Berkley Center

Almost all American foreign exchange students experience some form of academic shock once classes begin at La Pontifica Universidad Católica de Chile. At once the system appears foreign and familiar: we're studying the same subjects, but in an entirely different manner. Something seems distinctive, and the language of instruction usually has nothing to do with it. Only gradually, after having to ask the professor to explain concepts Chilean students find basic or self-evident, after our classmates put our own knowledge of “"the field"” to shame, does the difference become clear: we’'re not in a liberal arts institution anymore.

The Chilean academic system did not begin with the Universidad Catolica, but rather with the Universidad de Chile, incorporated in 1843 (although its origins date back to the 1600s). Since its conception, the Universidad de Chile sought to advance the science and humanities—it was not founded as a seminary, as was the case for colonial universities in the United States. To advance this purpose, the Universidad de Chile was organized into distinct faculties, each of which offered "“careers”," or specific plans of study designed to train experts within a specific field.

The Universidad Católica, founded several decades later, continued this trend, offering five to seven year careers leading to a “"license"” bestowing upon the candidate the formal credential required to practice within a given field. As it exists today, the Chilean system represents the diametric opposite of the American liberal arts model. Pupils are expected to pick their career at age 17, once they begin to study for the Prueba de Selección Universitaria, or PSU, the Chilean equivalent of the SAT. Although they usually sit for all sections of the test, students only prepare for those sections deemed most important by the particular faculties to which the students plan to apply.

Students are not admitted to a particular university, but rather to a particular faculty and career track, and their training begins at day one. Students are immediately immersed into “"the field”," learning how to solve problems like experts. There is no period of general, broad-based formation, during which time students can figure out what field interests them most. Although most faculties require students to take a certain number of courses outside their major (usually ten total, or one course per semester), there are no requirements to take these courses at the beginning of the student's field of study, meaning that students have no opportunity to explore various fields before intensely committing themselves to a particular discipline. What is the return on all this specialization? Students graduate with the equivalent of dual bachelor'’s and master'’s degrees and are instantly recognized as licensed professionals within their field. Given the rise of joint BA/MA programs in the United States, along with the decline of the core curriculum, is the Chilean system a sign of future changes in American higher education?

The answer is mixed. Chilean academic specialization looks far more appealing on paper than in practice. Chile'’s universities train highly specialized experts, but specialization often means memorization, and almost always comes at the cost of academic creativity. Worse yet, many students lack a basic understanding of economic, political science, and philosophical concepts that are directly related to their field, yet beyond the plan of studies. Hence I find myself talking to future business translators who know absolutely nothing of economics, or future political analysts with little understanding of political philosophy. Perhaps most disturbingly, the career system enables students to graduate as “"professionals"” without acquiring the basic research, writing, and critical thinking skills vital to any career. In one of my courses, an upper level geography elective, countless students who took the course as part of general formation stumbled when asked to write a research paper because they had never been asked to do so. Or as one third year student in the agronomy faculty said to me, "“The professor acts like we know how to write an essay, but I don'’t know how! It’'s not in my malla (plan of studies)!"”

Indeed, the greatest weakness of the Chilean system is not specialization per se, but rather the inflexibility of the plan of study. Students are told what classes to take and when to take them. Without opportunities to take electives to pursue an interest, or even to take certain classes out of order, the spirit of inquiry is nipped in the bud. And the emphasis on acquiring knowledge masks the fact that even the most established "“fields"” of knowledge change rapidly, and that in today'’s economy where knowledge can be accessed via a single computer search, memory is far less important than analytical ability.

This lack of analytical skills is perhaps the single greatest failing of the Chilean system, since it inhibits not only cross-field synthesis, but also intra-field study. Here culture, in addition to structure, is to blame: Chilean society is hierarchical and stratified, and students are naturally inclined to memorize word-for-word what the professor says because it is the natural social reaction of a subordinate to a superior. Yet although Chilean students respect their professors to a greater (and healthier) degree than their American counterparts in the United States, excessive memorization renders students incapable of separating fact from theory. In my own experience in the Economics faculty, I have witnessed students argue with professors for half-hour stretches because the novel model presented in class does not mesh with the student’'s previous understanding,– as if all economic models form a harmonious body of complete understanding, each with the same premises, methods, and conclusions. Unlike in the United States, students never argue with the professor because they believe the professor to be mistaken. To the contrary, my classmates argue with the professor because they are baffled that what has been presented in class does not match theories previously learned.

Although the Chilean system is not without its faults, in some respects it represents a highly cost-effective approach to education that may well be the future of American higher education, assuming that college costs continue to spiral out of control. For although the liberal arts teach us to think, the liberal arts are certainly not the most cost-effective way to land a high-paying career. Chilean universities train students to be employable in the short-run, even if the lack of analytical skills undoubtedly hampers them in the long-run. Even though it'’s easy to discount “"career focused"” education, it pays handsome dividends, particularly in a country where college is cost-prohibitive for the vast majority of young people and their families, even today. The liberal arts certainly have value, but at what price should they be pursued? Chile'’s specialized system was not born of financial necessity, yet financial necessity drives applicants into specific careers and away from American-inspired liberal studies programs (they do exist in Chile, albeit to a limited extent). And if we are not careful to contain college costs in the United States, the Chilean system of specialized education,– flaws and all,– may look more appealing after all.