The Crisis of Disclosure on Our Campuses

When I started teaching in the mid-90s, student disclosure of terrifying and heartbreaking memories felt sacred. It was even before I heard the phrase “hold space,” but I realized that I was indeed being tasked with holding something carefully and gently. Simultaneously, I was attending to other students’ reactions so that the classroom could be an open and comfortable space for discussion of highly charged and complicated issues.

I even recall in 2002 having a student who shared that the reason she had enrolled in my family violence class was because she was insistent on breaking the cycle of it in her own family. Her grandfather killed her grandmother, her great grandfather killed her great grandmother, and her stepfather threatened her mother constantly. And my student, too, was abused by her stepfather, sexually, when her mother was working the night shift as a nurse. Not only did she share the horror of that, but she also shared another secret that felt equally brave: she had once considered folding rat poison into a casserole, hoping to kill him.

I read so many papers detailing family dynamics similar to this. And I remember trying to catch my breath as I was reading, letting my heart and my head catch up with each other.

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The terror of it all gripped me, but perhaps what was the most compelling—and which had the strongest hold on me and still does—is the resistance that such students conveyed. It was also because of that resistance that I was able to help students make meaning of their experiences, most often by sharing with them sociological concepts and theories that would give language and voice to what they had endured.

Resistance can take many forms, and in my students, I’ve witnessed it in terms of writing and other art they’ve created and shared with me that wasn’t done for class but for the purpose of their own healing. I’ve also watched with profound admiration as students have organized events, rallies and concerts on the campus to assert their voices. Over the years, I’ve also invited some students back to speak at my classes about their experiences of survivorship, resistance and healing, and in so doing, newer students have seen them as real mentors.

A Different Context

Fast-forward to the present moment, and I’m struck by something else. I realize that I’ve come to think about student disclosure in a different way: It doesn’t look quite as brave anymore. Not because of anything that the students really did wrong, but because the social context for their sharing differs so significantly.

When I started to teach, students weren’t posting every hiccup of their private lives on social media, performing for the crowd. Nor were images of others doing that swirling around them. And they were talking about their struggles years before this country announced that young people were having a mental health crisis.

Nowadays, when students share, there’s a flattening to it that’s in keeping with their more overall flat emotional affect. Whereas students used to display great angst when disclosing things, they now share such information in a routinized, mundane way. I still hear about brutal transgressions that students have witnessed and endured in their lives, experiences that are every bit as horrific as years back. Yet, today they share it in a tone and cadence similar to how they tell me or their classmates what they ate for lunch. That steely cold reporting reveals the way that students are actively relying on and using what they know to be true in the culture. They are drawing on the messages that they know are concerning to adults.

While I don’t mean the word manipulating in a malicious way, students are indeed manipulating the language and the telling. For example, when students express themselves, they are not simply sad, they are depressed. They are not nervous, they are anxious. They are not having performance anxiety about an upcoming presentation or test, they are having full-blown panic attacks. Words like trauma even lack meaning now when people use it to describe anything and everything distressing, and we begin to lose sight of what those words truly mean.

Students announce in classes that they’ve attempted suicide. So hungry for a diagnosis, they’ll refer to themselves as having depression, anxiety or bipolar disorder, even if they’ve never sought counseling. In large classes, they very publicly report their diagnoses—self-proclaimed or offered by professionals—unlike students from years past, who spoke of such things in hushed tones in my office upon realizing they could trust me after a long conversation.

The Allure of the Reveal

These current students have quickly bought into a paradigm of disease—fully medicalizing any sort of feeling ill at ease. And in all our talk about the mental health of college students, nowhere are we really seeing an important discussion about what all this disclosure means and will mean going forward.

Judith Herman, whose groundbreaking work on incest changed the field of family violence and gave it new direction, refers to what she calls a crisis of disclosure. It describes what happens both when a survivor of sexual abuse goes through the process of disclosing a series of traumatic events and the fallout of that for not only the person but the constellation of the family in light of the secrets and silence. As a sociologist, I want to extend the idea of a crisis of disclosure beyond the family unit to see that we are now in the midst of a public crisis of disclosure on our college and university campuses.

But the concern isn’t just in the telling; it’s also in the way that meaning is lost. Catharsis is not enough. My former students from years back know this well. Disclosure was contextualized, and classroom concepts became a container for holding the sharing. Together with their peers, I’d push them to see the connections to what we were learning, as well as encourage them to take positive action in the form of volunteering, advocacy and social change.

When I think about catharsis, I think back to when I was writing a book about caregiving for my adoring and abusive father, and people often asked if it felt cathartic to me. I found myself perpetually confused by the question as it seemed to reduce the writing of such a book into a series of tawdry diary entries or the like. So much more was at stake, and so much more was involved.

Of course, I trusted that the question was well-intended and that people asked because they wanted to know that I was OK—they wanted the reassurance of healing. And in some cases, they wanted to know if they themselves set out to write whether they, too, might be able to expect catharsis.

But the problem is that disclosure on its own may not be enough. Neither disclosure nor catharsis are enough. And that’s because the heart of the telling and the heart and art of the healing are firmly rooted in the meaning of the disclosure—or you might say the meaning-making of the catharsis.

As a culture, we are caught up in the allure of the reveal. We see this in happy events like a pregnancy announcement complete with a dramatic gender reveal. We also see it in the titillation that some people have revealing family secrets. But if the real purpose of revealing secrets is to break the silence and initiate a healing process, then what is most transformative goes far beyond the telling. It goes to the kind of acts of resistance and meaning-making that I’ve previously described.

And that’s where we as educators are responsible for not just holding space, but holding students accountable for what and how they share so that it is not gratuitous, but instead meaningful. By doing this, we help students move beyond the paralysis of despair and empower them to change the course of their lives; we walk our students to the farthest edge of courage, all the while helping to ensure that they don’t fall.