Responsibility/Values/Personal Growth

Instead of Paying for Your Child’s College Education, Give Them Something Far More Valuable

Learning the values of responsibility, persistence, and sacrifice is more important than a free ride

When I was a 17-year-old high school senior, my father asked me if I’d made any plans concerning what I was going to do after I graduated — his way of asking if I’d found a job.

Our conversation was a follow up to a previous discussion we’d had a few weeks prior. He’d made it clear how important it was for me to continue my education. He added that he thought my goal of wanting to become an electrical engineer was a worthy objective.

But unfortunately, he didn’t have the financial resources to pay for my college education.

The money he made came week-to-week, generated from a small grocery store located in a poorer section of Yuma, Arizona. And based on what he made as a grocer, he couldn’t afford to pick up the additional expenses of college tuition, books, and room and board.

It was simply a matter of economics.

Reluctantly, he told me if I wanted to pursue a college education, it would be up to me.

Bottom line, I would have to work my way through college. So as my high school graduation loomed closer, I made it a priority to find work.

I’d hoped to find a job that was interesting or engaging. But if necessary, I was willing to trade time for money, because my focus was on generating the most amount of income in the shortest time possible.

I worked out a budget, anticipating the cost of tuition, books, room and board, a car payment, and gas. Putting it on paper made it seem overwhelming, but it made me realize that, the sooner I found work, the more likely I could meet the financial challenge.

I got lucky.

I took the civil service exam and was offered a job at the Yuma Army Proving Ground as an engineering assistant. The work was interesting, and on occasion, exciting. One of my responsibilities was to participate in “tank drops,” observing heavy vehicles hit the ground after being dropped out of aircraft at various altitudes (simulating a parachute failure).

Ground tests were no less dramatic, with diesel-driven trucks subjected to overloads designed to produce catastrophic engine failure. My days were full of loud noises, lots of smoke, the occasional fire, and hands-on learning experiences that were far more valuable than anything I could have learned in a classroom.

That fall, I started classes at the nearby Arizona Western Junior College. I’d earned enough to pay for most of my budgeted expenses, but not enough for room and board, meaning I would have to live at home and drive back and forth to campus.

And yet, I never thought of myself as financially disadvantaged.

There were plenty of other students in the same boat. To supplement my savings, I immediately applied for a job as a lab assistant and ended up cleaning test tubes two afternoons a week. It paid $2.50 an hour.

In the spring of my freshman year, I obtained an FCC radio license and went to work at KVOY as a weekend disc jockey, making three bucks an hour.

Counting both jobs, I worked twenty hours a week, providing a net income of about two hundred a month — enough to pay for gas, clothes, and to help my parents with the power bill.

Between classes and work, I had no time for the so-called “social aspects” of college.

While other kids spent their Friday nights smoking pot, drinking booze, and participating in back-seat Olympics, I worked a four-hour shift at the radio station, followed by six-hour shifts on Saturday and Sunday.

As I said before, I never felt unfortunate or deprived. In fact, it was just the opposite. I knew what I wanted and where I was going.

Conversely, I saw those with “undeclared majors” as lost souls, drifting through life without goals or objectives, most of them dependent on their parent’s monthly checks to pay for the privilege of spending another year in the process of “self-discovery.”

Knowing my end-game — to be an engineer — gave me the advantage of knowing where and how to spend my time. And I also knew if it was going to happen, it was completely up to me.

After finishing my first year of college, I needed a full-time summer job to replace the part-time DJ work at the radio station. I took a job laying carpet in southern California. In the day, I worked in LA installing floor coverings in new, double-wide trailers. At night, I played guitar in clubs and concert halls. Those two jobs allowed me to pay for my rented room, buy an eight-year-old car to replace the ancient ’59 vintage Nash I was driving, and return to school in the fall.

My second year of college was no different from the first.

I returned to both part-time jobs — cleaning lab equipment two nights a week and doing weekend shifts as a radio announcer. About halfway through the first semester, I was offered a job as a teaching assistant, which meant teaching two intro-level engineering classes a week. But instead of compensation, I received class-credit, which I hoped would enhance my transcript when transferring to a four-year university.

Completing a two-year associate degree at Arizona Western presented a new challenge: I needed to continue my education at a larger university to complete the final two years of an engineering program.

