Friday, December 21, 2007
- The Girl's Christmas pageant at her preschool. She attends a preschool at a local church, so they're free to use all the religious content they want. They did a Christmas concert with a vaguely nativity-ish stage set. Some of the kids (including TG) were dressed as sheep, complete with too-cute-for-words hoods with vertical ears. TG is frequently misunderstood; she's often quiet in public, but not because she's lazy or tuning out or even shy. She's taking it all in, and waiting for her moment. Apparently, going onstage is her moment. She upstaged the baby Jesus, and sang like it was going out of style. (As far as I'm concerned, she owns "Go Tell It on the Mountain" now.) You go, TG!
- Pizza with Santa. As I've mentioned before, our local Santa is a lovely older man who likes to hold court at a local pizzeria one Saturday each December. We went again this year, with my Mom joining us, and he greeted each of us by name. When asked what he wanted, TB said "I'm sure I'll like whatever you bring. But if you could bring some books, I'd like that." That's my boy! TG was a little more specific, but still charming and polite, and she asked for books, too.
- The downtown tree lighting. Our town has a Norman Rockwell-ish tradition of decorating the tree in front of the town hall with lights, and having a little festival (complete with Santa arriving on a fire truck) culminating in the lighting of the tree. TW and I have gone every year since moving here, including the year before TB was born. This year her parents came with us. It was unspeakably cold, but we had a blast. After the tree lighting, they had carriage rides and ice sculpting on Main Street. We checked out the ice sculpting. TB was fascinated by the chainsaw, which I found slightly unsettling.
- Santa's housecall. The local fire department does a Santa service where you can sign up in advance and bring wrapped and labeled gifts for your kids to the firehouse, and Santa will deliver them, on the fire truck, at an appointed time. We've done that a few times, but this year the weather cooperated and Santa was in a great mood, so he let TB and TG climb on the truck for pictures! When you get a housecall from Santa, a present, and a climb up a fire truck, life is good.
- Getting narc'ed on. I took TB and TG shopping for Mommy a few weekends ago. Sure enough, not a day later: "Mommy, guess what they have at [name of store]!" Sigh.
And thus begins my brief blogging break. I'll be back on January 2.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
The unholy convergence of unaccountable tenure decisions; the up-or-out nature of tenure; anti-discrimination clauses; and adventuresome lawyers has given birth to this.
As the IHE story tells it, Peter Hammer was denied tenure at the University of Michigan. (As in most tenure systems, denial of tenure meant loss of job. He is now working at Wayne State University.) Hammer is gay, and Michigan law does not prevent discrimination based on sexual orientation. However, the University (eventually) decided that discrimination based on sexual orientation is against its own policies.
Hammer is charging the university with violating its own policies by denying him tenure based on his homosexuality. The university is saying that the tenure decision was based on Hammer's merits.
Here's the good part.
Apparently, Hammer and his attorney have taken to examining the published records of each of the faculty who voted against him, looking for evidence of anti-gay bias. They have also questioned the professors on a number of social issues, such as abortion, probing for evidence of conservatism. Hammer is quoted in the IHE story as saying:
The theory of the case is that you are dealing with this very strong combination of religion and family values. You've got to get inside somebody's mind and present it in a way that can be objectively verified. You are looking for something that is so often invisible and shrouded in secrecy. (emphasis added)
So they're looking at membership in churches that take anti-gay positions, membership in organizations with conservative agendas, and so forth.
I'll admit, this is impressive. Alert readers know my position on tenure, but even I couldn't have come up with something this good. Wow.
Tenure at the U of M, as in most places, is apparently decided by a whole bunch of people, and therefore by no one person. In this case, the vote was 18 to 12 for him, but he needed two-thirds to win. Dollars to donuts, if he had won by 21 to 9, the individual views of the 9 would not have come into question. Which means, I guess, that you're allowed to be hateful, as long as you're relatively isolated. Bias, apparently, is only an issue when it reaches critical mass.
I don't know Hammer or his work. Whether he deserved tenure or not, I don't know. But the issues raised by this case are mind-boggling. It would be easy to pick up the flag of one side (“homophobia is real and despicable”) or the other (“now we have thought police?”), but that would miss the point. Both sides are right. The nature of the tenure system drives this conflict. That's the real story.
Discrimination law is based on an epistemological mistake. As soon as the plaintiff can prove membership in a protected class (in this case, nobody disputes his claim of being gay), and can show some sort of harm (in this case, denial of tenure), the burden of proof shifts to the defense to prove that animus toward the protected class was not the basis for the decision. (Technically, they have to give a reason other than protected class membership for the decision, and prove that the reason is not a pretext.) There is no presumption of innocence; the defense actually has to prove a negative.
How, exactly, do you do that?
Ideally, you have 'bright line' rules and processes that don't lend themselves to subjective decisionmaking. (“Nobody gets tenure without a Ph.D.”) But if that sufficed, we wouldn't need tenure committees. The whole point of calls for openness and transparency is that subjective judgment is an inescapable necessity. (If that weren't the case, we'd never see votes of 18 to 12. They'd all be 30 to 0, or very close to it.)
In corporate settings, each hiring (or firing) decision is credited to or blamed on a single person (the "hiring manager"). If I fire Bob, and Bob takes issue with it, I'm accountable. It's true that you sometimes see class actions against entire companies based on broad patterns of bias, but each individual decision was made by a single person. (Companywide layoffs are another issue, since they aren't about individual merit.) Individual tenure cases, by contrast, are made by committees. In fact, they're often made by multiple committees, each with varying expectations of deference from the others.
So in a tenure case, an entire committee – or at least a plurality of sufficient size to win – has to be able to show that it wasn't motivated by the wrong ideas. And someone challenging that committee's decision would be well-advised, in a very short term sense, in trying to find proof otherwise. You would do that exactly the way that Hammer and his attorney are: dig through the paper trail, look for smoking guns or suspicious clues, and even infer individual views from group membership. For example, the Catholic church is opposed to the death penalty, so surely no Catholics support the death penalty, right? And given the Catholic church's position on homosexuality, surely having too many Catholics on the committee would amount to institutionalized homophobia, right?
(Idea for fledgling administrators out there: convert to Unitarianism. If membership in a Catholic church establishes a presumption of, say, homophobia, then obviously membership in a Unitarian congregation would establish a presumption of openness to diversity. Unitarian Universalism: A Great Career Move! But wait...there's not supposed to be a religious test for public employment. So you can be held liable for having employees in the wrong churches, but you can't hire for the 'right' ones. The mind reels.)
Compounding matters is the up-or-out nature of tenure. There's no middle ground in a tenure case. You either get your job for life, or you hit the bricks. Up or out. So a divided committee still has to reach an all-or-nothing decision, and the results of that decision are assumed to be permanent.
I simply don't know how you combine 'proving purity of motive' with 'committees of thirty.' Proving a negative for a single person is dicey enough; proving it for thirty people is simply impossible. And while it would be easy to caricature Hammer as the PC police, he's only doing what the incentives of the tenure system make it rational for him to do. He's guilty only of playing the game well.
The game is the problem.
Unaccountable power will be abused. Committees defeat accountability. Do the math.
Expect to see more cases like this. Personally, I prefer the presumption of innocence to a need to “get inside somebody's mind.” And I prefer accountable decisionmakers making decisions with expiration dates. The tenure-committee-as-star-chamber model is as outmoded as tenure itself.
Or we can stick with an unsustainable tradition, and paper over the reality gap with ad hominem attacks ("homophobe!" "thought police!") on those who fall into the gap anyway.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Oh God, no.
No, no, no.
Nein. Nyet. Non. Huh-uh. Negative.
I'll qualify that. Extra credit that's built into the syllabus from day one, available to all students equally and in advance, can be defensible. I'd worry if it counted for very much -- a course grade should ultimately reflect performance on the core of the course, rather than the periphery -- but I can see an argument for moving a B to a B-plus in an art history class if the student does (and documents) some museum trips, say.
But this is the time of year when the kid who has been slacking or failing shows up, filled with sudden enthusiasm, begging for extra credit to make up for the work he either didn't do or did badly earlier.
From an administrator's perspective, this is a lawsuit waiting to happen. Don't do it!
Imagine: Johnny and Suzy are both on the cusp of failing. Johnny shows up and asks for extra credit assignments, and the prof. gives them. Suzy doesn't, believing that the grading system outlined on the syllabus is to be taken literally. Johnny passes with the extra points, and Suzy fails. Suzy finds out next semester that Johnny had an option she didn't have. She files suit, claiming disparate treatment. Your defense is...what, exactly?
Assume that Suzy has a couple of the magical 'protected class' memberships, too. Now we're talking civil rights lawsuits, with adverse publicity, multiplied damages, political overtones, etc.
Yuck, yuck, yuck.
Or: Johnny writes an extra credit paper, which turns out to be plagiarized. Can you fail him for cheating on an assignment that wasn't supposed to be part of the course grade in the first place? (If not, then doesn't Johnny have every incentive in the world to take a shot, gambling that he won't get caught?) Or maybe it isn't plagiarized, but it's a real steamer. Do you ignore it on the grounds that it's awful, or do you give something in recognition that it was extra work (even if the extra work stunk)?
