"Six weeks into the term, I assigned my rhetoric and writing students a 20-page article. It was the same length I had assigned for five years and the same length I had read without complaint as an undergraduate a decade ago. Not one student finished it.
When I asked why, a student answered honestly: It was too long, and she kept losing track of what the paper was about. This was not a remedial class: These were students who had cleared the admissions process and written essays good enough to get them here. Yet a routine academic reading assignment had defeated them.
Every generation of professors has complained that their students cannot read. The lament is usually overblown, but data have caught up to anecdote, and what I am seeing in my classroom is no longer a hunch. There is a measurable, generational collapse in sustained reading and writing, and the academy is responding to it with improvisation and exhaustion rather than the structural overhaul it requires.
In February 2024, Adam Kotsko, who teaches in the Shimer Great Books School at North Central College, wrote in Slate that students who once handled 30 pages of reading per class meeting now seem “intimidated by anything over 10 pages and seem to walk away from readings of as little as 20 pages with no real understanding.” Crucially, he added that this is “not a matter of laziness on the part of the students” but of underlying skills they were never given a chance to build.
The Chronicle of Higher Education’s 2024 investigation found the same pattern across institutions as different as the Stevens Institute of Technology and Wellesley College, where the average SAT exceeds 1400. Nicholaus Gutierrez, an assistant professor at Wellesley, told The Chronicle that the baseline for what students consider a reasonable amount of work has dropped so noticeably that he has cut his readings accordingly; a 750-word essay now strikes many students as long. At Stevens, the science and technology studies associate professor Theresa MacPhail described following the mantra of “meet your students where they are” for so long that she has begun to feel “like a cruise director organizing games of shuffleboard.”
Worse, the national data tell the same story in colder language. On the 2011 National Assessment of Educational Progress (NAEP) writing assessment, which is the most recent comprehensive writing benchmark, only 24 percent of 12th graders reached the Proficient level, and just 3 percent reached Advanced; another 21 percent scored below Basic. The reading side of the ledger is worse, and getting worse fast: The 2024 NAEP results released in September 2025 show 12th-grade reading scores at the lowest level recorded since the assessment began in 1992. Thirty-two percent of 12th graders now score below NAEP Basic in reading, meaning that, in the assessment’s own language, they likely “cannot draw general conclusions based on concepts presented explicitly in a text.” And yet more than half of these same seniors reported being accepted to a four-year college. That last sentence is the whole problem in one line: We are admitting a cohort that cannot read at a college level and are pretending otherwise.
Why is this happening? One reason, of course, is smartphones.
I came into teaching as a skeptic of the anti-smartphone argument: I had a phone in my pocket throughout high school and college in the 2010s, and I read long books anyway. I now think I was wrong, because the neuroscience has caught up. In a 2017 paper, Adrian F. Ward and colleagues at the University of Texas at Austin’s McCombs School of Business showed that the mere presence of a participant’s smartphone — whether that be face down, powered off, untouched, or across the desk out of vision — measurably reduces available working memory and fluid intelligence on cognitive tests, with the largest effects on the most phone-dependent users. A 2022 study by Motoyasu Honma and colleagues at Japan’s Showa University used near-infrared spectroscopy to compare reading on a smartphone with reading the same passage on paper, and found that smartphone reading produced overactivity in the prefrontal cortex, suppressed sigh generation, and led to general lower comprehension scores; the authors argued that the sigh inhibition and prefrontal overload were causally linked to the comprehension decline.
So when a student tells me they “kept losing track” of a 20-page article, I have to acknowledge that they may be describing a measurable neurological condition. The neural pathways that support sustained attention are built by use, and they atrophy without it. Your body is a use-it-or-lose-it system, and the brain is no exception.
Another reason for the decline in student reading capability is increasing reliance on generative AI. In June 2025, Nataliya Kosmyna and colleagues at the MIT Media Lab released a preprint titled “Your Brain on ChatGPT.” They divided 54 participants into three groups writing SAT-style essays — one using ChatGPT, the second group using a search engine, the last group using nothing — and monitored brain activity with a 32-channel EEG. The ChatGPT group showed the lowest neural connectivity of the three, with up to 55 percent reduced connectivity compared with the brain-only group, and “consistently underperformed at neural, linguistic, and behavioral levels.” Eighty-three percent of LLM users could not quote a single line from essays they had written minutes earlier. When the LLM group was forced to write without AI in a follow-up session, their brain activity did not bounce back to baseline; the researchers coined the term “cognitive debt” for the lingering deficit.
