Bleak House and Bleak Results

College "English Majors" don't understand what we used to read in High School

There’s a quiet tragedy unfolding in the realm of education—one that many are too polite or too distracted to acknowledge. Fortunately - or perhaps unfortunately - I am neither and will share. Call it “The Great Lowering,” or perhaps “The Great EnStupidification,” but it’s undeniable: reading comprehension levels are deteriorating across the board. And the implications of this aren’t just academic. They're generational. They’re cultural. They’re deeply personal—because the people who can’t read today will be teaching your children tomorrow. Normally I dismiss the “but these are the people who will be taking care of us” argument, but in this case, they WILL be teaching students in a few years. It’s pretty grim.

Let’s not dance around this. Reading comprehension is the backbone of all critical thought. The ability to understand what one reads—to engage with ideas, to wrestle with nuance, to analyze a sentence or a theme—is foundational for anyone hoping to participate meaningfully in society. Yet, in American classrooms today, even the basics are slipping away.

In my own high school classroom, the ninth-grade English final exam has become a case study in lowered expectations. It’s simple—perhaps insultingly so. Students are given a short poem (like Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken) or a two-paragraph passage. They’re asked to identify the main idea, select a few phrases that support that idea, and write one or two paragraphs explaining their reasoning. That’s it. And still, many struggle. This is supposed to be a culminating assessment, something that says: “Here’s what I’ve learned this year.” But if we made the test any more rigorous, the failure rate would skyrocket. And many students would give up entirely.

My colleagues and I have been watching this slow motion train wreck over the past few years. The final exams are ridiculously easy, short, and limited compared to those as recently as 10 years ago.

Why? One reason is that the middle school pipeline is deeply compromised. Digital learning has all but eliminated real writing practice. Grammar, mechanics, and structured composition are afterthoughts—if they’re taught at all. Students are taught to “engage with technology,” which in practice means they become experts at copy-paste shortcuts and AI content generators. By the time they reach high school, they can’t construct a sentence—let alone interpret a metaphor.

Teachers like me have started banning digital submissions altogether. Two years ago, I received a wave of essays clearly written by ChatGPT or cobbled together from anonymous blogs. That wasn’t learning—it was theater. And it wasted everyone's time. Mine. The students’. Their parents’. The taxpayers’. Everyone.

And it’s not just the underprepared ninth graders. The decay goes higher.

A recent study that I saw here showed that college students majoring in English—yes, English majors—could not comprehend basic passages from Charles Dickens’ Bleak House. Let that sink in. These are students dedicating four years of their life to the study of literature, and yet they cannot parse a sentence written by one of the most foundational authors in the English language. Only 10 to 15 percent showed any real understanding of the prose or figurative language. The rest were mystified, lost in a fog of outdated vocabulary and complex structure. The figurative language was a total mystery, and every nuance was missed.

Before I show you this, I want you to realize that this test involved seven paragraphs of Bleak House, and students were allowed to use their phones, or whatever other internet connected device they wanted to decipher Dickens’ words:

And they tell you that we are smarter, better, and more literate than the bad old days……

To summarize even further:

• 58% of students understood very little of the passages they read

• 38% could understand about half of the sentences

• 5% could understand all seven paragraphs

Charles Dickens’ work was once standard fare for high school juniors and seniors. It was challenging, yes, but it was also accessible. It stretched young minds, sharpened analytical skills, and invited students into the beauty and complexity of literature. To say that modern English majors can’t read it is not just an indictment of the students—it’s an indictment of the entire system.

Because those very students—those who couldn’t understand Dickens—will soon be teaching your children. That’s the well-worn path of the English major. Very few go on to become best-selling novelists or high-powered editors. Many, like myself, become teachers. And if they enter the classroom without ever learning to truly read and comprehend, what exactly will they teach?

You will assume, wrongly, that your child’s English teacher is well-read and insightful. You will trust them to guide your child through the subtleties of language, irony, symbolism, and tone. But if that teacher couldn’t interpret Dickens in college, what hope is there for your ninth grader?

This is not a theoretical problem. This is real. Tangible. Dangerous. And the effects are already here.

When I was in high school—not that long ago—we read Dickens. A Tale of Two Cities, in particular, left a lasting impression. Its iconic opening paragraph (“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...”) is etched into the memory of anyone who read it. It was accessible. It was meaningful. And it made us better readers, better thinkers. That was in 9th grade. Today’s students aren’t getting that chance.

And what’s worse: they don’t even care that they aren’t. One of my brightest students, a girl in first period, is capable of doing the work—but uninterested. I asked her what she’d do if she were allowed to stay home from school. Her answer? “Sleep and watch TikTok.” Not go for a walk. Not read. Not meet friends. Just scroll. At least she’s honest. I guess that counts for something.

And this is one of the smart students. I suspect she either has some innate intellectual horsepower, or she was read to as a child. She knows how to get by because the work has been so thoroughly dumbed down that anyone with minimal ability can score a B. She’s a product of the system, yes—but she’s also evidence of how easy it is to fall into passivity when nothing challenging is expected.

What can we do?

First, consider homeschooling—not the isolated stereotype, but real, community-driven homeschooling. Projects, co-ops, reading groups, field trips, mentorship. Homeschooled students often experience far more intellectual freedom and rigor than those in conventional classrooms, especially those in failing districts.

Second, monitor what your children are doing. If they’re on a phone all day, they’re not reading Dickens. They’re not reading anything. And they’re certainly not developing the skills needed to understand abstract ideas or historical context. They're being conditioned for short-form distraction and emotional immediacy, not long-term comprehension. I’ve had students admit to me that they sense that their attention span has deteriorated.

Third, demand better. From your schools. From your teachers. From your educational leaders. The great lowering is not an accident—it’s the result of policy, culture, and neglect. Reversing it will take effort, commitment, and courage. It means pushing back on the ideology that says rigor is elitist, that standards are oppressive, that everyone is “doing their best.” Because they’re not.

The good news is this: for the few who do still know how to think, how to read, how to write—opportunity awaits. In a world of lowered standards and shrinking attention spans, the ability to engage with language and ideas is more valuable than ever. Those who resist the dumbing down will be the ones who lead, who build, who create.

Let’s make sure your children are among them. Because the alternative—the future promised by a generation of Dickens-illiterate English majors—is one none of us should accept.