Faculty members and alumni at Kentucky State University are unhappy that a search to find a new president resulted in what they see as a disappointing set of finalists that does not include well-liked interim President Aaron Thompson.
The list of finalists for Kentucky State, a historically black university in Frankfort, includes M. Christopher Brown, Said Sewell and Thomas Colbert, according to the Lexington Herald-Leader. Brown is currently provost at Southern University in Louisiana but previously resigned as president of Alcorn State University in Mississippi after controversial upgrades to that university’s presidential residence, reportedly without legally required bids. Sewell is the provost of Lincoln University in Missouri but was the target of a no-confidence vote from faculty members there last year. Colbert is the Oklahoma Supreme Court’s first black justice but only has two years of experience in higher education -- from 1982 to 1984, when he was assistant dean at Marquette University Law School.
Thompson became Kentucky State’s interim president last year following the sudden resignation of President Raymond Burse. He is executive vice president and chief academic officer at the Kentucky Council on Postsecondary Education. Many Kentucky State alumni and faculty members had hoped to see him become president permanently, as did local community members.
The university performed its search for a new president under a $120,000 contract with a search firm. Some faculty members have described the search as failed.
After years of debate, Yale removes name of slavery defender from a residential college. But names and symbols associated with white supremacy remain visible on other campuses. Plus a chart of names that have not been changed.
Transparent GMU, a group of George Mason University students, is suing the institution to obtain grant and gift agreements between private donors and the George Mason University Foundation. They’re concerned about the university’s ties to the Charles Koch Foundation, which has donated heavily to their campus and whose previous donation to Florida State University raised concerns about influence over hiring and curriculum decisions. Transparent GMU filed a public records request for copies of relevant agreements, but the university claimed those documents fall outside the scope of the Virginia Freedom of Information Act.
“We believe the public has a right to know the details of our university’s operations, including its relationship with private donors,” student Gus Thomson said in a statement. The foundation “is doing work for our public school, so it should be held to the same disclosure standards as the university itself.”
Evan Johns, the students’ attorney, said the law “simply does not allow a public university to conceal its records by outsourcing its public business to a private company.”
Michael Sandler, university spokesperson, said via email that gifts come through the institution's foundation, a nonprofit organization "exempt from Virginia public records laws. Donors have the right to request anonymity. And the university and foundation have a responsibility to respect the privacy of those donors. The state recognizes this. If not for the support of private gifts, many of our students would not have the opportunity of higher education. And many of our researchers wouldn’t be able to pursue their work without that support, either.”
UnKoch My Campus, a group fighting donor influence in academe, has previously argued that a gift, according to federal tax regulations, is defined as an “irrevocable donation made without expectation of exchange for anything of significant commercial value.” Yet a 2016 donation from the Koch foundation, related to renaming George Mason’s law school after late U.S. Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, for example, says that if the institution doesn’t live up to various provisions, the Koch foundation can end the agreement and demand the return of all unexpended funds.
Submitted by Emily Tate on February 13, 2017 - 3:00am
A state appeals court ruled last week that Kean University in New Jersey violated the state’s Open Public Meetings Act when its Board of Trustees declined to renew a professor’s contract without first warning her of the decision, NJ.com reported.
In 2014, the board voted without discussion to terminate the contract of Valerie Hascup, an associate professor of nursing. The board also voted on personnel decisions that affected a number of other unnamed employees.
The university should have provided Hascup with a warning letter at least two weeks in advance of the meeting, according to the decision from the three-judge panel. The letter, which is called a Rice notice, would have informed Hascup of her rights to have the board discuss her employment openly at the meeting.
By holding a “silent unexplained vote,” the judges said, Kean violated the open public meetings law.
This parts with an earlier ruling from a trial court, which said the public university was acting within the law when it chose not to warn Hascup or any other university employees affected by decisions made at that board meeting.
Last week’s ruling overturns all the employment changes made in that meeting over two years ago, but Hascup’s attorney, Robert Fagella, told NJ.com he doesn’t know how that decision will play out. Fagella also said the ruling properly admonished Kean’s Board of Trustees and their “abominable” conduct.
Kean University officials objected to the outcome. A spokeswoman for Kean said they are reviewing the decision and may consider an appeal.
Yale University announced Saturday that it will remove the name of John C. Calhoun (at right) from one of its residential colleges. "The decision to change a college’s name is not one we take lightly, but John C. Calhoun’s legacy as a white supremacist and a national leader who passionately promoted slavery as a 'positive good' fundamentally conflicts with Yale’s mission and values," said a letter released by Peter Salovey, the president. Calhoun is notorious in American history for his effectiveness in protecting slavery and promoting bigoted ideas about black people in the era prior to the Civil War.