I worry, too, about the cumulative effect of students encountering multiple extra-credit bailouts over the years. If students start to expect end-of-semester freebies to bail out three months of slacking, what, exactly, are we teaching them? Sometimes I think "suck it up" is one of the most valuable lessons we can teach. It's certainly an important life skill, and one that comes in handy at entry-level jobs. A kid who hasn't learned to suck it up is in for a rude shock when he gets to his first real job.
(I have a similar worry about makeup exams. A wise erstwhile colleague once shared her secret for getting around makeup exams: she'd give, say, four tests in her class, and count the best three. The students either stepped up or dropped the class. It struck me as brilliant, and I used it in my own classes to wonderful effect. Not having to distinguish 'excused' from 'unexcused' absences meant that I had to stop playing 'lie detector' when students told me stories about their lives. Grades reflected actual performance, rather than creative whining. Students either got their drama under control, or dropped the class and tried again when they were ready.)
Even-handedness can sometimes seem cold, and it can require saying 'no' when it would be easier not to. But the costs of ad hoc special favors are just too high to sustain. Fight the temptation!
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
I have what seems like thirty thousand logins, each requiring its own username and password combination. (That's not even counting PIN numbers.) Since the identity theft awareness campaigns have gained steam, some of these systems have changed their password rules to prevent anything easy to remember.
As the number of username/password combinations has metastasized, I've found exactly three ways of dealing with the information cascade, none satisfactory.
The first is to use the same combination (or one of the same two combinations) for everything. It's relatively easy to remember, which is no small thing, but it isn't terribly secure. Someone who could hack into one account could hack into many, many others without any effort. The problem with trying to do the electronic equivalent of the James Spader character in Sex, Lies, and Videotape ("I only want one key") is that once that one key is lost, all is lost.
(I've seen programs that remember your passwords for you. This strikes me as an accident waiting to happen. It's literally the one key that rules them all.)
The second is to write them all down, and keep the list handy by the computer. Leaving aside my, um, distinctive handwriting, it raises a fairly obvious security issue. It also raises an issue with updating. Passwords expire at different times, but too many cross-outs make the list useless, and too-intensive updating means I just won't do it.
The third is simply to accept that, at any given moment, a disconcerting amount of my personal information is inaccessible to me. Besides, system admins love nothing better than frantic calls from users who can't remember their passwords. They live for that stuff.
I've done passwords in series -- all the characters from a particular show, important historical dates, hurtful childhood nicknames, that sort of thing. I've taken lines from Great Works of Western Thought and used them as series. (My fave: at Proprietary U, the ERP system made us change passwords every 30 days, and would remember a year-long cycle, so you couldn't re-use any of your previous eleven passwords. Towards the end, I started a series: "Workers" "World" "Unite" "Nothing" "Lose" "Chains." It was good for a chuckle.) But it's embarrassing when your system hiccups, and you get the tech guru in there with wing of bat and eye of newt, and he asks you your password, and it's something like "Winona8675309" or "Scalia666." It's important to maintain some basic level of surface banality.
I've heard talk of 'biometrics,' where you have to get a retinal scan or a fingerprint reading instead of entering a password. It may very well be more accurate and secure, but the 'creepy' factor is pretty high. It's also incredibly vulnerable, in the sense that once somebody figures out how to pirate a retinal scan, you're done. If someone steals my password, I can change it. If someone steals my retinal scan or fingerprint, I'm pretty much out of luck.
Is there a better way? Am I missing the obvious? The number of logins I have to remember at any given time just keeps growing, and there are other things on my mind.
Monday, December 17, 2007
The faculty, I'm reasonably certain, will be long gone. Entire hallways will be deserted. But we'll heat the whole place anyway, and a few benighted souls will be on hand to field anybody who theoretically could show up.
You should hear the grumbling. Nearly everybody -- myself included -- is burning a vacation day on the 24th. We have real 'skeleton crew' representation, consisting of a few good sports.
The human side of me thinks this is kind of asinine, and wishes the college would just be closed on the 24th. But the administrator in me actually gets it. (That's not to deny that some of us administrators also happen to be human. It's just that we have to be able to turn it on and off.)
One reason is precedent. In a collective bargaining environment in which people are quick to assert 'past practice' status for anything ever done, this year's mercy closing becomes next year's entitlement. And when the 24th is a given, the 23rd starts to look kind of silly. The college could try to argue that the 24th was special for falling on a Monday, but being right is no guarantee of winning.
So to avoid a series of future arguments, the college is playing Scrooge and staying officially open -- if mostly dark -- on the 24th. There's a certain Dilbertish quality to it, and I'm sure the folks who actually show up will be bored out of their minds, and it's a criminal waste of natural resources to heat all those empty buildings, but it solves a real problem. If you don't hold to some lines in the sand, even when they seem a little silly, 'past practice' can become nearly unstoppable.
"Aha!," I hear my astute readers saying. "There you go again, blaming the unions. What about working out memoranda of understanding with the relevant unions in advance, stipulating that this isn't setting a precedent? That way, everybody wins!" Sadly, no.
The answer has to do with how it would play in the press. If the college grants an 'extra' day off in the name of saving heat and electricity, the local papers would play it as featherbedding. The usual suspects would start grumbling about public employees goofing off on your tax dime, and how we have to get tough on all those overpaid administrative assistants. ("Don't they get lots of paid vacation already?") If we were a private college, the 'memorandum of understanding' route would make sense, and might even come off as statesmanlike. But as a public institution, that move would look like a conspiracy to rip off the long-suffering taxpayers. Even if the 24th is demonstrably an utterly unproductive day. Even if the money saved in utilities alone more than made up for it.
The featherbedding angle would be especially damaging when our local public sector is facing some pretty nasty financial issues already. It's hard to plead poverty to the taxpayers, then turn around and grant 'extra' days off to unionized employees, many of whom get better benefits than do most taxpayers. (One of those benefits is a buyout of unused vacation days upon retirement. Requiring people to take a vacation day actually reduces the cost of future buyouts, so there really is a financial impact to this.) The folks who like to demagogue such things would beat this to death.
So even though exams will be long over, grades will have been posted, and there won't be a professor to be found, we'll be open. Your tax dollars at work!
Friday, December 14, 2007
This is really an exercise in idea-stealing, rather than a developed thought.
Have you seen (or do you work at) a cc that does a consistently good job of presenting its faculty in public settings as local experts?
I've been frustrated with the inequities of visibility from discipline to discipline. Some of the evergreen disciplines – including my scholarly home, the social sciences – are virtually invisible to the larger community. I'd love to get a sort of in-house speakers' series going, with members of our faculty presenting one-off public talks on topics that combine their own expertise with popular appeal.
We've done a little of that, and the little we've done has been gratifyingly well-received. But I'd love to encourage a higher profile in this area, since it strikes me as exactly the sort of thing that a community college ought to do. If we can bring local people to campus for talks they'd find interesting, everybody wins. The college gains some local support, the faculty get to show off a little (and make a few bucks), and the community gets access to a wonderful resource that it's already paying for.
If you've seen this done well, what was the trick? I'm casting about for portable best practices, which is a fancy way of saying I'm looking to steal/imitate some good ideas that have worked. We have some wonderful faculty with expertise in areas of wide interest, and I'm tired of that being a relatively well-kept secret.
Wise and worldly readers – your thoughts?
Thursday, December 13, 2007
This week I ran into another of those “the policies make sense, but the application is silly” scenarios. A wonderful, well-credentialed, hardworking, and well-respected leader of the full-time staff asked me about redefining her job so that it would include a half-time teaching component in her field of expertise. (It's a relatively specialized area, and her academic credentials are more than good enough. She has taught courses for us on an adjunct basis, and done an outstanding job.) We're currently doing a search in her field of expertise, so it wouldn't involve creating a job out of thin air.
Under our current system, it can't be done. You can be faculty with release time to do some admin work on the side, or you can be admin/staff and teach as an adjunct. But you can't be half and half. (That's why deans here don't carry faculty rank or tenure. When I teach a class, it's on an adjunct basis.) Your primary function has to be on one side or the other.
Tenure is the single biggest sticking point. Under our system, any full-time employee for whom teaching is a part of their regular job – as opposed to something additional – accrues credits towards tenure. At a certain point, that employee is either awarded tenure or fired. Someone whose job is half faculty and half staff would get tenure in half her job (or get fired from half her job). If the other half of her job didn't work out, she'd have half a job, but with full benefits and lifetime security. From the college's perspective, that doesn't work.
There's also an issue with dual union membership. The staff has one union, and the faculty another. (Each is affiliated with a different larger union, too.) Someone who is half-and-half would be under separate and sometimes conflicting contracts. (She'd also have to pay two sets of dues, though I file that under 'her problem.')
