In which a veteran of cultural studies seminars in the 1990s moves into academic administration and finds himself a married suburban father of two. Foucault, plus lawn care.
A returning correspondent writes:
I am trying to figure out whether and how to give advice to colleagues at another public institution in my state, in my field, where it's fairly clear the chief academic officer has set up insane internal incentives (insane here meaning not inherently unethical but fundamentally unsustainable, "White Queen thoughts-before-breakfast monetary assumptions" insane). From conversations it's clear at least that both faculty and the unit's administrator feel they have to dance to the academic officer's tune. And I don't know how long this pie-in-skie chump is going to sit in that office.
Because my last conversation included the unit administrator, I'm also not sure if the faculty was parroting the party line or are truly unaware of the risky setup. I like them, I worry about the consequences of what's happening, and I am not sure what my ethical obligations are from being part of the same field with the same essential mission in the state. We don't often meet, so this may have been a rare opportunity to provide an outside perspective. But can I?
I have perspective, but I don't have local knowledge to fine-tune it or to make a persuasive case using facts they know intimately. On the other hand, I feel like it's unethical for me to sit on my hands seeing colleagues trapped in an academic version of the Dancers of Colbeck. Do I go on active-listening alert mode with my mouth shut for now about my assessment, do I talk vaguely about the environment for
public institutions and hope they get the sense their institution's approach is non-viable, do I anonymously send job postings I think my friends and colleagues would be good candidates for?
A little over twenty years ago I saw a movie called "Pump Up the Volume," with Christian Slater. Slater played an alienated high school student -- that was kind of his wheelhouse at the time -- who made
life tolerable by operating his own underground radio station. The conceit of the movie was that he developed a growing cult following by bravely telling the truth about life in high school. He called
himself Happy Harry Hardon, as a play on the name of his school, Hubert Horatio Humphrey High. His motto -- “the truth is a virus”-- suggested that you could bring down a corrupt system, gradually, simply by telling the truth. The truth is tenacious, contagious, and hard to un-hear once you’ve heard it.
I loved the movie. It featured a hero with an alliterative pseudonym who used alternative media, told the truth as he saw it, and got the girl. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.
I’m thinking something similar could work here, albeit without the romance angle.
If you’re willing to trust that your interpretation of their CAO’s initiative is correct, then you could adopt the strategy of introducing a virus into the system. Break your argument down into suggestive nuggets -- anecdotes are always good -- and just share those nuggets with the people you know there. Don’t hit them over the head with full-blown arguments, since they’ll probably tune out. An e-mail here, a conversation there -- put the dots in circulation, and trust that over time, people will start to connect them. If you choose the right dots and the right people, they probably will.
The risk of this approach, obviously, is that it takes some time to work. But once it starts to work, it will take on a life of its own. (I read somewhere that viruses are “sort of” alive, so that’s only sort of a mixed metaphor.) A well-chosen aphorism can slip into the system almost undetected, and gradually but inexorably wreak great change. In this context, that could involve invocations of ominous parallels (“remember what happened at Southeast State?”), predictions of inevitable shortfalls (“grants expire, you know...”), or even just questions (“and after the grants expire, then what?”).
There’s no guarantee of success, of course, but I like this strategy’s chances better than a full frontal assault. Let the truth sneak up on them.
Wise and worldly readers, what do you think? Is there a better way? Or should he just look away and hope for the best?
Have a question? Ask the Administrator at deandad (at) gmail (dot) com.