This is the first neurophysiological evidence that early reliance on LLMs measurably alters the brain’s engagement with writing tasks, and it is consistent with what those of us in front of classrooms are watching happen in real time. When I assign analysis, I am not trying to extract a polished product; I am trying to put the student’s mind through resistance in order to make it stronger. Offloading the struggle to a chatbot does not “free students up for higher-order work.” It deprives them of building the strength to do any substantial cognitive work at all.
There is a final factor that is contributing to this decline in reading skills, and that is that the students arriving in my classroom today are the first cohort to have experienced Common Core-influenced reading instruction across the entirety of their K–12 schooling. Whatever the standards’ original intent, the on-the-ground implementation in many districts replaced sustained reading with the practice of pulling “evidence” from disconnected short passages, the same format used on the standardized tests that increasingly determine school funding. The education scholar Natalie Wexler, among others, has documented this pivot in detail: Students drilled on “finding the main idea” in two-paragraph excerpts never build the stamina or background knowledge that longform reading requires. The pandemic then added fuel to a fire that was already burning. NAEP scores for 13-year-olds dropped sharply in 2022 and have not recovered. A 2023 EdWeek survey found that 24 percent of secondary-school administrators described pandemic learning loss in English and language arts as “severe or very severe.”
In July 2025, the journalist Mary Harrington argued in The New York Times that “thinking is becoming a luxury good.” The ability to read deeply and reason at length is fragmenting along class lines as ultra-processed digital media replaces text in everyday life, much as ultra-processed food has replaced cooking. Her longer treatment of the subject in First Things makes the more provocative case that we are witnessing the end of print culture itself, and with it the end of the cognitive substrate on which modern liberal democracy was built.
I see this stratification in the classroom and on the page every week. My students from districts that protected sustained reading through small class sizes, strict phone policies, and faculty who refused to teach to the test all arrive with their attention relatively intact. My students from districts that surrendered to devices and standardized testing arrive cognitively winded. A democracy that requires a literate electorate is now training one fraction of that electorate out of literacy while marketing to the other a “deep work” lifestyle as a luxury good. The students who cannot read a 20-page article today are the voters who will not be able to read a bill, or the jurors who cannot follow a closing argument, tomorrow.
I do what I can in my own classroom to address the problems. I break 20-page articles into two halves and assign the first half with explicit analytical tasks. I require exploratory writing before formal drafts. I model (visibly, on the board) how to track an argument across pages or distinguish a source’s claim from my own analysis. I make structured peer review explicit, because the workshop format I used to take for granted now collapses into “this is good” and “maybe add more details” the moment I step back.
But I want to be plain about the limits of what an individual instructor can do, and all of these solutions have costs. Scaffolding a 20-page article into halves compromises the integrity of the argument I am asking students to engage, just as modeling note-taking in a credit-bearing rhetoric course is using a college slot to teach a middle-school skill. None of the syllabi I teach are designed to deliver this type of cognitive rehabilitation, and pretending otherwise has produced credential inflation. We cannot keep conferring degrees on students who cannot do what the degree is supposed to certify.
I’m afraid I don’t have answers. I do, however, have some questions that may point us in the right direction. If higher education is going to respond to the reading crisis as a structural problem rather than a private burden carried by composition instructors and adjuncts, it has to stop avoiding the following questions: If a majority of incoming students cannot read at a level the curriculum requires, are we admitting students we cannot serve, or offering a curriculum we cannot provide?
Why are first-year writing and reading-intensive general-education courses still the most adjunctified, lowest-paid, highest-load corner of the university, at the precise moment when their work has become the most important work the institution does? What is the responsible institutional response for AI usage: Is it a syllabus statement, or a sequencing principle that requires students to demonstrate the cognitive work themselves before AI assistance is permitted?