Defining workload would be tricky. It couldn't just be a matter of setting aside, say, six hours a week from the office job to teach. Full-time faculty teach fifteen hours per week, yet get full-time status. We don't count teaching hours on a one-to-one basis towards workload. I don't begrudge that; having been faculty, I understand that class prep and grading and committees take time. As long as someone is purely in a faculty role, it's really a non-issue. But straddling the two camps means having to convert – literally, mathematically, convert – class time to total hours of worktime per week. Nobody really wants to have that conversation, since there's no elegant way to do it. Do you only count semester weeks, or do you factor in summer and winter vacations, too, since staff don't get those? What about preparation days? Sabbaticals? I get a headache just thinking about it.
(These issues don't arise when the staffer works a full-time staff job, then picks up an adjunct course at night. In that case, the adjunct course is paid at the adjunct rate, and that's that. She has done that, but is trying to avoid it to avoid a crushing overall workload.)
The shame of it is that, in many ways, it's a great idea. The students would get the benefit of learning from someone in the field. We'd get the benefit of keeping a great staff person who is also excellent in the classroom. She'd get the benefit of doing what she loves and still getting home at a reasonable hour. And over the long term, I suspect the college as a whole would benefit as some of the negative stereotypes that faculty and staff have of each other would melt away.
The optimist in me says that 'halfway' positions like this make too much sense not to happen eventually. But the realist in me isn't holding my breath.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
This is a dirty little industry secret.
In some necks of the woods – moneyed ones, especially – this is the time of year when we start to see a parade of young men and women with hangdog expressions and very angry parents. The students went 'away' to expensive residential colleges in September, and partied their way to a GPA that starts with a zero. Come December or January, their parents drag them to the local cc as a sort of combination boot camp and purgatory, usually with some sort of “improve or else” mandate to the student.
(I've had some remarkably frank discussions with parents who say things like “I'm not paying twenty thousand dollars per semester for him to cut class! He can cut class here for much less!” It's hard to argue with logic like that.)
It's a delicate situation. We take all comers, including those who haven't quite pulled their stuff together yet. We're all about second chances, knowing full well that 18 year olds sometimes overdo it a bit when they get their first escape from parental supervision. Some will prosper with the second chance, and some won't. We know that from the start.
But there's really no graceful way to advertise this.
“Repent Your Sins! Start Over at Nearby CC!”
“What Happened at Snooty U Stays at Snooty U.”
“Dorm-Free since 1963!”
And it doesn't do much for office morale when students and their parents openly refer to enrolling at your college as a form of punishment. It's often followed by the always endearing “if you do well here, you can transfer to a real college.”
Serving these students is part of our mission. We're glad to do it, and I'm sure that some of these students actually use the second chance productively and get back on track. (I haven't seen any numbers on this group specifically, and I imagine the data gathering would be a bit delicate.) But it's a mission we really don't discuss much, and that few folks are comfortable embracing publicly.
So I'll just float it on the internet, and hope that readers who see students in this situation think of the local cc as a viable option for a do-over. Just be very, very diplomatic when you make the suggestion.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
In a story in yesterday's IHE about for-profit companies taking over nonprofit colleges -- the gist of the story was that the 'trend' is tiny and unlikely to grow anytime soon -- a particular quote really jumped out at me.
Palmer also predicted an "enormous wave of philanthropy" as baby boomers move into their 60s and begin to donate to their alma maters. That influx of capital, he suggested, would provide financial stability to institutions that would otherwise find themselves looking for a potential for-profit suitor.
(The "Palmer" in the quote is identified in the article as "Bradley Palmer, the founder and managing partner of Palm Ventures.")
I'll admit, this angle simply never occurred to me. I've read many a piece about for-profit higher ed, and I've worked in for-profit higher ed, and this is the first time I've ever encountered this argument.
I can't decide if it's loopy or brilliant.
Admittedly, part of my blind spot may have to do with working at a cc. One of the frustrations of the cc sector is that our most successful alums generally -- with exceptions -- identify primarily as alums of wherever they went after they graduated. Someone who graduated the local cc and went on to Midtier State for the B.A. will more likely identify as an alum of Midtier State than as an alum of the local cc. This has predictable -- and dampening -- effects on giving. We're working on that, and we absolutely need to improve in that area, but there's a blind spot that's hard to overcome.
(Besides, as someone who was fed the "great wave of retirements" line upon entering grad school, I tend to treat projections like these with a wee tad of skepticism. They have a way of ending in tears.)
That said, the colleges to which the article referred were -- I think -- primarily small, private, economically marginal four-year schools. The recent efforts -- on which the jury is still out -- by alumni to resuscitate Antioch is presumably the kind of thing Palmer had in mind.
Unless there's a pretty drastic change in the way colleges use philanthropic money, though, I don't see this working for colleges in trouble.
First, the most successful fundraisers are the schools that are already wealthy. Nothing succeeds like success, and philanthropists like to believe that they'll be able to see the fruits of their generosity for years to come. If the college is on life support, that may smack of "throwing good money after bad." In one sense, that's perverse, but it's also the way the game is played. You can raise money by showing that you don't actually need it.
Beyond that, though, it's incredibly rare to see donations used for operating funding. Operating funding covers the day-to-day expenses of a college, like payroll and utilities. Donors usually designate their funds for either 'capital' funding -- buildings and suchlike -- or scholarships. (Endowed chairs are a limited exception.) Colleges don't go under for lack of buildings or lack of scholarships. They go under when they can't make payroll. To the extent that a college can offload some of its payroll onto endowed chairs, that could help, but the ratio of 'gift' to 'offset' is much higher than one-to-one, given the nature of an endowment. Endowed chairs can also come with strings that may or may not comport with the mission of the college, as it understands it. (Then again, a financial gun to the head has a way of clarifying matters.)
Until you hit the critical mass of a really massive endowment -- where you can pretty much live off the interest -- philanthropic money will be more cyclical, and even capricious, than money from almost any other source. A college that relies on non-endowed philanthropy to balance the books has to be incredibly assiduous in courting donors, and has to hope against hope that nothing else comes along (a natural disaster, a conspicuous disease, etc.) to divert that money.
I'm guessing that if there actually is an enormous wave of philanthropy, it will actually widen the class divide in higher ed, rather than work to the benefit of the marginal colleges. The colleges that produced the wealthiest alumni have the easiest donor base, and the easiest case to make that the donors will be able to see the fruits of their gifts for years to come. The more marginal schools -- the ones that produce teachers and cops and nurses, rather than financial services gurus and cardiologists -- will benefit much less, if at all. They'll need it more, of course, but that's not what philanthropy is about.
Hint to my well-intentioned, gloriously-wealthy readers: endow some professorships at your local community college. If you don't like that, pay for nursing labs. The human good you'll accomplish with that will far outstrip yet another plaque at Snooty U.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Bowing to the inevitable, I've spent far too much time lately shopping. Which means...
The aural assault of cheesy Christmas music has begun.
I'll admit, having been raised in a musically unfortunate household (Neil Diamond, Anne Murray, Rita Coolidge, Air Supply), I'm a little jumpy when it comes to awful music. Part of the reason I grabbed onto satellite radio the way drowning people grab onto life preservers was that it offered the prospect of escaping the tyranny of Lite Hits and NPR pledge drives.
But this time of year, there is no escape. And the Lite Hits stations are at their worst, replacing the boring-but-tolerable (Avril Lavigne, Matchbox Twenty) with music so awful that I have an actual physical reaction.
The worst, I think, is “Christmas in Sarajevo,” by Mannheim Steamroller. When I hear this, I actually feel capable of violence. Mostly against Mannheim Steamroller. It's as if you took the soundtrack to a series of beer commercials, ran it through a blender, and added chimes. It's like John Tesh meets Yanni, without the subtlety. Every time a radio station plays this, the baby Jesus cries.
“Feliz Navidad,” by Jose Feliciano, gets my hand to the 'off' button at warp speed. I'm all for cultural inclusiveness, but crap is crap.
And that #*(%&)#% Paul McCartney song – the one where he keeps repeating “simply, simply” -- simply induces nausea. That's not hyperbole. I actually feel sick to my stomach when I hear that song.
Honesty, I'd rather hear the dogs bark “Jingle Bells.”
The Christmas songs that don't bother me are the ones clearly intended for kids. “Frosty the Snowman,” especially the original, is disarmingly sweet, as is “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” The Charlie Brown songs are lovely. And there's nothing wrong with “All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth.”
For adults, the classic carols are perfectly fine, if a bit predictable. And some songs just sound like Christmas songs, even if they aren't. (“Better Days,” by the Goo Goo Dolls, sounds like a Christmas song to me.) I'll even cop to liking Adam Sandler's “Hanukkah Song,” though I think slightly less of myself for it. And Bob and Doug McKenzie's version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” is a neglected classic.
But if I hear that #*%@)% McCartney song one more time...
What Christmas songs drive you around the bend? What's your nominee for Most Annoying Christmas Song?
Friday, December 07, 2007
The Fall rubber chicken circuit is in full swing again. Lots of evening events, celebrating all manner of good things. Each one worthwhile in itself, though they add up.
This morning, at home:
The Boy (weakly): I didn't get to play with you last night.
