspondence to the faculty assigned to ‘readers’ of a subject. (‘Faculty’, literally ‘an inherent mental or physical power’, incidentally, is a term used for departmental groups in universities.)
‘Doctor’ (‘Dr.’ or ‘Dr’) was derived from a Latin verb ‘docere’, meaning ‘to teach’, and is, thus, fully academic at its roots. Historically, it denoted that the individual was qualified to teach at a university. ‘Professor’ (‘Prof.’) denotes something similar to ‘Doctor’ but commonly with elevated status. Both are officially recognised personal titles.
When we think of a doctor, however, we tend to conceive an image of a medical practitioner—as was apparent even in Shakespeare’s writing. But the term only gained clinical connotations over time.
In the UK and the British Empire the Royal College of Physicians legally restricted the availability of the title. Prosecution of an individual professing to be a ‘Doctor’ without being qualified was enshrined in law with the Medical Act 1858. US medical societies were less strict and enabled colleges to endorse medical practitioners with the use of the title in the 19th century.
A medical doctor.
Today, to be classed as an academic ‘Doctor’, a learned individual must successfully complete a doctorate-level degree with the approval of their peers. A medical ‘Doctor’, meanwhile, must obtain a formally recognised medical degree and demonstrate competence academically and clinically.
You might, then, argue that ‘Doctor’ and ‘Professor’ rightly distinguish admirable achievements. Conversely, I argue that the application of titles would only be fair if people were considered for titles across all professions consistently. As a matter of fact, though, titles aren’t afforded to everyone on merit: they are restricted to academia and medicine.
A team effort: The only members of a clinical team who are awarded personal titles that reflect their professional training are doctors. Why not acknowledge the value of allied health professionals, scientists, and technicians with relevant titles in hospitals? (For historical reasons unique to the UK the use of special titles isn't permissible for surgeons either.)
The insinuation arising from a ‘higher’ group of people using specially reserved titles, like ‘Doctor’ or ‘Professor’, is that everyone else is a subordinate, subconsciously handing disproportionately more power to small groups of people—not just in academia and the workplace but in all walks of life where titles are publicly used.
Anecdotally, I’ve felt uncomfortable in clinical and research environments I’ve worked in when requested to ‘now address’ someone as ‘Professor X’ (as opposed to, God forbid, ‘Doctor X’). I’ve even met people who won’t acknowledge the presence of others below certain ranks (one doctor was particularly hierarchal about this). But just hearing people behave in line with societal expectations by continually using ‘Dr X’ feels like a form of attrition against equality.
The air of elitism is palpable, for only particular groups of individuals are deemed special enough to deserve titles, which have been retained needlessly until the present day.
Elitism is the belief that society should be led by a small number of brilliant individuals. The academic system is quaint and honours history, sure; but the language symbolically ranks people and devalues the contributions of those who aren’t considered part of that elite, who may even work within the same institutions but sit lower on the pyramid.
It’s good to command respect through merit but overemphasising the importance of a supreme, intellectual elite detracts from the essential contributions of non-elites to a thriving society. Belittling less traditional degrees and formal qualifications, such as diplomas, is common. An entrepreneur, an artist, or a councillor might bring boundless value to people yet won’t enjoy the special privileges of a title.
The Unseen University, a school for wizards in Terry Pratchett's Discworld series: The University was located in Ankh-Morpork and founded in the year 1282 AM. Pomp, stuffy, and stale—its en masse methods differed from those used by witches, who were taught with a peculiar brand of psychology known as 'headology' on a one-to-one basis. That is, wizards are considered wise and belong to the system; witches are too eccentric.
As humans, we tend to feel proud of our achievements. Unsurprisingly, then, academics, who collectively betray an image of excellence, may favour systems that make them feel proud—systems which uphold complementary perceptions of them: intelligent, knowledgeable, critically minded, etc. Sustaining this image proves their worth not only to themselves but to others.
The incentive to gain a title and partake in an elite society has manifested countless times before: for example, in the formation of royal societies with restricted access and in the stranglehold of private schools and Ivy League colleges on top jobs.
The notion of merit would redeem academia somewhat. Yet I’ve seen many doctors seamlessly sneak onto the authors lists of peer-reviewed papers without providing any intellectual input. Further, through the grapevine I heard that a request was made for a relative to be added to a list in one case. Barely anything is done to obtain merit, shockingly.
The image of academia has rightly suffered from its record on inclusion. Given its history of poor representation of and accessibility to the wider population, the impression on society might be that its collective inclination is to protect the image of supremacy, dissuading others from contributing for fear of not being good enough—even if they are equipped with the fundamental assets to learn at the required level.
