In one corner of the internet, students are posting TikToks about their final exams in the "Science of Harry Potter." In another, commenters are fuming: “And this is what tuition is paying for?” Cue the phrase that always shows up—Mickey Mouse degrees.
It’s the insult reserved for university programs deemed unserious or impractical. Think celebrity studies, surf science, or the sociology of pop music. The term is shorthand for educational fluff, often weaponized against creative, cultural, or “soft” subjects. But a new UK study suggests we may have misunderstood what these degrees actually offer—and what people want out of higher education.
Because maybe the joke isn’t on the students. Maybe it’s on us.
The phrase “Mickey Mouse degree” drips with class anxiety. It implies that certain fields—usually humanities or arts-related—have no place in a job-focused world. But underneath that insult is an outdated assumption: that a degree’s worth is only measured by its salary returns.
The UK’s Graduate Outcomes survey, one of the most extensive studies of its kind, tracked over 67,000 graduates just over a year after finishing university. It didn’t just look at income. It asked deeper questions:
– Is your job meaningful to you?
– Does it match your aspirations?
– Are you using your skills?
The results upended expectations.
– 86% said their work was meaningful.
– 78% said it aligned with their future goals.
– 66% said they were using the skills they learned.
And these figures didn’t just come from law or medicine graduates. They included people with arts, communications, and social science degrees—the exact ones often mocked for their supposed irrelevance.
When a university offers a course on Taylor Swift lyrics or the history of K-pop fandoms, it’s easy to roll eyes. But students aren’t taking these courses just to get clicks on social media. They’re studying identity, power, race, gender, and how culture shapes behavior. In other words: they’re studying the world.
Courses like these reflect a generational shift in how people relate to work, meaning, and success. For Gen Z, purpose isn’t a fringe interest—it’s a core priority. They’re not just looking for a paycheck. They’re looking for alignment.
And yet, much of the backlash to these degrees comes from the fear that education is drifting too far from the market. That fear isn’t new—it just wears new costumes. Today it’s Lady Gaga modules; in the 1980s, it was media studies. Always, it’s the same worry: Is this real learning?
Here’s what league tables don’t measure:
– Whether a student felt seen in their course material.
– Whether they discovered how to ask better questions.
– Whether they learned how to work across ambiguity.
Instead, rankings usually default to income five years out. But that data is deeply shaped by social background, gender, race, and whether your parents went to university.
When researchers controlled for those variables, the supposed “useless” degrees didn’t look so bad. In fact, they often delivered similar levels of satisfaction and professional alignment. In short: it’s not the course that’s failing the student. It’s the metric that’s failing the course.
We’re living in an era obsessed with ROI: return on investment. That mindset makes sense when tuition is high and job markets are tight. But it also warps our view of education.
Degrees become products. Students become customers. And any course without a clear job title at the end becomes suspect. But education—at its best—has never been just about outcomes. It’s been about curiosity, transformation, and the slow, awkward process of figuring out how to contribute meaningfully to the world.
To dismiss an entire field of study because it doesn’t funnel neatly into a corporate job path is to misunderstand both education and work. Some jobs don’t exist yet. Some careers are made, not inherited.
When we mock degrees in musicology or cultural studies, we’re not just making fun of students. We’re signaling to funders and policymakers that these areas don’t deserve support. And that’s dangerous.
Because cultural understanding, storytelling, history, and human-centered research aren’t fluff. They are the infrastructure of a healthy society. They help us process change, understand each other, and spot the systems we’re all tangled in. To devalue those disciplines is to shrink the collective space for imagination—and to leave it mostly to those who can afford to study them anyway.
Every few years, the Mickey Mouse degree panic returns. It rides the waves of economic stress and generational hand-wringing. It echoes deeper worries: Are our children prepared? Is the system broken? Are we being left behind?
But those fears aren’t really about students studying Beyoncé. They’re about identity, mobility, and the search for security in a shifting world. What the new data shows is that students aren’t as naive as critics suggest. They’re making choices not just with their wallets, but with their values. And that, perhaps, is the most useful education of all.
The next time someone mocks a degree in the sociology of pop culture, ask what they think education is for. If it’s just job training, then yes—many courses will disappoint. But if it’s also about understanding the world and shaping your place in it, then these “Mickey Mouse” degrees might be pointing us toward a richer, more human kind of success.
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