Preliminary results of the vote at Montana State University to decertify its union shows the final margin will be even smaller than the decision to unionize in 2009, which won by a meager 12 votes. After the 375 ballots were counted at the Montana Department of Labor and Industry in Helena, the effort to decertify the Associated Faculty of MSU leads by five votes, 190 to 185. The union, which is affiliated with the statewide MEA-MFT, has challenged four ballots, while its opponents have challenged two.
While in Iceland a few weeks ago, I tried to work up the nerve to try hàkarl, one of the local delicacies. It is prepared by burying chunks of Greenland shark meat in the ground for a few weeks so that it can “ferment” (the nicest word possible here), after which it is unearthed and kept in a smokehouse until extra tasty. The smell goes on for miles. One tourist compared it to “a tramp’s socks soaked in urine.” The flavor, everyone says, is not nearly as bad as the aroma, although the description alone is sufficient to tickle the gag reflex.
My suspicion was that the hàkarl tradition began with one drunken Viking daring another to eat putrid seafood. On first arriving in Reykjavik, I felt up to the challenge, if only because clogged sinuses had deprived me of smell and taste for a week. But Iceland has the world’s cleanest air, and after breathing it for a couple of days, my senses were functional, even keen … and I flinched. My wife was unable to contribute to the YouTube subgenre of “tourist eats hàkarl” videos. Clearly no Viking blood flows in these veins.
Be that as it may, I could tell, by the time we left, that the city itself had a smell -- distinctive and unpleasant, like rotting eggs perhaps. It came from the sulfurous fumes emitted by Iceland’s geothermal springs. The island sits atop (or rather, was created by) the ridge or boundary between the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates. As they move apart from each other, heat surges up from beneath the earth’s crust – hence the volcanoes, and frequent minor earthquakes, as well as water so hot you can boil an egg in it.
Returning to my desk a few days later, I found, atop the clutter, a book showing the glowing mouth of a volcano on its cover, with the title Why Hell Stinks of Sulfur: Mythology and Geology of the Underworld by Salomon Kroonenberg (Reaktion Books, distributed by the University of Chicago Press). The topic had sounded intriguing before our trip. Now the title itself promised to keep the vacation mood alive just a little while longer.
Kroonenberg is emeritus professor of geology at the University of Delft, in the Netherlands – and Why Hell Stinks of Sulfur seems very much a professor emeritus’s book. It blurs the line between memoir (or travelogue) and a pedagogically compelling exposition of the author’s field. And the author wanders across that field guided by his own sui generis map. As far as I know, “the underworld” is not a contemporary geological concept. It leads him across an enormous and various range of ancient and modern literature concerning the world beneath our feet. The earth sciences become part of the humanities, and vice versa. The treatment is essayistic (comparisons to Stephen Jay Gould come to mind occasionally) yet the volume coheres as a whole. It is the work of someone who knows not only his subject but the history and sources of his own mind. This might be called full intellectual maturity, a ripening; the quality is rare.
Kroonenberg’s point of departure is the contrast between the crystalline transparency of the heavens above -- where we can see objects billions of miles away, weather permitting – and the opaque universe beneath our feet: “the most unknown part of our planet, despite the fact that the center of the Earth is no further away than London is from Chicago.” The deepest location most of us will occupy for very long is six feet under, and not out of curiosity. The association of the underworld with darkness and death comes naturally, and the heroes who travel in its realms (Orpheus, Anaes, Dante, etc.) usually go there because they’ve lost someone. In the case of Jesus – according to the pseudepigraphal Gospel of Nicodemus – the trip is a mission to subdue Satan and lead “Adam and all the saints out of hell.”
Following the geographical references and descriptions in these and other accounts of subterranean visits, Kroonenberg goes in search of the real-world sources of how the underworld has been depicted – the original river that becomes mythologized as Styx, for example. Kroonenberg is often pursuing suggestions left by explorers and scholars over the centuries. Their lives and writings become part of the narrative, along with the author’s own travels and his explanations of geological phenomena.
The author moves through history in a crablike fashion -- from ancient and medieval stories to recent knowledge of the earth’s structure, but never through the shortest possible route of compare-and-contrast exposition. Alongside the fictional or legendary figures, more and more historical figures appear as the chapters proceed, bringing their speculations on stage. (Leonardo da Vinci drew a reasonably good cross-section of the Earth, showing the layers beneath its crust. René Descartes “was the first to assume that the core of the Earth was hot.”)