I'm going in late today, so we can walk to school together.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
A long-suffering correspondent writes:
I'm an adjunct . . . everywhere. Note that I am sending this from the
Ringling College of Something Specific, where I have been teaching a 67
percent load for six years. I am also teaching for a local community
college that has several branches. The CC pays literally half what
Ringling does, and I am not treated nearly as well in a general-person
kind of way. Furthermore, the CC has to abide by certain state
regulations, which translates into significantly more work for me at
far less pay. My boss at the CC has made it abundantly clear to me
that I am his favorite choice. And why wouldn't I be? I am really,
really good at my job, the students like me, some of them fear me, I'm
very qualified, experienced, I always say yes and in the past I have
done some really Herculean favors for the school overall. Two years
ago, I was about fifteen minutes' pregnant and discovered I was to
fill in for a full-timer on sabbatical (at adjunct pay!), which meant
driving between three campuses in one day, teaching out of three
textbooks in one week, AND they changed the textbooks on me without
telling me, so I had to do entirely new prep from scratch in the midst
of all this joy, too. I did it, and I did it well, but I loathed it
the entire time. The only reason I continue to work there is because
they offer summer classes and Ringling doesn't, and we need the summer
money just to keep from being homeless. I could go on, but I gather
you are familiar with the plight of adjuncts generally.
Right now I am slated to teach one class there next term, from 7 to 10
at night about 30 miles south of where I live, and it will mean a) I
will get home at nearly 11, and can't see my husband, bathe the baby,
etc. and b) the other college had to rearrange my schedule in a very
inconvenient way to accommodate it. Now Happy Boss wants me to teach
another course (not a section, another course) on another night from 7
to 10. I so desperately want to say no that it's keeping me up at
night, seriously. But I'm afraid if I do, I won't be offered summer
teaching. He has shopped this class to every other adjunct he has, and
they've all refused it, so if I say no it's going to be cancelled, oy
the guilt. I have to give him an answer this week, and I don't want to
be rash. I should also add I'm in school (trying to make a better
future so I never have to do this again.) Furthermore, this semester I
had the delight of teaching a seriously disturbed student and I am
worried about my physical safety on campus late at night next term.
I've had a security detail assigned to my classroom, hooray.
What to do? I know this was overly long - I just wanted to illustrate
the egregiousness of how they treat me, and how I stupidly keep saying
yes in spite of it. I'm like . . . a really dumb girlfriend!
Wow. No sticky issues here!
I don't know your Happy Boss, so I can't say this with any finality, but I can guess both why he likes you and why things won't improve unless you make them.
You're solving his problems for him. He's grateful, and relieved, and he has learned to turn to you when he has a problem class. He probably does respect your ability, which is precisely why he's happy that you keep saying yes. He's getting quality and flexibility on the cheap. From his perspective, what's not to like?
And why, exactly, do you expect that to change?
He may sincerely mean it when he says he'd love to hire you full-time. Or he may not. Even if he does mean it, it may not matter. He may not get a line to fill for many years, and when he finally does, he'll have to do an open search, at which point his opinion will be one of many, and you'll be up against candidates you aren't up against now.
As I interpret it, you have two goals you're trying to attain:
Non-starvation in the short term.
A full-time job in the long term.
These are both worthy goals, but your chase of goal 1 is short-circuiting your prospects for goal 2.
More adjuncting at the same place won't improve your chances of a full-time position anywhere. At best, it will keep you fed. But there are other ways of keeping yourself fed. And those other ways might leave you more time to make yourself a more attractive candidate for full-time positions.
Good, hardworking people sometimes believe a little too strongly in the 'virtue will be rewarded' theory. It could be, but colleges don't hire to reward virtue; they hire to meet needs. If they don't need you, your dazzling endurance and heroic selflessness and general wonderfulness are simply irrelevant. That's not nice, but it's true.
(True example: my cc didn't hire anybody in my scholarly discipline for 35 years. I refuse to believe it was for lack of qualified people.)
With childcare, financial stresses, and the hassles of working at two colleges, it sounds like you haven't had the chance to step back and think about the long term. It's time to do that. Whatever you do, you need to break out of your rut.
My recommendation – and wise and worldly readers, if you have better ideas, don't be shy – is to turn down these classes, and take some idiotic (and definitely non-academic) job in the meantime if you have to to eat. Get some distance on your situation. After a couple of months, when your brain starts to snap back to its original shape, ask yourself again what you actually want. It may be that tenure-track job; if it is, then start organizing the short term around improving your chances of that. Or you may discover that, while you like teaching and you're good at it, stepping away isn't the end of the world. There are other rewarding and valid – and often more lucrative – ways to make a living.
Either way, it's not selfish to take a time out and step back. It's self-preservation. You're allowed.
Wise and worldly readers – your thoughts?
Have a question? Ask the Administrator at deandad (at) gmail (dot) com.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
I've found a few pieces recently in blogland that are so on-target that the only way to do justice to them is with annotated links. So if you haven't seen these already, check them out:
Reverse Age Discrimination
Chad Orzel does a masterful job of slicing and dicing the single silliest argument I've read in a long time. When I read the IHE piece he attacks, I remember thinking that I couldn't really respond to it without seeming mean. But Chad manages to take the high road, even while artfully tearing the original author a richly-deserved new one. Nicely done.
Regular readers know that I consider Aunt B., at Tiny Cat Pants, a national treasure. In this post about gender politics and rape she makes so much sense that all I can do is tip my cap. As a father of a son and a daughter, I can only hope they grow up in the world she advocates.
With Idiocy Like This, Who Can I Vote For?
Aunt B. is on a roll. (Maybe it's the effect of some good sleep?) Here she points out -- with the all-too-rare gift she has of grasping what should be obvious -- that attaining universal health coverage through individual mandates is, what's the word I'm looking for, colossally insane. Sometimes when struggling young people don't buy health insurance, it's because...wait for it...it's too f-ing expensive! Who woulda thunk it? Then, when the young and healthy don't dilute the risk level of the pool, the cost for the rest of us goes up.
If only (single payer) there were some way (single payer) to cover everybody (single payer) that has been shown to work (single payer) at lower cost (single payer) in other countries (single payer). Not to worry -- our best minds in Washington are hard at work!
A new correspondent -- and apparently the kind of student we'd all like to have -- writes:
As a student, I have gotten a lot more careful over the years with how I
fill out student evaluations, because I know more about what they mean
for the instructors. I've read a lot of complaints on academic blogs
that students do not carefully fill out the evaluations and that their
criticism is sometimes unfair. I try hard to be both constructive and
fair. I almost always include written comments, unless I've got
absolutely nothing to say.
My question relates to how the evaluations are used by administrators.
The form usually asks for separate written comments addressing such
things as what could be improved about the course, how useful the
readings and assignments were, etc. Thinking that the feedback could be
useful to the instructors -- especially brand-new, inexperienced ones --
I've always answered them honestly, identifying both strengths and
But I find myself wondering: if the way evaluations are used is as
abusive as some academic bloggers feel it is, maybe I should just opt
out, or bubble in all 5's and leave it at that.
If I give an instructor generally high numerical marks, and note in the
written comments that the instructor's assignments are clearly written,
obviously well thought out, and very helpful; the readings are
informative; and the class exposed me to concepts I hadn't been familiar
with but which were very important -- but that his lectures are somewhat
confusing due to disorganization and a lack of "signposts" -- have I
just hosed someone's (by all indications very promising) career by
pointing out a weakness?
Likewise, if I give extremely low ratings to a department-designed
cookie-cutter course, but not to the instructor herself, and make it
very clear in the written comments that it's the course itself I feel is
valueless, is the instructor going to be penalized for this?
If there's anything I've learned about course evaluations in my time blogging, it's that different administrators (and different colleges) treat them differently. I'll discuss how I treat them, and how I've seen them treated, and how I think they ought to be treated. It's entirely possible that not everybody treats them as thoughtfully as they should.
The evaluations we use separate questions into three categories: numerical about the instructor, numerical about the course, and open-ended.
When considering applications for promotion, we look at the first and third categories. The second category is mostly ignored. If I had my druthers, we'd include data from the second category in outcomes assessment exercises -- in which we look at the curriculum, rather than the instructors -- but we're not there yet. Maybe someday.
The first category lends itself easily to a single summary score, which is reported up the chain. The single summary score is relatively unhelpful for most faculty, but it does help you spot outliers. If one professor is coming in several standard deviations below everybody else -- it happens -- that's a red flag. It's not dispositive by itself, but it suggests taking a closer look.
The open-ended answers take the longest to read, but are by far the most useful. Some of them, I'll admit, I just tune out: "professor was mean she wouldn't let me do extra credit." Good for her. "Too much work." If everyone says that, I'd take a look; if a few do, I write it off to standard student griping. Some are just mean -- comments about clothes or hair or accents. And some are just inappropriate -- "she's hot!" Thanks for sharing.
The ones I've seen that have piqued my attention are the ones like "he takes two months to grade papers." That's a specific complaint about something relevant that is usually within the professor's control. If that one pops up a lot, I check it out. If it's true, then that's something the professor needs to address. I recall one professor at PU whose students commented, almost uniformly, "he changes the rules every week. We never know what the deadlines are." To me, that's a serious charge. Similarly, anything like "professor is often very late to class" or "professor misses class a lot" is a bright red flag. If those are true, then we have a very real issue.