Why are most college classrooms still phone-permissive by default? K–12 districts from Florida to California are now banning phones bell to bell; higher education has somehow lagged behind the public schools. Universities benefit from a pipeline they did not build and refuse to repair. What would it mean for a university system to invest seriously in the reading instruction happening in the high schools that feed it, rather than treating remediation as something to be quietly outsourced to first-year composition instructors?
The thing I am no longer willing to do is pretend this is a temporary adjustment period, or that “students will adapt.” They will not adapt on their own. The conditions that produced this collapse are still in place: the phones, the algorithmic feeds, the test-prep excerpts, staffing models that load the reading-intensive work onto the most precarious faculty, and now the chatbots that finish students’ sentences before they’ve even begun to think of them. If we want literate citizens, we will have to rebuild the conditions for literacy deliberately, against the grain of every incentive currently pointed the other way. I know the academy has the will to do that. It also has the obligation."
— Tyler Jagt, 1 June 2026, "My Students Can’t Read"
The generational collapse in literacy is measurable, persistent, and likely to get worse.
I'm dreading teaching this fall in a way I never have before. I'm so fortunate that I have a small enough class that I can do in-person activities and even try out oral exams as an assessment method. But reading is a required part of the course, and I'm worried how much of this article is going to apply to my students.
I spent the afternoon arranging our books by size and color (and it’s so satisfying and looks amazing) and my partner came home and stared in shock at the bookcase and then said “i’m a librarian, you can’t do this.”
it has occurred me during this process that apparently not everyone thinks about books by what color they are? like, literally when i’m looking for a book, i picture it in my mind. i have a very…tactile experience with the books i read and idk! i thought everyone did that lol.
my partner was like “how will i find [this book] for instance” and i replied “easy, it’s purple” and he looked at me like i was a witch.
This actually is interesting in terms of information-seeking behavior, which is a thing librarians think about a lot and often actually study (some library jobs require you to publish, and academic librarians, for instance, will often use the students at the college they work at to study how they search for information in order to figure out how to best provide them services).
When you go for an MLS (Master’s of Library Science, which is a thing, and which is usually required for “professional-level” library work [which is also a weird and contentious concept that I won’t go into here]), one of the things you study is the organization of information. This deals with how to determine what a book or other material is “about"—a concept we tongue-in-cheek call “aboutness"—and how to convey that to a potential user of the item and make it easy for them to find. Things like keywords and subject headings, do I put this book about how often wild birds attack aerial drones in with books about birds or with books about technology, if its a fictional novel do I put fantasy in it’s own section or mix it in with all of the other fiction, so on and so on.
OP is organizing books by how they would look for them. OP’s partner is thinking in terms of aboutness. This is a system that works for OP because it’s their personal library: they know basically what books they own and they only own books that are relevant to them, and if they know what the book looks like, that can be a quick way to find it.
In a library that assumes the public (or people who do not own that particular collection of books) are using the collection, that doesn’t work. Books are often re-issued in multiple covers, or re-bound in new covers when they get worn out, and if the user doesn’t know what the book looks like or is expecting a different cover, they’re lost. That’s why non-personal libraries used standardized cataloging systems like the Dewey Decimal System or Library of Congress System to organize a book by what it’s “about”, and then put books about the same or similar topics together, marked with labels and signage so a person unfamiliar with the book or collection can find their way to it.
Basically, OP’s system works for their own personal library, because it’s best suited to how the primary user—OP themselves—looks for books. OP’s librarian partner is coming from a background of thinking in terms of a public-facing collection, where aboutness is the key criteria and communicating it to a user unfamiliar with the collection is the priority.
This is interesting, because I organize my phone apps first by function but then by color. Because I do think of them visually first, like OP and the books.
Your doctor looked at you with concern and handed you a referral to a remote part of the hospital. Your hands shook as the paper initially appeared to say Department of Oncology. Now your knees go weak as you see it actually reads Department of Ontology.
Just finished watching S2 of Paradise on Hulu. Overall, I definitely enjoyed it and would recommend it. And any missteps or WTF moments (of which there were plenty!) were made up for with the reveal about the second super secret bunker being under Denver International Airport. That freakin' made my day.
I would eat it, but I would eat it more if bacon was involved.