Saturday's announcement marks the end of decades of debate at Yale over Calhoun, an alumnus. Last year, Yale announced that it would keep the Calhoun name on the residential college, and that doing so was part of the commitment of the college to acknowledging and teaching the history of the institution's connections with slavery. The decision led to protests and considerable condemnation. A few months later, Yale announced it would reconsider its decision, and that it would first create a system for evaluating requests for such name changes. That panel was then convened, as was another to consider whether the Calhoun name should be removed. On Saturday, Yale's board made a final decision on the matter.
Salovey's letter noted that Calhoun was different from others in history who may be honored at Yale or elsewhere. "This principal legacy of Calhoun -- and the indelible imprint he has left on American history -- conflicts fundamentally with the values Yale has long championed. Unlike other namesakes on our campus, he distinguished himself not in spite of these views but because of them. Although it is not clear exactly how Calhoun’s pro-slavery and racist views figured in the 1931 naming decision, depictions in the college celebrating plantation life and the 'Old South' suggest that Calhoun was honored not simply as a statesman and political theorist but in full contemplation of his unique place in the history of slavery," Salovey's letter said.
He added, "In making this change, we must be vigilant not to erase the past. To that end, we will not remove symbols of Calhoun from elsewhere on our campus, and we will develop a plan to memorialize the fact that Calhoun was a residential college name for 86 years. Furthermore, alumni of the college may continue to associate themselves with the name Calhoun College."
Or they may adopt the new name for the residential college, which will honor Grace Murray Hopper (right), a pioneer in computing who earned a master's degree and doctorate from Yale in the 1930s. She had a long career in the U.S. Navy, retiring with the rank of rear admiral.
Stanford University has stopped using one of the lawyers who advised students in sex assault cases after that lawyer criticized the university's policies, The New York Times reported. The lawyer, Crystal Riggins, is the only one of the six who have been in this role who worked only with those accusing others of sex assault. She was quoted by the Times in an article in December in which she complained that the university's requirement for unanimous findings by review panels made it very difficult for students to be found responsible for sex assaults. A letter she received from the university saying that she would no longer work in this role said, “Given your stated lack of confidence, it does not make sense for the university to continue to refer our students to you.”
Stan Jones, founder and president of Complete College America, died this week. He spent his life helping needy students get an education.
I first met Stan in the mid-1990s, right out of graduate school, as an entry-level analyst at the Indiana State Budget Agency. The job involved keeping track of how various government agencies were spending their money. Most of the time, it was boring. The Legislature appropriated funds for something, and the relevant agency did that, more or less.
The exception was the Commission for Higher Education, which had historically left the state’s colleges and universities alone. Stan had recently been put in charge, and he had different ideas. Not-boring ideas. He was creating new committees and initiatives, inventing policies, cutting deals. It was not clear who had given him the authority to do any of those things. Some of them didn’t even seem to be about higher education.
So, every month or two, I found myself making the short walk from my cubicle in Indiana’s beautiful 19th-century statehouse to Stan’s office up the street, to ask some variation of: What, exactly, are you doing, and why are we just hearing about it now?
Stan would always welcome me with a smile and give me his full attention, nodding from time to time. He had roundish features, wore baggy suits and kept his hair in a perpetual undergraduate cut. In his even, friendly voice, he would explain why it all made perfect sense, and of course he wanted the budget agency’s full input -- my full input -- and he absolutely appreciated my ideas and looked forward to talking again.
I would leave and walk back to my cubicle with the vague feeling that he had put one over on me, although I could never explain exactly why. I don’t know if Stan Jones ever told me that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, but that was, for him, something of a life philosophy.
A few years later, I was in his office again, this time for personal reasons. I had jumped over to the State Senate during a gubernatorial transition and then back to the executive branch as assistant state budget director. The next rung on the ladder was the governor’s office, as K-12 policy adviser, right down the hallway from the man himself. But the job went to someone else, with fewer policy chops, from the political side. It was my first real professional setback, and it seemed terribly unfair.
Stan sat for a while, listened and looked at me closely. Remember, he said, when one door closes, another one opens, with the assurance of someone who had lived long and well enough to understand that clichés exist because they’re true. The he told me a story about himself.