All the while, Kroonenberg’s personal recollections weave in and out of the text, from his childhood scientific interests to aspects his career, such a collaborating with specialists in pedology, the study of dirt, while working at an agricultural school:
“Experienced soil surveyors roll a small clump of soil into a sausage and stick it into their mouths, chew it, ponder it for a while, and then pronounce their verdict: light loam, 15 percent clay. And then it starts, as there is always more than one pedologist around the pit at any one time. They take turns to jump in, pick at the wall, and taste the soil: ‘I think it’s heavy loam, 20 percent clay.’ … There are endless discussions on the basis of qualitative, subjective observations, where the lack of statistical evidence is compensated for by years of experience in hundreds of pits. Bullshit around the pit, that’s what we call it.”
Not surprisingly, one of the author’s favorite books as a child was Journey to the Center of the Earth, by Jules Verne, in which the narrator and his uncle, Professor Lidenbrock, gain access to the subterranean world through a volcano in Iceland. Kroonenberg recalls that the uncle was “an irritable and conceited scholar who gave a not particularly popular course on mineralogy” and gathered knowledge “for himself and not for others.”
In the Scholastic Books edition of Verne’s novel that I read constantly as a kid, that little bit of characterization was left out. Perhaps the editors worried that it was too unflattering a picture of a teacher. In any case, Kroonenberg himself is nothing like the uncle, if his book is anything to go by. It makes me want to go back to Iceland to have a look at that volcano. Next time, I might also sample a bit of hàkarl, or, failing that, chew some dirt.
The American Political Science Association has named Steven Rathgeb Smith as its next executive director. Smith will succeed Michael Brintnall, who is retiring, on September 1. Smith currently holds the Louis A. Bantle Chair in Public Administration at the Maxwell School of Syracuse University. His research areas include nonprofit organizations, public management and social policy.
When I was young I trained as an actor and as a reader of poetry, particularly metered verse. I’m accustomed to delivering keynotes and making other kinds of presentations. I also have experience as a singer — I was in a reggae band in Britain when I was young, though perhaps this isn’t the best testament to my abilities. As soon as I left the band had two top-20 hits in a row.
I felt passionate about narrating this book because it is not only an analysis of such things as the vulnerability of the education system and the easy accessibility of guns, it is also a deeply personal account of my experience before, during, and after the rampage attack on the campus. Though I reported the English department’s concerns about Seung-Hui Cho to many units on campus, and though he did eventually seek help from campus counseling, at his hands, we still experienced the worst college shooting in history. I wrote the book because it seemed inevitable that other attacks would occur, especially if we as a nation didn’t learn from the errors and missteps of the past.
It was my responsibility to utter the words I had written. Honest, open communication is the only meaningful gift we have to give to those who lost loved ones in the attack. At the end of the book I apologize to the victims' families for not being able to prevent this horror. How could someone say these words on my behalf? It’s not the kind of responsibility you can delegate.
It wasn’t until it was confirmed I could narrate the book that I realized I didn’t know if I could do it. Although I had read excerpts from it during readings and keynotes, reading the book aloud all the way through was a different matter altogether. What would I do when I reached the part about how I learned the perpetrator was an English major with whom I had worked? How would I get through the chapter "A Boy Named Loser," ("Loser" was Cho’s own name for himself) — a chapter in which I describe Cho’s agonized, menacing silence as he sat in my office, wearing his reflective sunglasses indoors?
But there was no point in focusing on what ifs. Best take the bull by the horns, my late mother would have said, her remembered voice always a source of consolation. We would be recording for six hours a day for about a week. In readiness, I bought honey-and-lemon throat lozenges and made a strong flask of mint tea. To warm up my voice on the 10-minute drive to the studio, I sang songs from The Sound of Music: "Edelweiss," "My Favorite Things" and "I Have Confidence in Me" — which I didn’t. Nevertheless, I sang with gusto, trusting in the power of Rodgers and Hammerstein and the fact that my car was soundproof.
I must have looked more eccentric than usual as I drove along Blacksburg’s winding country roads doing an impersonation of Fraulein Maria. But it made the process less daunting — as if I were still the homely-looking Anglo-Jamaican girl who used to belt out songs like "Singin’ in the Rain" as she trudged through a downpour on the way home from convent school; as if I were still the person I was before tragedy almost felled me like a tree, and, for a time at least, robbed me of the ability to sing at all.