Brussel sprouts are one of the foods I couldn't eat as a child without gagging, and then I grew up and learned there were other ways to eat them besides boiled and plain. Bacon definitely helps.
a funny thing about having conversations with people within institutions (academic in this case but also others) about gatekeeping, is that you end up having a conversation over and over in which you're like, "hey this alligator spike pit moat you have erected around your institution is keeping a lot of people out," and they're like, "well *I* navigated the alligator spike pit moat just fine," and you're like, "right. by dint of us having this conversation, you within the institution and me without, it is understood that you navigated the alligator spike pit moat. due to that being an inherent requirement of entering the institution," and they're like, "I don't think you understand the prestigious history of our alligator spike pit moat," and you're like, "is there a reason why there needs to be an alligator spike pit moat encircling the concept of higher education?" and they're like, "look, the alligator spike pit moat isn't for everyone. some people just aren't cut out for the alligator spike pit moat :)" and you're like, "right, yeah, like disabled people and people coming from poverty or unstable home environments or underserved communities or people dealing with difficult to navigate life events like pregnancy or abuse or prison or addiction or the death of a loved one, for example" and they're like, "how dare you imply that we are keeping those people out on purpose. it's their own problem if they can't wrestle the alligators and avoid the spikes while also disabled and/or poor and/or pregnant etc" and you're like, "well that seems evil," and they're like, "it sounds like maybe you're just bitter about the alligator spike pit moat because of your totally random individual experience with ONE bad alligator spike pit moat. have you considered therapy?" and you're like, "did you know that there's some patterns here in terms of how y'all are handling this stuff?" and they're like, "actually yes. we even have a department of alligator spike pit studies :)" and you're like, "that's great, how do I get access to and participate in those conversations?" and they're like, "well firstly you must cross the alligator spike pit moat"
if you can document that you have a medical condition that might make it challenging for you to navigate the alligator spike pit moat, they'll give you an extra 20 minutes to complete your navigation of the alligator spike pit moat
IMPORTANT: any injuries incurred as a result of navigating the alligator spike pit moat will be the sole responsibility of the injured parties. once you leave, the people who made you navigate the alligator spike pit moat and the institution that installed the alligator spike pit moat will never contact you again. except sometimes to ask you for more money.
A great many people who crossed the same alligator spike pit moats as me told me it's wasn't that bad, and then casually revealed they were gifted grandpa's spike-proof suit and had alligator-charming lessons starting in toddlerhood, and mom's map of the spike layout to study. They thought this was normal, and genuinely believed they had navigated the alligator spike pit moat without an unusual amount of assistance.
As a corollary, the alligator spike pit moat does not, in fact, weed out unserious and/or terminally mediocre individuals, because many of those people have been gifted alligator-grappling tools and spike-resistant boots. Alligators and spikes deter a great many enthusiastic, hardworking, and talented people who don't have a bunch of fancy protective gear and extensive training in alligator spike pit navigation.
As a second corollary, I am very grateful for the unusual amount of assistance I received in crossing the alligator spike pit moat.
A disturbing number of people did, in fact, acknowledge that the alligator spike pit moat was intended to keep people like me away from people like them and loudly expressed their displeasure that I was not eaten by alligators. One of them used the word 'besmirch'.
An equally disturbing number of people have attempted to use my successful navigation of the alligator spike pit moat as proof that my kind are not being kept out on purpose-- if I navigated it, everyone else is clearly just being lazy. Many of these people seemed to hope that my adventure in the alligator spike pit moat would make me see their point of view re: the alligator spike pit moat being necessary to ensure meritocracy bootstraps were happening in a meritorious and bootstrappy manner. It did the opposite.
TLdr: I have two STEM degrees from institutions known for the viciousness of the alligators and sharpness of the spikes in their alligator spike pit moats. This is not sour grapes. Fuck the alligator spike pit moat.
And somehow, it's always the faculty who publish in alligator spike pit studies journals about the structural disadvantages created by the alligator spike pit moat and how we need to decolonize it who fail to lower the drawbridge when a student needs a little help getting across.
Kind of like the people with the "in this house we believe" signs in their yards who oppose the slightest increase in housing density in their neighborhoods.
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner
andulkaphoto
baratheonpilled
turnnoffyourmind
