There’s one thing you need to know about the United States of America: their roads are big, but their minds are small. Or so said my Uber driver, steering nonchalantly across the freeway with one hand on the wheel, and his neck twisted uncomfortably to deliver his aphorism. We were driving from Washington Dulles International Airport to Georgetown University. This was the start of a five week study abroad programme and a love-hate relationship with American higher education. I’d responded to the bon mot with a breathy laugh and a look out of the window, in disbelief that I hadn’t yet been in the country for three hours, and the first person I met had already begun his own TED talk on the state of the union. The first part of his observation seemed empirically verifiable. But the second seemed slightly harsh. I decided that I would be the judge.

In popular culture, American higher education has a bad rep. Operation Varsity Blues revealed the deep rooted corruption at the heart of admissions processes in prestigious colleges, and crippling student debt shows no sign of abating. A friend I met on my travels had actually been accepted into Georgetown, but had ended up attending a larger state university because of the expense of private college. Somewhere along that journey of institutional failing, the ivory tower lost sight of the people on the ground: the students it was meant to serve. But I wonder if, beneath a sclerotic university system, there is something about the forwardness with which my Uber driver launched into a lecture unabashed, that we might all do well to learn.

The student behind me was a former professional ballerina

My first American college class – writing and culture, compulsory for all Georgetown students – was jarringly reminiscent of the Disney American high school trope that I had been spoon-fed as a child. And, also like on TV, real life Americans were just as keen to talk about themselves. The girl to my left was a “rising sophomore” from Texas; the student behind me a former professional ballerina with the Washington Ballet, who had been taking part-time classes for over five years. Across the room were student athletes, basketball players who were required to take summer classes, so they had time for more training during the academic year. Our professor was a lively, jolly woman, eager to affirm everyone’s opinion; and even more eager to hear opinions voiced, even if they weren’t very sophisticated.

What was even more striking was how the American go-getter culture is almost perfectly encoded in their academic grading. An American classmate was horrified to hear that, approaching the last year of my degree, nothing I’d done so far – no supervision essay, no seminar attendance, no set of exams – would count towards my final grade. The culture of cumulative grading and rewards for attendance are the norm in the States. I was graded on “participation” (how much did I contribute to class?) as well as “low-stakes writing” (could I answer comprehension questions on the assigned reading?). I was sceptical at first. Graded participation creates a culture of sticking your hand up in the air when you don’t really have anything to say. Of piggybacking off someone else’s point just to have your voice heard that day. But the longer I was there, the more it was a welcome break from home, where it can feel like pulling teeth to get anyone to say anything. And most of the time, it’s not that people don’t know ‘the answer’— but that they do, and they know everyone else does as well. I’m guilty of it too. Unless I think I have something genuinely interesting to contribute, or vaguely original, I probably won’t say it.

It’s only in wading through the landfill of our everyday musings that the treasure is found

America, and its ‘participation trophies’, flip this on its head. They provide incentive to give it a go, even when we think we’ve ‘got it wrong’. They avoid that heart-wrenching drag of silence between a lecturer asking a question, and someone finally proffering a response. When a class slips into a flow, lectures become discussions. Information communication turns into the formation of opinion. People who might not have been bold enough to say anything at all, now have to. And maybe they find their voice along the way. It does mean a lot of rubbish and repetition. But it’s only in wading through the landfill of our everyday musings, that true treasure is found.

Part of the reason I applied to the programme was to see whether a graduate course in America would be for me – if I respected the academic culture, or if it suited me. I was searching for confirmation that the US would be a comfortable fit. But what I found was a system that simultaneously baffled and intrigued me. What if every supervision essay counted towards our final degree? What if essays became only one half of the way humanities subjects were assessed? What if we started, like they do, to think about participation rather than exams, as the core of studying? After all, participation is where learning happens.

Going outside your culture, even to a place as seemingly familiar as America, opens up even the most minute opportunity for cultural reflection questioning them. But it’s worth it – reflections are seeds that could grow, into changed attitudes, new behaviour. Maybe next year, when my lecturer asks a question, I won’t ‘um and ah’ about how intellectual my answer sounds; about what vocabulary will impress the most. I’ll just think for a bit, and then say what I think. In other words, I’ll participate.