Originally, I was supposed to travel to Maryland or DC to do the recording — a four-and-a-half hour drive from Blacksburg. It would mean staying in a hotel far from the comforts of home. I didn’t look forward to it. But Bruce Kitovich, the producer Audible assigned me, went out of his way to find a studio here in Blacksburg. It was a thoughtful thing to do, and it allowed me to meet Earl Norris, musician, owner, and operator of Four Loud Barks studio. As it turned out, Earl’s wife and my husband knew each other from way back. As soon as I entered Earl’s studio I felt at ease.
Apparently, according to Bruce, it’s not as unusual as it used to be to have authors read their own work. Not surprisingly, perhaps, this is especially true for memoir. If the recording is straightforward — and it often is for nonfiction — Audible’s in-house team checks the finished recording for quality control and decides which sentences need to be re-recorded. It’s a relatively speedy and efficient process that takes a matter of weeks.
We began recording the book on Sunday January 13, a mere three weeks after the heartbreaking attack at Sandy Hook Elementary in Connecticut. Early the next morning, my husband’s mother died. Mama Edna was a lovely woman — the kind of mother-in-law you hope you will be blessed with. I was even more concerned I wouldn’t be able to get through the recording without becoming emotional. Surprisingly, however, the process was one of the most calming experiences I have ever had.
Something strange happens when you record your own book. The relationship you have to your own words shifts and alters. You deliver a sentence in a particular way, stumble, then reread it with a completely different emphasis, one that can catch you by surprise. You hadn’t realized that was what you meant when you wrote the sentence, but it’s suddenly clear that of course that’s what you were trying to say. You are speaker and auditor, author and interpreter. You hear words anew.
I sat alone in Earl’s room-sized studio, a ribbon microphone a few inches from my mouth. I had been experiencing severe back pain for several weeks, so I sat in a chair with my elbows propped up by fat green pillows. This brought the book closer to me and meant I didn’t have to bear its physical weight while I read. Through the headphones my voice came back to me as not quite mine, as if someone else — a close relative, my mother, perhaps?— was speaking. It’s a strange sensation. Having done many radio interviews, I was accustomed to the aural intimacy of exceptionally sensitive headphones, but it was different this time. I was able to read the book out loud all the way through because it was a disembodied voice doing the reading — a projection and personification of sorts.
It occurs to me now that this process is much like the writing process we engage in as poets and novelists. When we teach creative writing, we talk about finding our voices, not simply because we want to assert our own identities, but because the voice is the guide leading us to the next place. It finds us when we’re lost and puts us back on the path towards revelation. Or at least we hope it does. Though I was in the Four Loud Barks studio on the other side of Earl’s garage while Earl was in the basement of his house several rooms away, I wasn’t alone. Not only did I have my own voice to keep me company, I had Earl’s voice, too, coming through the headphones. He listened intently to what I read and made sure it sounded O.K.
Today -- April 16, 2013 -- marks the six-year anniversary of the Virginia Tech shootings. In interviews I am often asked whether or not I have been able to move on from what happened. I try to explain that you don’t move on completely from calamities like this. What you can do with the help of friends and loved ones, however, is find a way to reconcile yourself to what has happened — or maybe, if you’re lucky, a way back to laughter again. In my case, I had to find a path toward forgiveness not only of the perpetrator but also of myself for not being able to prevent such a terrible tragedy from occurring in my beloved community. It is a long arduous journey — one I have to admit I am still on. I am grateful for the voices that accompany us, grateful that they serve to remind us of the world’s steadfast, indestructible beauty.
Faculty members in Emory University's College of Arts and Sciences have rejected, by a vote of 201 to 133, a vote of no confidence in President James W. Wagner. The arts and sciences professors make up about 20 percent of the university faculty -- and are the only group to hold a vote of no confidence. Over the last year, Emory's decision to end some academic programs frustrated many professors, particularly in the humanities. Opposition grew in February, when Wagner's column in the alumni magazine offered as a model for compromise the three-fifths compromise, in which Northern and Southern politicians creating the U.S. Constitution agreed to count each slave in the South as three-fifths of a person for purposes of taxation and Congressional representation. While Wagner apologized for using the example, many people at Emory were stunned that he could be unaware that many people view the compromise as a particularly ugly and racist moment in U.S. history.
After the vote, the university released a statement from the Board of Trustees saying that "The Emory University Board of Trustees extends its strong and undivided support to President James W. Wagner."