Where is the uproar? Well, if you are part of an elite, why would you challenge your elevated status and vocalise discontent? Self-preservation is in the elite’s best interests.
But there’s a strong case for higher learning institutions to dictate and lead on decision-making—strictly academically. They’re vital to our culture so, of course, academics should be at the very least heeded: their intellectual foresight can guide us in times of darkness and unmask the unknown. But, for the sake of equality, we should be wary of attitudes of superiority.
An academic elite who present a grandiose and aloof image of themselves will lose traction, not least because it’s politically untenable for higher bodies to ignore the people they should serve. Such sentiments became even more apparent in the UK with the Brexit saga: we’ve had enough of experts, it was claimed as we began the process of leaving the uppity EU. An engaged population of people, I think, is one that is consulted, not disregarded, because a remote elite who appear to care little for common folk is resented.
Being a university leader can be rather lucrative, too, hence why Dame Prof Glynis Breakwell, whose staggering salary demonstrates a large pay gap between heads and other members of staff, succumbed to mounting public pressure by stepping down as vice-chancellor.
For universities to receive funding and ideological support, which enable them to operate and provide meaningful advancement in knowledge and communal value, they must maintain people’s trust. We vote for the governments who dictate the rules. Only then can we behold a society whose culture undergoes genuine, felt intellectual advancement because of academics.
Lofty titles equate to elitist language: they nullify the affinity between people. When our knowledge-bearers linguistically use symbols that suggests that they are of higher importance we feel inferior, for it instils a notion of a better class of people.
The employment of academic titles during regular, everyday interactions creates commonplace inequalities between people, even though the tiers of academic accomplishment bear little relevance in most situations. Calling someone ‘Doctor’ or ‘Professor’ generates assumptions: by forcing others to recognise a strictly academic status, an imbalance is created whereby the titles assert authority and assign more importance to one person over another.
Academic superiority in a specific field shouldn’t undermine equal consideration. While academic voices may deserve reverence in many contexts, we all know that people can be extremely well-informed in certain areas but totally ignorant in others.
We don’t need continual reminders of academic success. If someone believes that they’re better than you before they’ve met you, they’re introducing a conceited barrier in their encounter with you. To do so is also subconsciously quite manipulative, for it hinders mutual and equal interaction before the conversation has begun.
The case for the existence of academic titles per se is unidentifiable. They’re unnecessary and their application is seldom relevant in practice. You can be a doctor or a professor without the associated title. Moreover, the potential to attain a qualification should be an incentive by itself. This qualification, along with one’s experience, can be boasted appropriately on the CV, where it belongs.
By pandering to people's egos, academic titles endorse self-righteous, holier-than-thou behaviour. The effect is subtle but sufficient at eroding equality between people.
Insisting that other people unnecessarily address you with an academic title dupes them into accepting an abstraction that they’re inferior and that they probably should unconditionally respect your views. But we mustn’t conflate academic achievement with human decency and compassion—or even wider intelligence. An academic title demonstrates the successful pursuit of knowledge in one area; it doesn’t make you a decent person who applies it successfully for common good.
Celebrate academia but drop the titles
The use of academic titles is historical. What we’re accustomed to often isn’t best practice. Practice should evolve with the times.
Socially, using titles prevents us from fully embracing equality. Dropping them would challenge prevalent and persistent modes of asserting authority. We should promulgate the idea that we all matter; that we should treat all people with decency. Without titles we’ll be better able to transfigure human interactions to create mutual consideration of people from the outset.
The language of academia is elitist. At a human level it’s important to celebrate achievement and fully motivate aspirational, talented people. However, when motivations stray too far from the course of public service to quenching more-individually-gratifying desires of self, the ultimate effect is to garner distrust in expert and public bodies. In times when populism and anti-establishment sentiments are rife it’s vitally important for the so-called academic elite not to do this. If they don’t, they will continue to divert their value away from the people their knowledge and skills can aid for personal gain.
The fundamental value of education should be expressed as cultural realisation and evolution, not the pursuit of individual recognition. As Benjamin Franklin remarked, true education is ‘an Inclination join’d with an Ability to serve Mankind, one’s Country, Friends, and Family; which Ability … should indeed be the great Aim and End of all Learning.’
Languages of superiority contradict these ideals, for they inhibit bonds of equality developing between us. Replace the arrogance with humility: abandon your title to bring us closer together.