A Polite Critique of the STEM-Centric University
While this site primarily centers on my research, a crucial part of my teaching philosophy involves grappling with the increasing STEM-centrism of the modern university. What I resist is not science itself, nor the rigor of the scientific method, but rather the way universities—under pressure from neoliberal logics of efficiency, profit, and marketability—elevate STEM disciplines as the singular model for all knowledge production. In this framing, methodologies that prize quantification, measurement, and precision become synonymous with “truth,” while the interpretive, rhetorical, and human dimensions of learning are dismissed as secondary. The effect is not just disciplinary imbalance; it is a narrowing of what counts as valuable work.
This tension is especially sharp in the teaching of writing. Too often, the university treats writing as a technical skill that can be “delivered” by anyone with content expertise. This belief that a strong researcher in physics, engineering, or computer science is automatically equipped to teach writing mistakes expertise in subject matter for expertise in pedagogy. The result is a troubling undervaluing of composition and rhetoric as fields with their own methods, histories, and forms of expertise. Just as I, a rhetorician, would not presume to teach molecular biology without the necessary training, it is unfair to assume that disciplinary knowledge alone prepares someone to teach writing effectively.
The issue here is not the scientists themselves—most of whom care deeply about their students and want them to succeed. The problem lies in how the neoliberal university uses STEM prestige as a shortcut, cutting costs by displacing rhetoricians and composition scholars in favor of technical instructors who can “double up.” This move is framed as pragmatic and efficient, but it erodes the recognition that writing is more than transcription or correctness. Writing is rhetorical: it requires attention to audience, context, and power, and it draws from traditions of inquiry that are distinct from those of the sciences.
In my classroom, I invite students to name and analyze these dynamics. We look at how disciplines become hierarchized—how “data” is positioned as more reliable than “interpretation,” how correctness is praised over complexity, and how the university reinforces these hierarchies through its funding, hiring, and curriculum. This is not to denigrate science, but to highlight how institutional structures can limit the full range of human knowledge by insisting on a single model of value. What emerges is a richer conversation about what writing—and learning—actually do: they create relationships, reveal contradictions, and enable us to navigate uncertainty.
If anything, the humanities have much to offer scientists. Rhetorical training can help scientists communicate their work across audiences and publics. Philosophical inquiry can sharpen ethical reflection around research practices. Literary and cultural analysis can illuminate how scientific narratives gain traction, or why certain metaphors shape policy. These are not luxuries; they are essential for a world where knowledge moves quickly, unevenly, and often with unintended consequences.
So the question becomes: how do we get universities—and the public—to see the humanities not as competitors with science, but as collaborators? What would it take for a chemist, an engineer, or a computer scientist to recognize rhetorical study as part of their own toolkit, rather than as an optional add-on? How can we create spaces where the humanities’ strengths—discovery, nuance, critical attention to power—enrich rather than compete with the sciences? These are the questions I carry into my teaching and my research. And they are the ones I hope readers of this site will take with them as we imagine a more balanced and genuinely interdisciplinary university.