A statement from Wagner said: “I respect the views of all of our faculty and their right to express concern about the leadership and direction of our institution, and I take to heart the significance of this vote. Faculty governance and faculty responsibility for the future of Emory University are essential. I will continue to work with my colleagues in the administration and with the faculty to carry out the mission of this great institution. I have listened closely to constituents from across the university, and I look forward to sharing what I have learned and to working with all members of our community to move Emory forward. Together we have accomplished much, and in partnership with all of our community members, Emory will do much more.”
Video of instructor at U. of Southern California bashing Republicans in class goes viral and is cited as evidence of liberal indoctrination. But critics don't mention that he was hired as adjunct for program that seeks partisans -- liberals and conservatives alike.
Authorities have charged Lei Wu, an assistant professor of software engineering at the University of Houston - Clear Lake, with making a "terroristic threat" based on statements he made to a colleague, The Houston Chronicle reported. Wu allegedly told a faculty colleague -- who recorded the conversation -- that there will "be blood" if he is not awarded tenure.
In response to an e-mail from Inside Higher Ed asking about the charges, Wu said: "Truth will come out soon. By then you will see. Justice will prevail."
Although massive open online courses have been gathering substantial recent attention, future histories of education will likely only note them as a harbinger of change or transitional step into an educational model that is organized around learning. In most cases, MOOCs operate on a grand scale but use a traditional form in which a faculty member (or two) is responsible for most aspects of course design, delivery, and assessment. The real threat to traditional higher education embraces a more radical vision that removes faculty from the organizational center and uses cognitive science to organize the learning around the learner. Such models exist now.
Consider, for example the implications of Carnegie Mellon’s Open Learning Initiative. More than 10 years ago, Herb Simon, the Carnegie Mellon University professor and Nobel laureate, declared, "Improvement in postsecondary education will require converting teaching from a solo sport to a community-based research activity." The Open Learning Initiative (OLI) is an outgrowth of that vision and has been striving to realize it for more than a decade.
Teams of cognitive scientists, technology consultants, designers, and disciplinary specialists are designing interactive, online courses that are available now from OLI. The program uses the latest research in cognitive science to inform course design, and it tests each element of the design by evaluating its effectiveness in promoting student learning. As more students take courses and the integrated assessments, the OLI team gathers more data that allow team members to further refine the course. Creating such courses is capital-intensive, but since students interact solely with the computer when taking the course, the marginal cost to deliver the course to each additional student is minimal.
OLI in its current incarnation is a proof-of-concept endeavor, and in 2012, Ithaka S+R published findings that demonstrate it has succeeded. A rigorous study comparing student learning in a traditional face-to-face statistics course to that of students in a hybrid OLI course found that the hybrid courses were at least as effective in promoting student understanding of statistics as traditional courses. Further, students in the hybrid courses learned as much even though they spent significantly less time in learning activities, which echoes earlier work by OLI showing that Carnegie Mellon students learned statistics with OLI in half the time that students in traditional courses did. We should note that the hybrid courses were not offered fully online. Students worked through the material using OLI’s online interactive materials and met as a group once weekly with a course tutor.
With the Ithaka S+R finding, OLI has reached a milestone, and it is reasonable to assume that continued investment in refining its courses will yield additional gains in student learning or efficiency. We can howl in protest, but the question is no longer whether computer-based, intelligent agents can prompt learning of some material at least as well as instructor-focused courses. The question is whether the computer-based version can become even more effective than traditional models, and the implications for higher education are sobering.
Let us suppose, for example, that Southern New Hampshire University (SNHU), which is already pioneering competency-based credentialing, partners with OLI to create New Way College (NWC) within SNHU. New Way College supports community-based educational initiatives through which students can earn an associate degree while paying significantly less than is available to eligible students receiving the maximum Pell Grant. (I want to stress that this is a hypothetical example generated to demonstrate how things might play out. It is not based on any plan announced by SNHU or on any inside information from SNHU or the other real organizations mentioned in this essay.)
With backing from foundations or venture capitalists, NWC will pay OLI $25 million to develop 30 interactive, online courses that will form the basis of NWC’s educational program. In addition, NWC will provide OLI $40 for each student enrolled in an NWC course in exchange for ongoing course development and support. The courses themselves are taught in hybrid fashion in classes with no more than 20 students. Classes are sponsored in local communities by host organizations. Any nonprofit or educational organization — a public library, YMCA, school district, religious or service organization — could apply to be a host organization. Hosts would be responsible for providing a meeting space, recruiting classes of students, and identifying tutors for each class but not traditional faculty members.
