In the recreation center at the University of St. Francis in Joliet, Ill., Greg Mortenson is speaking from a podium, surrounded by massive projectors displaying photos of impoverished children from Pakistan. Mortenson is essentially telling his life story in an effort to explain how he went from amateur mountain climber to the director of the Central Asia Institute, an organization that builds secular co-educational schools for children in Afghanistan and Pakistan. His inspiring mission could have far-reaching implications for education, foreign policy, and terrorism. You wouldn’t pick this up, though, if you judged the speech by the reactions of the student audience, most of whom were compelled to be there by the “extra credit” carrot dangling in front their mouths, placed there by well-intentioned professors. The four behind me are texting their friends and commenting, “This is boring” and “How long is this?” Once Mortenson concludes, most of the students bolt for the door as if someone just shouted “free beer in the parking lot.” The children they just saw as they glanced up from their world of insulatory text message beeps, and I-pod beats, would kill for their opportunities.

This is merely a small example of the poisonous pool of apathy that I tried swimming against during my tenure as Chairman of the Council for Social Activism. I managed to get a tiny group of passionate students to join the Council, and, along with our advisor, Dr. Salim Diab—a Palestinian Chemistry Professor (undoubtedly on the NSA’s surveillance list) who up to the age of 18 lived under Israeli occupation and narrowly escaped death several times—did some fine work that I remember with pride.

We held events demanding rights of assembly for students seeking official club status with the Gay Straight Alliance. We provided an anti-war message on campus, which included traveling to Washington D.C. for a protest march, and reporting on it once we returned to campus. We encouraged voter participation, and together with the “Council for Environmental Awareness” promoted “green living” and environmental activism. We also focused on economic issues by partnering with Citizen Action, a progressive Illinois activist organization.

This was all great, but one problem prevented us from shaking the walls of the campus buildings: very few students ever showed up. All of our events featured the same small crowd of faculty members, are all veterans of the 1960s, and an even tinier crowd of students. Unfortunately, my experience is not unique. Prior to the Iraq invasion, the New York Times reported the frustrations of countless professors who tried and failed to rally support for anti-war activities. Even the Daily Californian, Berkeley’s newspaper, has reported a recent notable lack of political protest.

It is real easy to attack the heinous actions of policymakers in Washington. But, it may be more useful to take a moment out to critique the American people for being so easily manipulated due to their lack of interest in anything that does not directly involve them. This collective narcissism, a cliché of a certain segment of American youth, kids who bask in the smoldering glow and rest in the slowly shedding cocoon of middle-class privilege.

The University of St. Francis is located in Joliet, Ill., which is currently the fastest growing city in the Midwest. Most of the students are from Joliet, Plainfield or Naperville—a city Money magazine ranked the “second-best place to live in America.” Of course, there are some students from less-fortunate neighborhoods, but the majority is from revenue-drenched Will and DuPage counties. Typical contemporary ills—disappearing jobs, steep high-school dropout rates, and drug crime—are not problems most of the student body faced growing up.

One town that is painfully familiar with these problems is Gary, Ind. (the former Murder Capital of the World). “G.I.,” as it is called by many natives, was once home to a thriving steel industry, which provided jobs and revenue to support the city’s infrastructure and education. Beginning in the 1960s, Gary along with most of America’s manufacturing cities started a downward spiral. As industry collapsed, unemployment, crime, drugs, and poverty grew—and the rest of the nation turned its back.

All of this was at the front of my mind recently when I visited Indiana University Northwest in Gary to speak about a pamphlet I wrote called Lower Learning: Lessons I Should Not Have Learned in College. I was invited by an English professor who read the pamphlet and passed it on to her composition classes, to give a brief lecture and field questions. Lower Learning’s basic point is that there is a devastating lack of enthusiasm for learning and interest in politics among most college students and that major cultural and public policy changes are required to alleviate this problem. Considering that the book is partially an attack on the behavior of college students, I am always unsure how my peers will react to it.

The students at IUN were interested, engaged, and enthusiastic. They asked thoughtful questions about politics, media, and education. They were righteously angry about the way this country is governed, but also interested to find ways they could become active and involved in shaping policy.

They were passionate because they did not need to be instructed on the historical, political, and cultural background of problems facing America. Unlike the students at USF, they are not nestled in the cocoon of middle-class consumer society. Several of the IUN students told me they were working two jobs to pay their bills and tuition. One student told me his wife wanted to attend my speech but couldn’t get time off from her second job.

When I made the point that most crime results from harsh economic conditions—what criminologists call “strain theory”— the students offered examples from their hometown that illustrated the point. The students at USF, who by most measures receive a “better” education, usually ask for this basic idea to be spelled out for them.

USF students are shocked when stories like the Walter Reed scandal break into the news. The students in Gary, to quote Bob Dylan, “don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows”; several of them told me about friends or family members who went through the same treatment after returning from Iraq.

Although, I was saddened by their stories, I gained a lot of energy from their enthusiasm. I discovered that some people, even when they have sufficient reason to be self-absorbed, as they work hard and fight harder for respect in a society that respects wealth above all else, are compassionate and interested in adding another task to their already heavy work load—building a better tomorrow.

During my four years at USF as a campus organizer I felt disappointment and disillusionment. During the four hours I spent at IUN in Gary, I found something that I thought was unattainable and out of reach among the apathetic, the confused, the narcissistic: Hope.

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David Masciotra sent this second “Midwest” dispatch from Joliet, Ill., a once-industrial small city in the southwest corner of greater Chicagoland, where he’s a senior at the University of St Francis. Images: Sylvain Margaine (http://www.forbidden-places.be/).