The closest schools were the two state universities — Arizona State and the University of Arizona. Thinking U of A was the better choice, I drove to Tucson to participate in a hosted tour of the campus.

That night, our group was invited to a student mixer to experience the social side of university life.

But as I left the dorm room to make my way to the student union, clouds of drifting tear gas made it impossible to walk more than a few hundred feet. Fighting the effects of blurred vision, I returned to my room and listened to the news reports of a campus-wide demonstration which, according to the media, had escalated into “riot-like” conditions.

That night, I decided to attend Arizona State in Tempe, a school known for its laid-back, non-politically charged atmosphere.

There was just one problem.

I didn’t have enough money.

I could afford the tuition and books, but room and board were out of the question. As much as I hated to take a break from pursuing my degree, I put my education aside and applied for a job at Mountain Bell.

Hired as an engineering assistant, I spent the next 14 months working at an eight to five desk job, drawing plans for cable installation and confirming the phone company’s pole lines and terminal boxes were installed within dedicated easements.

I saved every penny I could from my $8500 annual salary. And in the fall of the following year, I moved into a tiny studio apartment located two miles from ASU. Based on stretching my money to last the entire school year, the most I could spend on food was five dollars a week.

An employee at the nearby market noticed I only bought food items that were on sale.

After I explained my limited budget, she showed me how to make a dozen different dishes using hamburger meat.

I ate one meal a day, usually in the late afternoon.

That spring I gave guitar lessons for five dollars an hour, which helped supplement my quickly dwindling savings. The end of the school year coincided with a zero balance in my checking account — I was broke.

But I considered myself lucky.

I’d completed three years of college. Another year and I’d be a graduate engineer. I would have the credentials to work at any number of national firms that paid well and offered excellent programs for continuing education.

I hit the streets looking for a job. But the country was in a recession. And part-time work had all but disappeared.

I stood around the Yuma cantaloupe packing sheds for hours, waiting for someone to quit or to call in sick. The work was hard, dirty, and dangerous. But the pay was good and with twelve-hour days, I could get a real jump-start on re-building my savings for the fall semester.

But after three days of waiting, I grew anxious.

Time was passing — time I should be using to make money, not standing around, waiting for someone to quit. I had to find something else.

I talked to the hiring managers of three radio stations. They didn’t need a disc-jockey. One of the local cable stations offered me a part-time job as a camera operator, but the night job was only a four-hour shift, three nights a week. It wouldn’t produce enough income to get me back into the classroom.

Out of desperation, I tried my first stint as an entrepreneur.

I hired five high school kids to go door-to-door and offer homeowners a five-dollar service to have their street address painted on the curb.

For every curb I painted, my “sales associates” received two dollars and I kept three.

After paying for paint, stencils, brushes, and flyers, I cleared $55.00 dollars a day. By the end of the summer, I’d painted house numbers on the curbs of about twelve percent of all the homes in Yuma. My “employees” were happy (having made four times what they would have earned working in a fast food-drive-in or doing yard work), and I had enough money to return to ASU.

It sounds like a happy ending, right?

Almost.

As the second semester of my senior year rolled around, it was obvious I wasn’t going to make it to graduation without additional funds. My tuition was paid, but I didn’t have enough money for the last three months of living expenses.

I’d never heard of a student loan.

I didn’t even know they existed. I signed the paperwork and agreed to pay the money back over the next five years.

Four months later, I went to work for Cutler-Hammer, a division of Eaton corporation, as a graduate electrical engineer.

During the five years it took to complete my degree, there were many things I wanted: A better car, an SLR camera to pursue an interest in photography, and new clothes to better fit my evolving adult frame.

But I never felt deprived or disadvantaged.

I knew these things would come later. My priority was on completing my degree and obtaining a coveted position in the electrical manufacturing industry.

Was it worth it?

Was the education I received from AWC and ASU worth the sacrifice, financial stress, and the constant need to find work?

Yes, absolutely. But I want to make it clear that the value I received had nothing to do with what I learned in the classroom.

In retrospect, the real benefit came from learning to take personal responsibility, realizing the importance of persistence, and adopting a mindset that anything is possible if I’m willing to do what it takes to accomplish the objective.

And that’s what today’s generation of students is missing.