The comment about signposts in lectures wouldn't really register with me either way; I'd read that as intended for the prof, rather than for me.
All of that said, I've heard of some people with 'bright line' rules about numerical scores, and of adjuncts being non-renewed for trivial complaints. I've never done that, and I've never seen it done at either of the colleges at which I've worked in administration. But I can't say it has never happened anywhere.
I've noticed a strong 'halo effect' in the numerical questions. If the students like the professor, they'll forgive many flaws. If they don't, they'll nitpick every little thing. An evaluation in which the student draws a straight line down the 'poor' column doesn't suggest 'bad professor' so much as 'disgruntled student.' An evaluation with mostly 'fair's and 'poor's, somewhat interspersed, is actually far more damning, since it suggests actual thought.
To my mind, student evaluations should be an element in evaluating teaching, but they can't be the only element. Some classes will consistently 'score' relatively low, no matter who teaches them. (Remedial classes almost always score low, as do required math classes for humanities majors.) And it's certainly true that most of us with any kind of experience have had some classes that just 'clicked' and some that just didn't. My standard for myself as a teacher was that on good days, I should be really good, and on bad days, I should be at least professional. Any professor who claims never to have had a lesson fall flat just isn't very self-aware.
All of that said, I'll fall back on the rule I use when I write up class observations: write what you saw. Ultimately, you can't control how it's read or used, and you don't control your professor's career. If your professor has an idiot dean or department chair or provost, that's beyond your control. If your comments are honest and thoughtful and constructive, you're doing your part.
I'm almost afraid to ask, but...wise and worldly readers, what do you think? What have you seen?
Have a question? Ask the Administrator at deandad (at) gmail (dot) com.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
A new correspondent writes:
I am a new department chair. The staff love to decorate for any and
all holidays. Recently they have put up the tree, tinsel and various
other baubles. One of my faculty members has objected to the
"religious" decorating. I am aware that the supreme court ruled that
the tree is not a religious symbol and the staff haven't put up angels
or anything of that sort. However, I am sympathetic to the complaint.
What would you do?
It's a great question, and I hate it.
I hate it because it's no-win, at least at a public institution. (Sectarian schools have an advantage here.) You're supposed to protect both free speech and free exercise of religion, but not 'establish' a religion. So what do you do when underlings decorate in ways that are obviously, if indirectly, related to a distinctly Christian holiday? Do you stifle their free expression to avoid seeming to endorse their view, or do you allow their free expression and seem indirectly to endorse it?
Yuck, yuck, yuck.
As far as I know, there's no graceful and elegant way around this one.* There are, though, some reasonably tolerable, slightly weaselly ways.
One is to keep out specifically religious content, and instead focus on winter themes. Snowflakes, snowmen, sleigh bells, etc. It snows on the just and the unjust alike, so focusing on snow and suchlike is pretty safe. (Of course, this works better in Northern climes. In, say, Los Angeles, I don't know how that would go over. "Let it smog, let it smog, let it smog?") "Jingle Bells" and "Let it Snow" are safer than, say, "Silent Night."
Or you can do the old 'big tent' approach, and lump Christmas in with Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, New Year's, and anything else you can find. (Bizarrely, nobody ever throws in Saturnalia.) This was the logic behind "Happy Holidays," before the Republicans declared that this was part of a secret liberal war on Christmas. Now some of them think themselves rebels for saying "Merry Christmas." I consider the 'war on Christmas' thesis bizarre, even by Republican standards, but I'll concede that the big tent approach is little more than a convenient compromise.
(Another variation of the big tent approach is to celebrate every little holiday that comes up all year long. Little groundhogs for Groundhog's Day, patriotic displays for the Fourth of July, etc. This would be fine if there wasn't work to do. Besides, there's always an argument. If you celebrate Christmas, why not Rosh Hashanah or Ramadan? If you celebrate St. Patrick's Day, why not Cinco de Mayo or Bastille Day? The tent will never be big enough.)
The Supreme Court has issued a mind-bending series of decisions on this sort of thing, generating much heat but little light. I don't put much stock in trying to parse every last decision, since the current Court doesn't seem overly concerned with precedent, and many of the 'tests' they use are pretty useless in practice. Besides, even if you correctly find the sweet spot in the existing decisions, there's nothing to keep the Court from issuing yet another decision just to complicate things. Lawyers live for that sort of thing. And I wouldn't trust something as sensitive as religion to a Court that could issue a decision like Bush vs. Gore.
Rather than spending my time on angels-on-the-head-of-a-pin exegesis of Court cases, I'd sit down and talk with the staffers. Remind them that the workplace is a diverse setting, including people of different faiths and no faiths at all, and that everybody -- including visitors -- has to feel welcome. And if that doesn't work, remind them that it's a workplace and not a church or a private home. It doesn't need to be sterile, but it can't be home away from home. That may seem cold to the true believers, but I prefer to think of it as something like fairness.
Some of them will think you're the Grinch, and will say so behind your back. Stand your ground. Some of us suspect that the best hope for lasting peace on earth and goodwill towards men and women starts with fairness.
Wise and worldly readers -- have you found a graceful way to handle this?
Have a question? Ask the Administrator at deandad (at) gmail (dot) com.
*"The Christians and the Pagans," by Dar Williams, comes close.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Search Committee Chair: The job starts next semester. Can you do that?
Candidate: No problem! Rarin' to go! Woo-hoo!
Department Chair: The job starts next semester. Are you okay with that?
Candidate: Great! Can't wait! Let's go!
Dean: The job starts next semester. Are you okay with that?
Candidate: You betcha! Ayup! All systems go!
VP: The job starts next semester. You're sure you're okay with that?
Candidate: Abso-freakin'-lutely! Bring it on!
VP: You're the one. Here are the details of the offer. Do you accept?
Candidate: I don't know. I can't start next semester.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Picking up on the premodern vs. modern theme of yesterday's post, Grad School Friend (who is on the tenure track at a research university) sent me a note about how his department received the news that he was seeing someone who lived in another time zone:
After the faculty became aware of her
existence, as my girlfriend from out of town, the department chair had a
talk with me about how this news has negatively affected my position in
the department. I was instructed to tell people that "I love it here; I
would never leave;" etc. My solution, to make him happy, was to let him
spread a counter-rumor, that [she] was attempting to get a job [there].
And then I dropped it for non-discussion on the matter, which has been
hard. [She] has gotten to the point of making excuses to avoid my
colleagues. I see this as the same issue: The "modern" side pushes me
to treat this entirely as a job and nothing more, but the "pre-modern"
side expects me to treat this as my life.
Amazing. And deeply, deeply sick. (The department, not Grad School Friend.)
The premodern/modern mashup of higher education leads to some really bizarre behavior. Respect gender equality rigorously in your pronoun use, but make sure you have a stay-at-home wife to prepare your tenure file. (Dr. Crazy rightly went to town on this one.) Hire for merit, but not too much merit, because that brings flight risk. Train people in graduate school to perform cutting-edge research, then hire them to teach basic Intro classes. In the case of the Ivies, proudly proclaim both your 'diversity' and your rejection rate, and pretend not to notice the contradiction. In the case of the big Midwestern schools, treat football as a secular religion while farming out your intro classes to adjuncts. Ratchet up the tenure requirements for younger hires, but give those new hires hell if they dare to look elsewhere, or even to date people from elsewhere.
This is sick, people.
Using the 'premodern vs. modern' lens at least gives me a sense of why certain things that just seem beyond reasonable dispute to me get some people all worked up. For example, the notion that academic jobs are just jobs. They are. They're good jobs, sometimes, and they can be very satisfying, sometimes, but they're jobs. There's an employer-employee relationship. An employee who wants to find another employer should have every right to try, and to try without judgment or sanction. An employee who wants to switch to another industry shouldn't be judged a washout or a failure. (And for goodness' sake, in what industry does the worst worker get promoted? Could we please call a halt to the 'all administrators are failed professors' canard?) An employee who wants to move geographically to be with a significant other isn't being 'disloyal' or showing a lack of dedication – he's making a perfectly valid life choice. And the idea that the employee owns his job – one popular definition of tenure – is facially preposterous. Can I sell my job to the highest bidder on ebay? Can I trade it? Can my kids inherit it? Is there a job market in the same sense in which there's a house market? Can something I own lay me off for 'fiscal exigency'? If not – and, not – then I don't own my job.
In any other industry, those positions would be so obvious as to be banal. In higher ed, they're subversive.
If you hold to the premodern understandings, then my friend has betrayed his department. How dare he find love outside of Third Tier City? Who does he think he is? What right does he have to leave, after all the time we've invested in him?
If you hold to the modern understandings, the questions themselves are absurd.
