Using commission-based agents in international recruitment has gone from unmentionable to mainstream. At 5th annual conference, a group formed to bring standards to the practice reflects on where it has been and where it's going.
Innovation is the catchword of the day. You’ve heard the speeches and read the op-eds. Higher education needs to innovate: teach differently and use more high impact practices, improve completion rates, integrate new technologies, assess student learning, engage in interdisciplinary teaching and research, help students transition successfully to college – among other improvements.
I have been involved with many such reform efforts in the past two decades, but the same problem emerges persistently as we try to innovate – there are no core faculty to do the work over time, no plans for faculty engagement, no blueprints for professional development. There are no provisions, in short, to meet these goals. Great novel curriculums are developed, important new pedagogies tested and codified, and new forms of assessment instituted, but no one there to implement these key innovations.
One large national project after another fails to meet its goals because it does not provide a way to work with the faculty who keep our institutions functioning.
As we know, the composition of the faculty has changed. Numbers of non-tenure-track faculty, particularly part-time, have ballooned in proportion to the declining population on the tenure track. I have never found an innovation-focused project that includes plans to integrate non-tenure-track instructors or consider how the shrinking tenure track faculty members are too stretched with additional research and service work to be meaningfully involved in innovating.
As just one example, the MDRC evaluation of Achieving the Dream noted how the lack of integration of adjunct faculty negatively affected its success. Our employment practices are broken. Yet higher education is a service profession relying on human capital for success.
I have reached out to most national foundations, agencies and higher education associations to help them understand that without addressing the faculty role, the funded initiatives will be largely failures – if we are speaking about deep and meaningful scaled changes, not fringe marginal side efforts. Most foundations don’t want to fund superficial changes, but that is what the current landscape is set up to do.
We want innovation, but we aren’t willing to examine the capacity issues that thwart important and needed innovation. In fact, higher education’s capacity to innovate in important areas for student success is becoming increasingly hampered by the longstanding and escalating shift to a contingent workforce that is obliged to work with no support.
Others reformers hope to move away from a labor-intensive model – using technology to replace faculty. Technology, the thinking goes, can be programmed to teach as we want, can assess learning, and perhaps provide student support and guidance now missing at some institutions.
This is erroneous thinking. Technology alone does not engage students or use pedagogies that can instill critical thinking. Current high-tech pedagogies largely reinforce memorization or cater to highly privileged learners.
Technology as we know it now also cannot provide the human touch, which sparks learning. Learning is after all a social process. Technology alone cannot offer complex assessments. The support it provides is rote; it cannot offer career advice, help with time management, or assist students in thinking about life purpose and one’s role as a citizen.
Technology to replace faculty is magical thinking, an empty promise. And building technologies that can offer anything close to resembling human capacities is extremely expensive, not cheap. While technology is essential as higher education moves forward, for example, as can be achieved in hybrid classrooms, it is not a substitute for human beings.
If we are to engage in meaningful reform so that higher education can innovate, we need a strategy to develop new faculty employment models. Rather than ignoring the faculty or imagining that we can do without professors, we need a plan that can help redesign the faculty role to meet student needs institutional mission.
Some institutions are trying – tinkering with turning part-time roles into full-time non-tenure-track positions, providing access to important resources like professional development, creating a promotional track, and elevating teaching within the rewards and incentive system. But these experiments are fragile as there is no national vision for the faculty or support within the system for these new roles.
Without a funded, large-scale initiative to help connect disciplinary societies, faculty and academic leaders, students, unions, accreditors, business and industry, and policy makers, it is unlikely that any initiative will represent the interests of the key groups in the system. Such an effort would include some of the following steps:
Create a set of Future Faculty Career Pathways through research and vetting with knowledgeable and diverse stakeholders
Develop a major report on Future Faculty Career Pathways
Work with leading scholars on economic models to support new career pathways
Disseminate and achieve buy-in for Future Faculty Career pathway models using a strategic array of existing stakeholder groups, including trustees, presidents, academic administrators, policy makers, higher education associations, accreditors, disciplinary societies, unions, and faculty associations.
We need the best ideas advanced for redesigning faculty roles, which can come through garnering ideas from all the key stakeholders and having these groups help move that vision into the overall system. We need courageous funders to invest not just in innovations – but in the capacity to innovate.
Adrianna Kezar is professor at the Rossier School of Education and co-director of the Pullias Center for Higher Education at the University of Southern California. She also directs the Delphi Project on the Changing Faculty and Student Success.
A recent research paper published by the Wisconsin Center for the Advancement of Postsecondary Education and reported on by Inside Higher Ed criticized states' efforts to fund higher education based in part on outcomes, in addition to enrollment. The authors, David Tandberg and Nicholas Hillman, hoped to provide a "cautionary tale" for those looking to performance funding as a "quick fix."
While we agree that performance-based funding is not the only mechanism for driving change, what we certainly do not need are impulsive conclusions that ignore positive results and financial context. With serious problems plaguing American higher education, accompanied by equally serious efforts across the country to address them, it is disheartening to see a flawed piece of research mischaracterize the work on finance reform and potentially set back one important effort, among many, to improve student success in postsecondary education.