Stan began his political career at the ripe age of 24, when he won a seat in the Indiana House of Representatives as a Democrat during the post-Watergate election of 1974. He had been an engineering student at Purdue University and ran in the Lafayette district that included his fellow Boilermakers.
For the next 16 years, he cut a swath through the Indiana political scene, winning appointments to the Ways and Means Committee and then the Education Committee, learning the intricacies of politics and education finance while pushing a range of reforms. He often partnered with another young representative named Marilyn Schultz, a path-breaking legislator who would go on to become a senior administrator at Indiana State University. They called it the Stan and Marilyn Show.
Stan was ambitious, and by the late 1980s, political control of the House teetered on a knife’s edge. When the Democrats gained the upper hand, Stan gambled his career on an upstart campaign against a more seasoned pol to become Speaker of the House. He lost. As a man once said, if you come at the king, you best not miss. Support from the party melted, and Lafayette voters turned him out in the next election.
It was a huge setback. But Stan still had important friends, none more so than Evan Bayh, the senator’s son who had just been elected governor at age 33. Stan became a top adviser and soon began plotting a return to office. Indiana elects its top education official, the superintendent of public instruction, and the seat was open in 1992. Brimming with ideas and backed by a popular young governor, Stan mounted a fresh campaign. His opponent was a local education official from the small town of Rushville in east-central Indiana. The race was his to win.
But Suellen Reed turned out to be a better politician than anyone realized. Moderate and sensible with the look and demeanor of everyone’s favorite grade school teacher, she won the first of what would become four consecutive terms. Stan Jones would never leave his fate in the hands of voters again.
Political campaigns often make enemies. They rarely make friends. The obvious thing for Stan to do was return to his influential post as the governor’s adviser and legislative director and work to stymie his opponent’s agenda. But that’s not what happened at all. Instead, he secured his appointment as the state’s commissioner for higher education, a post he would ultimately hold for 12 years under four governors, Democrats and Republicans both. Then he went about implementing all the ideas he had run on in his failed campaign, with the full cooperation of the person who had beaten him -- Suellen Reed.
An Ever-Changing Agenda
For while Stan Jones was a lifelong Democrat, his true allegiance was to the party of Midwestern practicality. He knew that Hoosier politicians of all stripes were anxious about the future of their state. Indiana is home to many great colleges and universities, but its roots are in agriculture and manufacturing. The Rust Belt runs across the state’s northern regions, while the farming counties along the Ohio River had troubles of their own. At the time, the state ranked near the bottom in the percentage of adults with a college degree.
At every stage of the education pathway, students were falling away. Far too many were dropping out of high school. Of those who graduated, too few were taking college prep courses. Even the well-prepared students often had trouble paying tuition and finding spots in the right schools and degree programs.
Stan started by helping birth the state’s 21st-Century Scholars Program, which promised low-income eighth graders free tuition at a state university if they kept their grades up and graduated from high school. It was smart policy and a political bonanza for Evan Bayh, who had his sights set on the United States Senate and, he hoped then, the White House. (Because the eighth graders gathered in photo ops wouldn’t reach college for five more years, the bill for all that forgone tuition wouldn’t come due until after Bayh decamped for Congress.)
Stan then set to work creating a “Core 40” academic curriculum for Hoosier high schools, which would eventually be linked to the scholarship program. This was during the first wave of state enthusiasm for academic standards, testing and accountability systems -- before No Child Left Behind made them mandatory nationwide. The teachers’ unions were suspicious, and many conservatives were wary of infringement on local control.
In theory, the State Board of Education should have led the effort. But it was filled with political appointees who bickered over narrow agendas. So Stan began convening a private group of stakeholders from both parties, carefully balancing the interests of business and labor. Soon Governor Frank O’Bannon, Bayh’s successor, came on board, along with Superintendent Reed. The discussions proved so fruitful that the Indiana Education Roundtable was codified in law, with responsibility for building consensus around standards, testing and accountability.
Stymied by the existing Board of Education, Stan had essentially created an alternate version, composed of his friends and allies, with the power to set the policies that he cared about most.
The meetings and phone calls were endless. But Stan Jones didn’t see the work of building political coalitions as tiresome. That was the work. He never fell victim to the expert’s fallacy of believing that the world had some obligation to act on his ideas just because they were right and good. While other people spoke into microphones, he would stand to the side, arms folded, face impassive, watching. He gathered information from everywhere and released it only for good reason.
In the Senate, I worked for Stan’s West Lafayette counterpart, who had also ridden the ’74 wave into the statehouse. Stan, he told me, goes into every negotiation knowing exactly what he wants at the finish. He will concede literally anything else along the way. But he won’t budge an inch on what he cares about most.