The folks who study generations are finding that workers – I'll use that word, and include myself in the category – under forty are less 'loyal' to employers than their parents were. It's often presented as “those silly kids, here's how to manage them,” which strikes me as backwards. To my mind, a lack of 'loyalty' reflects a clearsighted recognition of the objective reality that the world has changed. The combination of feminism and 'assortative mating' means that younger academics face the dreaded 'two-body' problem much more frequently than their forebears did, and in a rougher market. You can blame them for that and tell them to lower their sights, or you can recognize that the world has changed and they're simply adapting to it as best they can. Hell, if you really want to be useful, you could try to find ways to ameliorate some of those issues.
But that takes imagination. Indignation is easier, and offers the cheap thrill of a sense of superiority.
Asking highly intelligent, educated, ambitious, hardworking, three-dimensional people to forget all of the social and economic changes of the past forty years and know their place is nuts. My friend shouldn't have his 'standing in the department' jeopardized because he dared to find love outside the city limits. It's a job. It's just a job, like any other. That's all it is. There's more to life, and he's not a traitor for noticing.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
“It's like when someone says plate. And then someone says shrimp. And then someone says plate of shrimp...It's part of the cosmic web of coincidence.” -- Repo Man
Every so often I stumble upon two articles back to back that seem like they were written to answer each other, even though they obviously weren't. It's part of the cosmic web of coincidence.
My fellow IHE blogumnist John Lombardi published an enigmatic, but thoughtful, piece on the “deconstruction” of the faculty role into its component parts. He argues that “the remarkable transformation of much academic commitment from an investment in a person who produces many products over a lifetime to the investment in specific products that ensure the competitive position of the employing institution” is the result of “the demand for high levels of student access, high productivity demonstrated through measurable output, and low cost,” and the concurrent rise of “accountability metrics.” He appears to lament the decline of “the norm of faculty life [that] revolved around a full-time tenured position in a college or university where we would become permanent and engaged members of the academic community, participating in teaching, research, public service, and governance responding to a holistic conception of faculty responsibilities.” (emphasis added)
It's a fairly straightforward story of the gentleman's agreement giving way to the contract. Contracts lack the ease and flexibility of the gentleman's agreement even if, to any objective observer, they're far more inclusive than the old form. If you keep expecting the old form, you'll keep being disappointed in the costs of, well, modernity. People who intuitively understood the 'holistic conception' will find any mere list of components somewhat underwhelming or reductionist.
Right after that, I found an unintentional rebuttal in a piece in the Chronicle. The piece, “As the Professoriate Ages, Will Colleges Face More Legal Landmines?”, examines the ways that colleges and universities can run afoul of the Americans with Disabilities Act. (The conceit of the article is that the aging of the tenured faculty will lead to increased disability claims over time, and therefore to more opportunities for litigation.)
As the article correctly notes, the ADA requires employers, when confronted with a disability claim, to make reasonable accommodations. A college can deny an accommodation request if it can show that the request would “require the college to reduce, eliminate, or modify the essential functions of a job.” How could it show that?
[T]o make such a case, an institution must be able to describe what, in fact, the essential functions of a faculty member's job are. That is why each college should identify and distribute a list of the essential functions that a faculty member at the institution must perform, preferably in some official policy document like a faculty handbook, individual employment contract, or collective-bargaining agreement. Establishing a clear set of essential functions will notify faculty members of what they are expected to do, provide a guideline for administrators who are asked to provide reasonable accommodations for faculty members who can't perform certain parts of their jobs, and justify a college's agreement or refusal to grant a particular accommodation...If it is to hold up to scrutiny during litigation, the essential-functions list should be prepared before a faculty member discloses a disability and requests an accommodation. (emphasis in original)
Exactly. That “essential functions” list that Lombardi considers reductive and shallow is the only thing keeping litigants from bleeding the college dry with legal judgments. The gentleman's agreement model of individual judgment on a case-by-case basis – with all the favoritism that entails – simply isn't sustainable in court. And for very good reason.
The tension between the ideals of contracts – transparency, clarity, reciprocity – and the holdover ideals of the gentleman scholar – an apprentice system, a complete lack of accountability, and lifetime job security – becomes obvious when younger faculty clamor for more transparency in the tenure process. They're trying to bring the logic of exchange to bear on a system premised on the denial of the logic of exchange. It's possible to do a little of that, but ultimately, giving someone tenure means exempting them from having to uphold their half of the deal. That's why colleges have been so slow to let go of the much-feared unwritten rules, even when the unwritten rules seem archaic or even silly. By necessity, they try to suss out motivation, as much as actual production, so they don't get stuck with someone who will collapse in exhaustion at the finish line of tenure and retire on the job, stirring only to file the occasional grievance.
As Lombardi correctly notes, higher ed has indirectly acknowledged the end of the 'gentleman's agreement' era by constructing a parallel system of faculty hiring separate from the tenure track. That second system is clearly second-class – adjunct and temp positions that offer no security, lousy pay, and no signs of institutional respect. It's almost a parody of the worst of the corporate world, the profits from which subsidize the otherwise-unsustainable gentlemen with tenure. The landed aristocrats are bought off, and the proles too scared or shamed to organize.
Every so often I suggest moving to full-time renewable multi-year contracts with academic freedom stipulated as part of the contractual language. (That way, violations of academic freedom would be actionable as breach of contract. That's actually a stronger legal foundation than academic freedom has by itself.) Stop trying to psychoanalyze junior faculty; give up on the gentleman scholar; spell out the expectations on both sides; don't renew those who don't perform. Let's have the conversations about what the job actually entails, and write down the results of that conversation for future legal reference.
Lamenting the world that's lost is fine, but someone said plate of shrimp. It's time to move on.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
A returning correspondent writes:
I'm just starting to think of the hiring season and,
while I'm at a urban high school and that's different
than a CC or 4-year SLAC, it seems that you and I face
similar questions about hiring...
I'm the math department chair. I have a relatively
small staff, but experience pretty high turn-over.
The basic question: what do you do to attract more
We have a salary schedule that puts us slightly below
average for the area.
**Money is the same huge constraint that you face (I
Are signing bonuses reasonable? They're a one-time
financial hit. What other low-cost things should we
We're a relatively new school, so there aren't many
'established' practices that we're breaking.
High school hiring is a very different animal from college hiring, since I've never heard of an adjunct high school teacher. And the folks who want to be 'teachers' often have different expectations of their employers than do the folks who want to be 'professors.' So I'll just admit upfront that some of the issues you're facing are probably pretty different from ours.
That said, there's certainly a commonality in the lack of money. In areas of relatively high employer demand, it can be a challenge to keep the staffing levels up. This is especially true in that the faculty here (and in many other places) is unionized, and the union contract sets some fairly strict guidelines for starting salaries. One-size-fits-all salary matrices protect the lowest-demand fields from the salaries that market forces would otherwise set. But they do it at the cost of underpaying the folk who have other options. When those folk consistently decamp for greener pastures, or turn down offers, it's frustrating.
(Concretely: a couple of years ago I had a revealing conversation with the dean who oversees nursing. We were talking about hiring procedures. My concerns were about getting through the huge pile of applications in a fair and aboveboard way. Her concerns were about getting any applications at all.)
I'll also admit a certain wariness. I don't want someone who's "falling back on" teaching, or who sees teaching as a low-stress job to coast until retirement. (I've dealt with some of those, and they aren't worth the hassle.) I want someone who wants to be here. If it requires heroic effort on your part to keep someone satisfied, don't.
Still, there are times when it makes sense to stress the non-pecuniary rewards of academia. (If those didn't exist, given the ratio of pay to training, the field would empty post-haste.) I wouldn't emphasize the summers off, since that tends to attract the folks you want the least. Instead, I'd point to the incredible autonomy that characterizes most of the job. This is especially true in a college setting, since standardized testing is still mostly considered a four-letter word here. The folks to whom that would appeal are likely to be the self-starters, which are precisely the ones you'd most want to hire. (Alternately, that could appeal to the slackers as well, which is why I'd phrase it as 'autonomy' rather than time off. You can work any fifty hours a week you want.)
Part of what I loved about teaching, back in my teaching days, was that I rarely felt like I had a boss. Yes, my class schedule was given to me, and once in a while I had to attend some silly event or endure an idiotic workshop. But I could go months between those things, during which time just about every non-teaching minute of the day was my own. Much of it still involved work, but it was work I could schedule according to my own needs and preferences. If I wanted to do my errands during the week and my grading on Sunday, I could. PU had an annoying dress code, but most colleges don't. So at many colleges, most of the day-to-day stuff consists of teaching -- which I assume you like, or you wouldn't do it -- and unstructured time. How many jobs are like that?
Signing bonuses can work, but they can annoy the incumbent employees unproductively, and the bloom wears off the rose pretty quick. I'd rather pump some funding into tuition reimbursement for pursuing advanced degrees, or travel funding for conferences -- something that, when used, makes them better faculty. Show that you care not only about landing them, but about developing them once they're there. That's the kind of perk that will appeal to those with a work ethic and a love of what they're doing, but leave the 'retire on the job' types cold. Which is exactly what you want.
In other circumstances, some places do spousal hiring as a way to get and keep people they otherwise couldn't. Some people are willing to trade, say, a slightly underwhelming salary for the chance to actually live with their spouse/life partner. But again, that's likelier to work in lower-demand fields, where people have fewer appealing options.