To support program administration, NWC might then forge a long-term contract with Pearson Education, making Pearson responsible for recruiting, assessing, and supporting host organizations. Tutors are vetted, trained, and evaluated by Pearson to meet standards established by NWC, although host institutions would be responsible for paying those tutors who were not volunteers. As part of its services, Pearson would run a social media site that included tools for students to rate individual hosts and tutors, much like eBay and Amazon rate sellers in their marketplaces. The same site would also provide pass rates broken down by course so that prospective students could identify effective hosts near them.
Pearson would provide assessments aligned with NWC’s standards and a secure test site for mid-course and end-of-term assessments that would determine whether a student earned credit for the course. Classes would typically span 12 weeks and have limited enrollment to ensure that every student received the support he or she needed to succeed. Students would pay $100 per credit for courses, with the standard course carrying four credits and 64 credits required for an associate degree. Students who needed no remedial work could easily complete the program in two years and pay the minimum tuition of $6,400.
At the scale typical of most higher education institutions, this model makes no sense whatsoever, but at web scale, the model is compelling: Students would pay $400 to enroll in a typical four-credit class section, and courses would be designed so that there are minimal additional costs beyond online access. Of that $400, we assume $40 goes to OLI, $120 goes to the host institution, Pearson collects $200 for its services, and SNHU keeps $40. A 15-person class would generate $600 for OLI, $1,800 for the host (some of which might be used to pay a tutor), $3,000 for Pearson, and $400 for SNHU. If NWC offered 30 four-credit courses in a typical year — each of which enrolled a minimum of 10,000 students annually — OLI and SNHU would each collect at least $12 million in annual revenues,
Pearson would collect $60 million, and local hosts would collectively receive $36 million. Since the marginal cost of adding additional students would continue to decline as the number of students grows, early entrants using this model could quickly attain market dominance, much like Amazon, Apple, Walmart, Google, and eBay dominate much of their respective markets. If NWC could achieve similar market dominance in the two-year college market, annual revenues to be split among the partners would exceed $1 billion. A much larger sum might be lost by community colleges and other institutions, which charge more for courses leading to the same credits.
By unbundling the learning experience — separating local support, course design, delivery, assessment, administrative support, and advising — the NWC model achieves superior outcomes at lower cost, at least when outcomes are measured by exam or other task performance. Local organization and student support is provided by entities with deep roots in their communities, missions aligned with the educational endeavor, existing meeting spaces that are often underutilized and could readily be used to house weekly class meetings, access to volunteer or relatively low-cost tutors to provide student support, and budget constraints that create incentives to leverage these resources to market and support classes for their communities. A public library with an appropriate meeting space and quality volunteers who would be willing and able to support a class in exchange for $500 per class could expect to earn $1,000 per course after accounting for incidentals. A robust program offering 10 or more courses annually could afford to support a part-time program administrator.
Through OLI, expert teams design and deliver course content, assess course effectiveness, and continuously refine the interactive online tools to optimize student learning. Logistics, independent and verifiable testing of student learning, marketing, and social media tools for community-sourced assessment of host institutions and tutors are outsourced to a corporation with expertise and facilities that can sustain that work. The sponsoring college or university provides curricular structure, advising services, student tracking through its student information system, access to accreditation and federal financial aid, and legitimacy that connects the endeavor to the larger higher education landscape. Students can earn essential credentials in a supportive program whose standards would be widely understood and appreciated.
What is missing from this picture are professors at the center of course design, delivery, and assessment. Some might argue that is its fatal flaw, others that it is the mark of its genius. I consider it a reminder that other realities than the one in which we now live are possible. Should NWC or a similar organization gain market dominance and public acceptance for delivering two-year degrees, Clayton Christensen’s model of disruption suggests it will move up market and take on the bachelor degree, which could underwrite the demise of any four-year college that was unable to articulate its value apart from the credential its students earn for passing exams.
If those of us at liberal arts colleges believe there is something of value in our current model, something that cannot be replicated by online programs in which students interact primarily with a machine rather than with an instructor, then we need to articulate what that is and demonstrate its value. Something essential is lost when the news industry is unbundled and newspapers, which historically had the resources to support extensive reporting staffs, are replaced by online news sources with much smaller budgets, and journalists find it hard to support themselves and their families by exercising their craft. Bemoaning that loss and advocating for journalists’ crucial civic role has not stopped the steady erosion of the news industry and the livelihoods of those who work in it. Traditional higher education, faculty, and others who work in the higher education face similar threats. We would be wise to consider how to respond while there is still time.
Richard Holmgren is chief information officer and associate dean of the college at Allegheny College.