College is often described as a place of discovery—a space where students stretch their minds, find new communities, and learn who they want to become. But for millions of first-generation students across the U.S., that journey is not only about academic challenge. It’s also about deciphering a code that no one told them existed. That code lives in the margins of student handbooks, whispered in hallway conversations, or hidden behind administrative language that assumes everyone already knows the rules. And when it comes to student conduct proceedings, misunderstanding that hidden curriculum can carry consequences far beyond a slap on the wrist.
For Kristin Ridge, associate dean of students and community standards at the University of Rhode Island, this problem isn’t theoretical—it’s deeply personal and empirical. Her doctoral research sheds light on how first-generation students engage with the structures of student conduct, revealing how institutional norms, while meant to be neutral, often fail to account for the unique knowledge gaps these students face. During her presentation at NASPA’s Student Success in Higher Education conference, Ridge described how something as simple as reading a student code of conduct can feel like reading a contract written in another language.
The term “hidden curriculum” might sound academic, but its impact is very real. It refers to the unwritten rules of engagement in higher education—how to appeal a decision, how to write a formal email to an administrator, or even how to interpret what “academic integrity” means beyond plagiarism. First-generation students, often navigating college without the benefit of parental guidance rooted in higher ed experience, are left to figure it out alone. When they misinterpret the conduct process, the result can be feelings of shame, exclusion, or even disciplinary action that might have been preventable with clearer guidance.
Consider a common scenario: a student gets caught in a minor dorm violation—noise complaints, underage drinking, or missing a residence hall meeting. To a continuing-generation student, there may already be an unspoken understanding of how to respond: show up to the hearing, speak respectfully, express remorse. But to a first-generation student, the process might be intimidating, vague, or feel punitive before it even begins. Some may avoid the conduct office entirely, fearing expulsion over what was actually a routine disciplinary procedure. In the absence of clear, accessible explanation, assumptions fill the void—and not in the student’s favor.
It’s not that institutions aren’t trying. Many campuses have invested in orientation programs, conduct FAQ pages, and peer-led workshops. But Ridge’s research points to a subtler problem: the language and format of these materials are often not designed with first-generation students in mind. Handbooks are frequently dense, bureaucratic, and lacking in concrete examples. The processes are described as fair and equitable, but without plain-language context or support systems embedded in the process, fairness can feel theoretical. One student Ridge interviewed described feeling like they had “walked into court without a lawyer,” even though the violation in question was relatively minor.
The statistics paint a stark backdrop. Over half of all undergraduates in the United States—about 8.2 million students—are first-generation. And yet, only one in four will go on to earn a college degree. That gap isn’t just about academics or finances. It’s about belonging, understanding the system, and knowing how to navigate it. When even a well-meaning conduct meeting can feel like a threat rather than a guidepost, something is broken.
Small shifts can make a difference. Ridge and her colleagues are exploring ways to revise the way conduct information is presented—not by lowering standards, but by clarifying expectations. That means simplifying language, using scenarios that reflect real student experiences, and offering support earlier in the process. It also means training staff to recognize when fear or confusion may be driving a student’s behavior, rather than malice or defiance.
It’s easy to forget that college, for some students, isn’t just a next step after high school—it’s a cultural leap. One student Ridge spoke with recalled thinking that their first conduct notice was the beginning of the end, a sign that maybe they didn’t belong on campus after all. They hadn’t realized it was meant to be a learning experience. That student, like many others, had no context for how common or minor the incident was. Instead of reaching out for help, they withdrew—socially, emotionally, academically.
There’s something deeply human about this challenge. We all carry unspoken rules in different parts of life. Anyone who’s started a new job or moved to a new country knows what it feels like to be on the outside of a system that seems intuitive to everyone else. The difference is, most adults eventually learn how to ask the right questions, or find someone who will explain things without judgment. For first-gen students, that support isn’t always there.
The good news is that this is fixable. Not overnight, and not without effort, but step by step. It starts with listening to students who’ve experienced the system first-hand. It grows through collaboration between student affairs professionals, academic advisors, and peers who can bridge the gap. And it thrives when institutions recognize that clarity isn’t just helpful—it’s an equity issue.
No one expects college to be easy. But it shouldn’t feel like a maze where only those born with the map can make it through 🧭🎓