This certainly isn't an exhaustive list. I'll turn to my wise and worldly readers. Have you found an effective way to recruit without paying?
Have a question? Ask the Administrator at deandad (at) gmail (dot) com.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Although some on campus like to talk about The Administration as a monolith, like The Borg, it's actually composed of two major parts which don't always work in perfect harmony.
This story made me laugh in recognition. Basically, the Board of Trustees at Palm Beach Community College decided not to extend health benefits to same-sex domestic partners of employees. However, the college subsequently extended group discounts for health insurance for pets. Some folks put the two next to each other to ask why the college is willing to cover, say, Fluffy, but not Fran. (I assume that some would say that Fluffy doesn't offend God, and Fran does. Whether that's the proper concern of the Board of Trustees at PBCC is another question.)
The key is in recognizing the difference between the administration and the Board. As the story states,
College administrators have endorsed the idea of extending benefits to the partners of employees, but have yet to persuade enough board members. While officials could not be reached, they told local reporters that it was unfair to compare the benefits offered and denied, because they are categorized in different ways, and that the pet benefit did not require board approval.
Aha! The administrators who work at the college -- who support coverage for both pets and people -- had the leeway to pursue the pet insurance on their own, but had to get -- and couldn't get -- Board approval for the same-sex partner benefits. Whether the administrators there are crafty political operatives forcing the Board's hand, or if these decisions were made entirely separately and only juxtaposed after the fact, I don't know. (I could believe either.) But I wouldn't be surprised to see the Board there cave in the face of otherwise having to explain why cats are more important than people. (I recall a similar juxtaposition when Viagra first came out, and some HMO's that didn't cover birth control pills said they would cover Viagra. Some of them changed their policy on birth control coverage once Viagra was on the scene, mostly out of a combination of embarrassment and public pressure.)
On the merits, covering pets but not people strikes me as somewhere between stupid and inhuman (in the most literal sense of the word). But the reason it made me smile in rueful recognition was the split between the managers and the Board.
The bane of the middle manager is having to communicate and/or enforce policies that run counter to your own instincts. Worse, it's not unusual to develop arrangements internally contingent on Board approval, only to have to go back later and explain why the Board didn't bite. Managers are invariably blamed for that, from both above and below, but it's often an unfair charge. Trying to predict how a Board will receive or interpret a given initiative is as much art as science, especially when the policy is meaningfully new. And any serious effort to address an important and long-standing problem will, almost by definition, involve a departure from past practice. If it didn't, the problem would have been solved by now.
Some colleges have adopted the Carver model, in which, as I understand it (and I could be wrong on this), any powers not specifically forbidden can be assumed to have been delegated. The charge to the Board is to find ways to measure performance. So the Board sets forth some “thou shalt nots,” then lets people work towards specified goals. I'll just say that the 'law and order liberal' in me considers that model very, very promising. Anyone with experience with it is invited to shed light in the comments. I hope to gain experience with it someday.
Kudos to the brave administrators at PBCC, who may or may not be employed for much longer. I hope for their sake that their Board is capable of recognizing a mistake, and is above shooting the messenger.
If not, I hope that other colleges will recognize forward thinking when they see it. And I hope the folks who are (rightly) offended at a college choosing pets over people will be able to distinguish the administration from its Board.
Monday, November 26, 2007
A few vignettes from the holiday weekend:
The Boy at lunch: “I'm thinking of a word that rhymes with 'oilet.'” He followed that with “I'm thinking of a word that rhymes with 'oilet maper.'”
We drove to my Mom's, in Neighboring State, where my brother, his wife, and The Niece met us. TN is almost a year old, and she was fascinated with TB and TG. The Boy took her under his wing, and, at one point, sat flanked by the two girls as he read them a story. It was great to see the cousins start to bond, and to see TB act like quite the little gentleman.
For a centerpiece, Mom got a five pound chocolate turkey. I spent the entire meal being mooned by a five pound chocolate turkey. Breaking off the tailfeathers felt like payback.
I dodged the Black Friday shopping, but TW dove into the scrum at one store. She reported seeing women there with two shopping carts – pushing one and pulling the other – full of stuff. The closest I came to that was making a point of checking the Apple website on Black Friday, which was a bit of a letdown.
We had two Santa sightings on Saturday. On Saturday morning, when TG climbed into bed with us, I told her that we'd see Santa that day. Her eyes got huge, she gasped, and she asked “Is it Cwistmas?” I tried not to chuckle, but I'm not made of stone.
The first Santa sighting was in the afternoon, outdoors, at the local airport. (Santa flew in via Cessna, since the reindeer are working with their personal trainers.) We kept some distance from that Santa, though, since he isn't our beloved local Santa, and I don't want TB and TG to put two and two together. The cooler feature of that visit was a hot air balloon launch, including one balloon lying on its side, inflated, that you could walk around in. I had never walked around inside the balloon part of a hot air balloon before. If you get the chance, I recommend it. The visual effect is like those cheesy 'psychedelic' trip sequences from Yellow Submarine.
The second Santa sighting was that evening, also outdoors, at our local holiday festival. Santa arrived on a fire truck – again, the reindeer are busy feeling the burn – and this one was our beloved local Santa, who knows TW by name. Our beloved local Santa is an older local man with a real white beard and an infectious sense of comfort in his own skin. As he disembarked from the fire truck and made his way to the stage to greet the mayor, he saw TW and made a point of greeting us personally. TB and TG are convinced that Santa knows them by name, which, in a way, he does.
Our beloved local Santa is doing a brunch in a few weeks, so we'll get some time with him then. My Mom accompanied us to the brunch last year, and developed a light crush on Santa. (She told one of her friends that she wanted Santa for Christmas.) She's coming with us again this year.
We had our first fire of the season, which we traditionally do after the Santa-on-fire-truck event. For some reasons, fires usually induce narcolepsy, but I actually stayed up until this one was out. We bought the wood from the town public works department, whose operational definition of 'half a cord' is 'whatever you can fit into your cars.' The wood burned nicely, but I still don't know how close we got to half a cord.
The Boy is morally serious, and keeping an eye on The Girl's purity of heart. Actual exchange from Sunday afternoon:
TG: On Cwistmas we get pwesents!
TB: Yes, but that's not the real meaning of Christmas.
TG: It's not?
DD: It's Jesus' birthday.
TG: And we get pwesents!
I couldn't compete with that. I hope your break was full of love and laughter, too.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Aspazia, characteristically, has a thought-provoking post about applied ethics. This time it's about some partial scholarships that her husband's college has extended to some economically challenged students. In essence, the scholarships are enough to make the college seem affordable, but the students still have to work outside of class a significant number of hours to make ends meet. The time suck of those jobs cuts into their study time, and therefore their academic performance. Aspazia asks whether the college is doing these students any favors. As she puts it:
One could argue that the ethical good here is getting these women a college degree, regardless of their G.P.A. or level of mastery of the material (hat tip to SteveG on this). On the other hand, the college is admitting students that they know full well will be unable to really excel or just do average work because they will have to work so many hours to pay for their education. So, they are paying thousands of dollars to the institution and barely passing their classes. I should add that the college is wholly committed to its mission to educate women from impoverished backgrounds and stresses diversity. 45% of their student population is diverse (a statistic that my LAC wishes it could accomplish).
Given that this (and many) institutions simply do not have enough money to give these women full rides, they stick to their mission by giving these partial scholarships that force them to work. Is this really living the commitment to their mission?
I don't usually just hijack discussions wholesale, but since she name-checked me (and lesboprof), I'll take a shot.
My first thought is that whatever else it signifies, a college degree should indicate a meaningful level of academic success – and therefore ability – in a given field. So I reject the “regardless of their GPA or mastery of the material” standard on the grounds that it defeats higher education's reason to exist. If we declare that students without money don't really need to know what they're doing, I'm at a loss to explain just what, exactly, our degrees are supposed to signify at all. And I certainly don't want my medical care in the hands of doctors and nurses who were given degrees regardless of whether they knew what they were doing.
(I'll also admit being jumpy at a line like “45% of their student population is diverse.” So the rest is monolithic? The percentage, I assume, reflects counting individual heads. But diversity, by definition, cannot be a trait of an individual. It's a trait of a group. Either the group is diverse or it isn't; it can't be 45 percent diverse. (I once heard a student declare “I'm diverse!” Uh, no, you're not. You're one person.) I know what she means, but I bristle at the phrasing.)
All of that said, I think the heart of her question – and it's a good one – is what a commitment to access and diversity actually entails, especially in the face of limited resources.
If low-income students are given access to classes, but can only afford to stay in those classes by taking on outside work obligations far beyond what other students have to take, are they being set up to fail?
Ever the administrator, I'll answer with “yes, but.” There are things we can control, and things we can't.
Once, in trying to explain my politics to someone who kept trying to make me into a hippie, I stumbled on the phrase “law and order liberal.” What I meant by that was that I believe that laws should be both fair (the 'liberal') and enforced (the 'law and order'). So don't pass a drinking age of 21 to get alcohol out of high schools, while turning a selectively blind eye to college students. Set the age at 18, and enforce it. Don't set speed limits 10-15 mph below what you actually enforce; set what you mean, and enforce what you set. If you aren't willing to enforce a law, repeal it.
