Around 1 p.m. last Monday, my housemate and I were called to the back window of our kitchen by the sound of crunching. We live just past Union Street in a Village Housing Unit, so it didn’t take us long to put together that the two machines that were mowing down our backyard were College-sanctioned. We watched them trample patches of wildflowers and mow down bushes that must have lived undisturbed for several years. We stepped outside when they finished. Clumps of dead grass clung to our shoes. A rabbit sprinted past, up into the neighbor’s lawn. A section of the yard that had been shaded by bushes and young trees now rose up in choppy stumps. We were taken aback. What had been done to our yard felt pretty severe, and there was ample opportunity for things to go wrong in the process. Say that we had put lawn furniture in the backyard, or were housing a wounded bunny we found on the side of the road, or, more realistically, say that I had parked my car such that the machines couldn’t get into the yard. The carnage in the yard was jarring, yes, and my housemate and I admittedly mourned the mutilated plants. But, more importantly, somebody should have told us what they were planning on doing.

Though I was initially fairly disturbed by the whole event, I do not believe that we should never cut the grass in our yard. I did not hold a little funeral for each blade of grass, and I am not overly encumbered by the daily shame of not having been able to protect them. I don’t generally feel very strongly about the lives of the plants around me, which may or may not be a moral failing. The sticking point was that I was caught off guard. The unexpected murder of the bushes that face my window felt like a personal affront to me and my housemates. Why didn’t we know this was happening? Why did nobody consult us? Why does it feel like such a betrayal of trust?

Here is the wider issue: the College administration seems bent on not consulting with students on their decisions. This is true for our yard, yes, but it is also true for so many other aspects of college life. Let’s talk about AI, for example. Just last week, the topic of AI came up in one of my courses, and the class gave a collective wince. One student commented on their hatred of generative AI. The professor, curious, asked if any of us had been surveyed about our opinions on AI before the administration released their statement declaring Oberlin’s Year of AI Exploration. The answer was a resounding no. This oversight is reflected in President Carmen Twillie Ambar’s letter to us: “Over the summer, I have been consulting with a small group of advisors from the deans’ offices, key faculty members, administrative leadership, and the Center for Information Technology to help our community define the broad strokes of this exploratory year.” It is ironic, then, that the letter has been addressed, “Dear Oberlin community,” when it feels as if we, the community, have been cut out of the conversation. The letter seems to address us similarly to the way a parent might address a child. “Hello community,” Ambar seems to say. “I know best. My decision is final. Go to your room.”

Ambar’s letter voices the positive change she hopes this decision will inspire: “Done effectively, this approach, I hope, will spark curiosity, cultivate ethical engagement, and build foundational fluency with AI across our liberal arts and musical community.” This decision, however, has sparked some outrage. It might have been due to the fear of this negative reaction that the administration decided not to share this idea with us until it was already rolling out. The vicious cycle here is that this outrage is being caused, in part, because we aren’t being treated as members of the community. When our voices, ideas, and opinions are consistently being overlooked — about AI, about swipe access in Woodland Hall, about creating new majors — we are bound to get agitated. Suddenly, it feels like every little decision we’re left out of is a personal offense. Suddenly, I’m angry that somebody is mowing my lawn.

My goal here is not to stomp my feet and cross my arms and pout. My goal is to try to make the administration understand why every decision they make seems to have such strong backlash. It is not that Oberlin students are particularly obstinate, but that we are being denied the ability to understand the administration’s perspective. I am asking the leaders of the College to speak to us, not like politicians, but like people. Tell us what you’re thinking about doing and why. Allow yourselves room to be wrong. I think there is a world where I trust that the decisions the College makes are the right decisions. When it feels like I’m not even aware when the decisions are being discussed, that trust hasn’t been earned. 

Oberlin is a small campus, but we are made up of many strong voices. If you want to see that exceptional power, you have to pave the way for us to start working together. Show us that you are hearing what we’re saying. Done effectively, this approach, I hope, will spark curiosity, cultivate ethical engagement, and build foundational fluency with each other across our liberal arts and musical community.