With mom and dad typically footing the bill for college and living experiences, their adult children graduate without any real-world experience. They have no idea what it takes to make a dollar because they can’t translate the value of money into a personal exchange of time, effort, and commitment.

I’m sure there are a few of you who are reading this in absolute astonishment.

Perhaps you’ve been influenced or even coerced into believing it’s your responsibility as a parent to pay for your child’s college education. I’ve even heard some parents say it’s not only their responsibility, but an obligation of the highest priority. And so to pay for the $100,000 average price tag of putting a child through the formal educational process (based on a four-year public, in-state university), they slave away at extra jobs they hate, or give up on their dreams of travel, a second home, or a well-funded retirement,

Which prompts the question . . .

What cultural dynamic has influenced the mindset of parents to make them believe the cost of a college education is their exclusive responsibility?

I believe it results from a well-intentioned but misguided need to over-nurture a child, even to the point of “protecting” them from the financial realities of life.

Yes, I know campus recruiters promote the value of the “college experience” as a time in which social skills are developed and refined. But there are other skills that deserve a much higher priority — skills based on self-reliance, responsibility, and the realization that, if you’re going to make something of your life, it’s up to you.

By requiring your son or daughter to take financial responsibility for spending four years in a traditional college environment, the decision becomes a much more serious consideration . . . for them!

“So little Johnny, how badly do you want to go to college? Are you willing to work for it? If not, then why should you expect us — your parents — to pay for it?”

Yes, I know times change.

Cultural edicts evolve. But the values of responsibility and personal accountability are perpetual, and represent the benchmarks of a stable, productive society.

If there is one thing that has remained true since Adam and Eve left the garden, value is determined by the person who receives it — based on what costs them, and what they have to give up to acquire it.

“But wait!” you say. “I’ve got the money. Why shouldn’t I pay for my kid’s education?”

Because it sets a precedence. It establishes a trend. It creates a mindset of entitlement.

Certainly, consider helping a child who is already doing everything they can to complete their education.

But give them a free ride?

Instead of handing over a blank check, what if you helped your son or daughter realize the value of a college education by making it clear there is a relationship between the choices they make and the costs of those choices.

What would happen if you said, “Sorry, we won’t be taking on the financial responsibility to send you to college. We’ve decided to spend our savings on ourselves. We’ve worked hard all our lives, and if anyone deserves a higher standard of living, or to travel, or to enjoy the comforts of economic security, it’s us. And now, it’s your turn, to see what you can do. To put yourself out there, to make your mark.”

One possible outcome of this little heart-to-heart?

Your child will realize that money is not an unlimited resource, waiting to be picked like a piece of ripe fruit from the tree of prosperity.

And just a quick note to the kids who are cursing me under their breath, wishing I would shut up and disappear under a rock for suggesting that their parents deny them a financial support system . . .

Expecting your parents to pay for four years of self-indulgent decadence is a symptom of a much larger problem — financial dependency. It’s not only addictive, it can prevent you from finding out what you’re really capable of.

Paying for your own education makes you more mindful of its value.

It also raises the importance of the choices you make concerning your field of study and how you spend your time — because you’re paying for the outcome. When the money must come from your own pocket, you’re more focused on getting the greatest return from your investment.

Mommy and daddy won’t always be here.

Once you’ve reached adulthood, relying on your parents for financial support is like refusing to remove the training wheels on your bike. Yes, leaving those training wheels on will give you a ride that’s cautious, predictable, and uneventful. But you won’t go as fast or as far.

Is that the kind of life you want to live?

I’ll leave you with this

Perhaps the real responsibility we have to our children is not to guarantee them financial privilege, but to give them the advantages of choice. Certainly, let them decide what path they will follow. Allow them to pursue their dream in whatever manner they choose — as long as they’re willing to pay for it.

© 2021 Roger A. Reid. All Rights Reserved.

Roger A. Reid is the author of Better Mondays: The New Rules for Creating Financial Success and Personal Freedom (While Working for the Man)

Roger A. Reid, Ph.D. is the host of Success Point 360 Podcast and author of Better Mondays and Speak Up. A certified NLP trainer with degrees in engineering and business, Roger offers tips and strategies for achieving higher levels of career success and personal fulfillment in the real world.