I know that's not always achievable, but it strikes me as a pretty good goal.
For colleges, I'd say pick a level of subsidy you can sustain, and do it right. Instead of bringing in, say, two hundred students, and supporting them almost-but-not-quite-enough, bring in one hundred and do right by them. (Six hours of work-study a week? Okay. Thirty hours of Wal-Mart a week? Not okay.) And in 'doing right,' accept that some will still fail. Some people are drama-prone, and will find ways to find fault with whatever level of help they're given. At some point, you need to be able to say, with a clear conscience, there. This much is what we're willing to do; the rest is up to you. What that level would be in any given setting will vary, and that's fine. (If it were up to me, for example, we'd have some kind of evening child care available for students with jobs and families, and we'd have much better public transportation.) But there's a difference between getting the background conditions to a relatively even level and guaranteeing perfect results. To my mind, if a student has been given a genuinely fair shot and still crapped out, that's on the student.
As a manager of people, I've noticed that the weather is always worse at some people's houses than others', even when it isn't. Some people manage to run into awful traffic every single day, even while their colleagues who take the same routes somehow get to work on time. And some people are just perpetually crabby, no matter how many of their grievances get addressed. You can't control how other people feel, or how they choose to live their lives. You need to decide what institutional conditions need to be addressed so that people with reasonable drive and life skills will have a genuine shot at success, and call it good. There will always be some who will condemn your efforts as inadequate, based on their own life drama, and some will even call you horrible names and question your personal integrity in the process. That's just a cost of doing business. Go for substantial – rather than total – fairness, and you may achieve it. Go for perfection, and I can guarantee heartbreak and failure.
Wise and worldly readers – your thoughts?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
My cc is taking a new look at guidelines for 'advisory boards' for various 'occupational' degree programs.
(A quick definition: an 'occupational' degree refers to one designed primarily to make students employable in a given field upon graduation. Its counterpart is the 'transfer' degree, which is intended to be the first half of a bachelor's degree. Transfer degrees typically include much more 'gen ed,' and their intended audience is four-year colleges and universities, rather than employers.)
The distinction between 'occupational' and 'transfer' isn't always clean. We have several 'occupational' degrees that have, for various reasons, become transfer degrees. (I've never seen it go the other way.) Sometimes that's because of credential creep in the target industry; where a two-year degree was once enough to get a decent entry-level position, now a four-year degree is the de facto minimum. (Sometimes that's driven by employer preference, and sometimes by external legal changes.) Sometimes it's because of increased technological complexity in a given field. Sometimes the field has changed, such that even an entry-level hire is now expected to have the kind of range that would not have been expected at the entry level a generation ago. And sometimes it's driven by some enterprising four-year schools that have established degrees where none existed before, and have created their own demand.
Still, just by looking at the paths our graduates take, we can get a pretty clear idea of which programs are currently (mostly) occupational. For us, for example, Criminal Justice is largely an occupational program; most of our grads go directly into law enforcement, even if many of them later go on to finish four-year degrees while on the job. Nursing is similar.
In my observation, advisory boards tend to go through a distinct life cycle. There's the exciting initial stage, in which folks are happy to be on board, ideas are brimming, and the world is about to be changed. This slowly gives way to the bubble stage, at which everything is assumed to be fine, and the meetings are more about group bonding than substance. (Typically, this is when the dreaded 'loss of touch with reality' sets in.) Eventually, as the irrelevance of the board starts looking like a given, the 'let's skip the next meeting' stage sets in, followed eventually by the “didn't we used to have an advisory board?” stage.
It's not unusual to see program chairs select personal friends as advisory board members, since they're likelier to say 'yes' to sacrificing the occasional evening, and unlikely to do anything threatening. This also makes the segue from stage one to stage two clean and effortless. Unfortunately, it also pretty much guarantees stages three and four.
As with making movies, casting is ninety percent of the battle. If you get people from too high on the food chain, they're often out of touch with what the front-line hiring folk actually do. (Back in the 80's, I recall hearing lots of CEO's say that the skills developed by a liberal arts education were exactly the skills the managers of the future would need. Apparently, the only people who didn't get that message were the hiring managers.) But if you aim too low, you get constant turnover and a need to reinvent the wheel on an annual basis.
There's also the danger of corporate (or employer) myopia. Back in my Proprietary U days, I saw many a corporate muckety-muck tell us with unshakable confidence just exactly what the key to business success was, less than a year before his company went out of business.
All of that said, we're looking at basic guidelines for the composition of advisory boards. I'm thinking that less than half the board should have any other existing connection with the college, and that multiple employers should be represented. Beyond that, though, I'm short on ideas.
So I turn to my wise and worldly readers. Have you seen a good rule of thumb for comprising a useful and effective advisory board?
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Chronicle has had a series over the last week or so about the salaries of college Presidents.
I won't do the predictable “how can some much make so much when others make so little” lament, on the grounds that even the highest-paid Presidents in the country don't make as much as a typical major league backup catcher. Given the bonuses that folks in the financial services and HMO sectors have been making, I won't get all worked up about some college President making $250,000. (The one at my cc makes a good deal less than that.) It's a difficult job, very few people can do it well, and it's all-consuming. And the total amount spent, if it were redistributed throughout the college, would amount to spitting in the ocean. These folks are well-paid, but – with exceptions -- not scandalously so.
That said, though, I don't understand why “allowances” are so common.
The article mentions, and I've seen this in my home state, a common practice of breaking Presidents' compensation into salary, a “housing allowance,” a “car allowance” (or just a car), and so forth. This just strikes me as asking for trouble.
Probably once a year, some big muckety-muck gets written up in the papers for using a college car for personal use. It sounds awful, but if you think about it, it makes sense. I do errands on the way to and from work all the time. It saves time and gas. It's not scandalous when I do it, since I pay for my own car from my salary. I can mix work commuting, errands, trips, and whatever else, and nobody can say boo about it. If I happen to stop for milk on the way home, which happens from time to time, I don't have to justify it to an auditor.
But get a company car, or a car allowance, and suddenly any 'mixed use' is up for scrutiny. But the only way to avoid mixed use would be to go home before running any errands. Who does that? What, exactly, does that achieve? Alternately, you could keep a gazillion receipts, and pay highly-trained professionals to sort through them, to make sure that every milk run is duly deducted. No inefficiencies there!
Housing is even worse. The theory, I think, is that Presidents are supposed to host events in their homes, so the homes are mixed-use. Therefore, the college pays for some fraction of the home – in some places, all of it – to compensate the President for the wear and tear of hosting.
Role confusion here is chronic. The worst recent case was that President in California who had a dog run installed in the backyard, at considerable expense to her university. That actually occasioned a public scandal, and gave her political critics all manner of ammunition.
Had she paid for her own house out of her own salary, the dog run wouldn't have mattered.
I guess the argument for 'allowances' is that they prevent unscrupulous Boards of Trustees from riding roughshod over a beleaguered President's home. But Presidents are pretty well paid these days, and good ones have as much leverage over a Board as they other way around. So, my modest proposal for both Presidents and Boards of Trustees:
Kill allowances. Spell out expectations for hosting and/or travel in the Presidential contract, and bump up the salaries to pay the rough equivalent of what the allowances would have covered. Then treat the Presidents' personal consumption just like everybody else's. If a given President wants to cheap out on her car to blow her money on a dog run instead, I say, who cares? I don't want my tax money going to pay accountants to figure out how many tenths of miles to deduct for stops at 7-11's on the way home. Better to give the President an ample salary, and let her figure out when and how to run errands. The money saved in verifying paperwork would be significant, we could stop fighting truly idiotic public battles over how people live their daily lives, and Presidents would have the same basic freedoms of movement and choice as everybody else. Let them focus on work, rather than on keeping receipts for every last tenth of a mile.
The same works for housing. Spell out the hosting expectations in the contract, and bargain a salary that makes it worthwhile. Then let the President find her own house. If she wants to paint the place purple and decorate it with the skulls of her enemies, whatever. (This might also have to salutary benefit of acquainting Boards with the realities of local housing prices. Faculty unions might eventually reap the benefits of that.) If she fulfills the requirements and brings home the bacon, then who cares if she has odd taste?
The housing thing, I think, dates back to a deeply patriarchal 'first family' idea. Kill it. Host functions on campus, in art galleries, wherever. Let Presidents have home lives. And don't expect spouses to fulfill the old unpaid 'First Lady' role. If you want their services, hire them and pay them. Otherwise, assume that they have their own lives, and rightly so.
I don't make a habit of defending top dogs, but we need good ones, and some of these traditional expectations don't help. As with faculty and everybody else, treat Presidents as employees. Spell out what's expected, pay well, and don't micromanage their private lives. I could give two hoots whether my President picks up dry cleaning on the way home. I'd rather have that highly-paid brainpower put to use helping the college, rather than figuring out how not to violate the ground rules of the car allowance.