And Still the Roaring Gut

Even in the day of ever-rising academic standards and ever-brighter freshman classes, it is still possible for students to earn a credit or two without really trying. Despite the best efforts of administrators to stamp them out, U.S. universities still have their share of "micks" (Mickey Mouse courses), "snaps," "guts" or "roaring guts."

Once in a while, the guts are tacitly tolerated by the school to preserve the eligibility of dim-witted athletes. Many more, however, simply reflect the good intentions of such kindly professors as Stanford Political Scientist James T. Watkins IV, who rarely awards anything less than an A on the lovable notion that "There is too much tension in the university--I don't want to add to the general insecurity and unhappiness of the community."

Berkeley students insist that the best clue to the existence of a gut is a disproportionate enrollment of "jocks" (athletes), "Freddys" (fraternity men), "Sallys" (sorority sisters) and "mungs" (beatniks). Stanford's jocks are urged by Athletic Director Charles Taylor to take Health Education 400, in which Professor Oliver E. Byrd grades solely on the number of abstracts of articles in medical journals his students turn in --and he tells them how many abstracts will make an A. He has abolished examinations, gives one test that includes multiple-choice items asking, for example, to "name the required textbook in this course." He bans note-taking in class because it doesn't allow the students to become "intellectually involved with me as I talk." Learning should be "an enjoyable and even thrilling experience," says Byrd, who normally gives about 80% of his students A's.

Incredibly Dull. Princeton Classics Professor Frank C. ("One-Two") Bourne is so nicknamed because he confines himself to the top two grades, on Princeton's one-to-seven scale. He contends that his courses in Roman law and Roman history are "incredibly dull --I never cease to be amazed at the way the students learn the material, and I grade accordingly." Princeton "gut-hoppers," who try to take only easy courses, are also fond of what they call "Trucks and Buses," a course in transportation centering on one research project. Two students recently lugged a case of beer out to Route 1 every afternoon for a week; one man counted the trucks coming from Philadelphia, the other those heading for Philadelphia. They graphed the traffic trends, suggested the best timing for traffic signals--and got honors grades.

Rocks for Jocks. University of Texas students are fond of courses they call "Kiddie Lit," in which they analyze children's books, "Pots and Pans," a consumer's guide to household equipment, and "Piggy Bank," budget-centered instruction in personal finance. At Cornell, publicity in the Daily Sun ruined a freshman geology course known as "Rocks for Jocks," which is now unusually tough; but Mathematician Leonard Silver, who marks exams in a linear algebra course vaguely as either "swell" or "lousy," still gives nothing but A's. "I'm trying to help the student avoid ulcers," he explains.

When a new gut appears, the word travels fast. Meteorology 100 at the University of Wisconsin drew 400 students one semester, 800 the next. The Rev. Thomas J. Brennan's freshman philosophy course at Notre Dame is so popular, and easy, that enrollment is limited--and athletes and foreign students seem to be preferred. Their most difficult task is putting up with Father Brennan's idiosyncrasy of flipping matchbooks at them during class. Catching them is not easy; he has developed a curve and a slider.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.