In addition to leading K-12 reform, Stan also had his day job of running the higher education commission. Here again, his starting position seemed to be weak. The Commission on Higher Education had little real power. It would coordinate a joint budget proposal from the public universities every two years, a process the institutions submitted to grudgingly before immediately going around the executive to lobby the appropriators directly for their own individual items and needs. The commission had some authority to approve new buildings and academic programs, but most of the big decisions had been made long ago -- Indiana University got the law school, Purdue had engineering, and the medical school was located on a jointly administered campus in Indianapolis, equidistant between the two.
Stan’s approach was to simply talk and act like someone who had much more formal authority than he actually did. From his perspective, the state had made a wrong turn back in the 1960s, when, instead of building a robust community college system, it went with a combination of independent technical schools and regional campuses overseen by IU and Purdue. Communities loved having an IU branch nearby, but the local chancellors were like minor lords dreaming of promotion to the capital city or of building research empires of their own. Graduation rates at the regional campuses were often terrible and coordination with local industry was haphazard.
Stan began talking about restructuring the system, which earned a front-page rebuke from Myles Brand, the philosopher president of Indiana University who famously ran Bobby Knight out of town. Stan Jones, Brand said in a tone of accusation, saw himself as another Clark Kerr, the legendary architect of California’s higher education master plan. Stan took this as compliment. It was true.
Since Indiana didn’t have a community college system like California’s, Stan essentially willed one into being, by proclaiming that, hereafter, the technical college system was the community college system. The words “community college” began featuring prominently in branding, marketing and signage. New course sections were introduced. Skeptics doubted that enrollment would follow. It more than doubled over time. Stan Jones saw the world as it was, and as it should be, and moved it from one state to the other through sheer force of persuasion.
Of course, most of the money was still going to the traditional universities. One year, in advance of the budget process, I proposed that, in addition to describing how much money they wanted, universities should also include some information about how well they were doing their jobs. Federal performance data barely existed then, so we left it up to each campus to define success on their own terms. Stan said this was a great idea, and offered to let me take the lead in discussing it with university representatives.
I ended up in a conference room with a dozen grim-faced higher education lobbyists, each explaining through gritted teeth that their campus was so unique in its mission and particular in its needs that no mere numbers could adequately encompass their considerable, albeit ineffable, success. They were such nice people when picking up the bar tab or handing out choice tickets to football games. Stan stood to the side, arms folded, and may have smiled.
Not long after Stan told me about some doors closing and others opening, my wife and I left Indianapolis for a new life in Washington, D.C. A few years later, I found myself back in town for a conference. I walked downstairs to the hotel restaurant for lunch and ran into Stan and his deputy, Kent Weldon.
Stan could be hard to work for. He kept a list of his ever-changing agenda -- seldom with fewer than 20 items -- plastered to the wall in his office. There was never doubt about whose agenda it was. But he respected Kent, a professorial type with an entirely different yet somehow complementary personality. You would see them around, often in deep discussion. But I never saw them both after that day. Later that year, Kent was struck by a fast and brutal kind of cancer. I don’t know that Stan ever found someone he trusted in the same way again.
He continued to patiently chip away at the barriers that kept students from college. High schools, he realized, were drastically overestimating their graduation rates. Just getting them to report accurate numbers took months of careful work. Credits weren’t always transferring from the new community colleges to four-year schools. When the internet appeared, he launched an early web portal to help students choose colleges and a program to provide discount-price computers to low-income families. Past victories needed to be tended as new politicians came on the scene.
After more than a decade on the job, Stan finally stepped down from the commission. Surprisingly, his next move took him away from his home state, to the nation’s capital, where he would found and lead the national advocacy organization Complete College America. The plan was to take the lessons of Indiana’s success and seed them in other states where governors and legislators were willing to listen.
Part of me hoped our occasional conversations would recommence. But I didn’t seem him much, and one day he told me why: he and his wife were caring for a young child in Indianapolis whose mother was struggling. He was almost 60, his own children long since grown.
But I would still get phone calls from time to time. They always began the same way. “Kevin? It’s Stan.” No last name was needed. He was always working on something, a new argument or angle, another governor to convince, with patience and sensibility, that more students needed to go to college and surely could. They’re out there now, in the tens of thousands, diplomas in hand, the legacy of a life devoted to getting things done.
Kevin Carey directs the education policy program at New America.