As two individuals who have studied performance funding in depth, we know that performance funding is a piece of the puzzle that can provide an intuitive, effective incentive for adopting best practices for student success and encourage others to do so. Our perspective is based on the logical belief that tying some funding dollars to results will provide an incentive to pursue those results. This approach should not be dismissed in one fell swoop.
We are dismayed that the authors were willing to assert an authoritative conclusion from such simplistic research. The study compares outcomes of states "where the policy was in force" to those where it was not -- as if "performance funding" is a monolithic policy everywhere it has been adopted.
The authors failed to differentiate among states in terms of when performance funding was implemented, how much money is at stake, whether performance funds are "add ins" or part of base funding formulas, the metrics used to define and measure "performance," and the extent to which "stop loss" provisions have limited actual change in allocations. These are critical design issues that vary widely and that have evolved dramatically over the 20-year period the authors used to decide if "the policy was in force" or not.
Treating this diverse array of unique approaches as one policy ignores the thoughtful work that educators and policy makers are currently engaged in to learn from past mistakes and to improve the design of performance funding systems. Even a well-designed study would probably fail to reveal positive impacts yet, as states are only now trying out new and better approaches -- certainly not the "rush" to adopting a "quick fix" that the authors assert. It could just as easily be argued that more traditional funding models actually harm institutions trying to make difficult and necessary changes in the best interest of students and their success (see here and here).
The simplistic approach is exacerbated by two other design problems. First, we find errors in the map indicating the status of performance funding. Texas, for example, has only recently implemented (passed in spring 2013) a performance funding model for its community colleges; it has yet to affect any budget allocations. The recommended four-year model was not passed. Washington has a small performance funding program for its two-year colleges but none for its universities. Yet the map shows both states with performance funding operational for both two-year and four-year sectors.
Second, the only outcome examined by the authors was degree completions as it "is the only measure that is common among all states currently using performance funding." While that may be convenient for running a regression analysis, it ignores current thinking about appropriate metrics that honor different institutional missions and provide useful information to drive institutional improvement. The authors make passing reference to different measures at the end of the article but made no effort to incorporate any realism or complexities into their statistical model.
On an apparent mission to discredit performance funding, the authors showed a surprising lack of curiosity about their own findings. They found eight states where performance funding had a positive, significant effect on degree production but rather than examine why that might be, they found apparent comfort in the finding that there were "far more examples" of performance funding failing the significance tests.
"While it may be worthwhile to examine the program features of those states where performance funding had a positive impact on degree completions," they write, "the overall story of our state results serves as a cautionary tale." Mission accomplished.
In their conclusion they assert that performance funding lacks "a compelling theory of action" to explain how and why it might change institutional behaviors.
We strongly disagree. The theory of action behind performance funding is simple: financial incentives shape behaviors. Anyone doubting the conceptual soundness of performance funding is, in effect, doubting that people respond to fiscal incentives. The indisputable evidence that incentives matter in higher education is the overwhelming priority and attention that postsecondary faculty and staff have placed, over the years, on increasing enrollments and meeting enrollment targets, with enrollment-driven budgets.
The logic of performance funding is simply that adding incentives for specified outcomes would encourage individuals to redirect a portion of that priority and attention to achieving those outcomes. Accepting this logic is to affirm the potential of performance funding to change institutional behaviors and student outcomes. It is not to defend any and all versions of performance funding that have been implemented, many of which have been poorly done. And it is not to criticize the daily efforts of faculty and staff, who are committed to student success but cannot be faulted for doing what matters to maintain budgets.
Surely there are other means -- and more powerful means -- to achieve state and national goals of improving student success, as the authors assert. But just as surely it makes sense to align state investments with the student success outcomes that we all seek.
Nancy Shulock is executive director of the Institute for Higher Education Leadership & Policy at California State University at Sacramento, and Martha Snyder is senior associate at HCM Strategists.
This summer, the faculty of Shimer College held a discussion of Jacques Rancière's book The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation. In it, he discusses the educational theory and practice of Joseph Jacotot, who claimed that one could teach a subject one didn't even know in the first place. For Jacotot, teaching isn't a matter of expertise, but of determination. It isn't about transmitting knowledge to the student, but about holding students accountable to the material that they are working on.
Though the method Rancière described was more radical than anything we would actually try, the general approach resonates with what we try to do at Shimer, a small liberal arts college in the Great Books tradition. Our classes are all discussion-based, centered on important texts, artworks, and scientific experiments, and the professor serves not to instruct the students but to keep them on task and nudge them in the right direction. A handful of our faculty members have actually taught the whole curriculum, covering the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences, and all are required to teach in at least two areas.
All of this remained mostly theoretical for me until this semester, however, when I began teaching Humanities 1: Art and Music. I am knowledgeable about fine arts and am a passable classical pianist, but my Ph.D. is in theology and philosophy and the course is the first I've ever taught where the primary object of study was something other than texts. The challenge of the course is to find a way of talking about art that is neither purely impressionistic and personal nor overly technical and scholarly.
The problem is most pronounced with music, where students often express a need for something called “music theory” that will permit them to talk about the experience of music in an intelligent and informed way. For the visual arts, there’s a more immediate intelligibility, given that the majority of the works we discuss in the course are representational (or at least suggestive of representation) — yet even there, students can feel that they don’t know what to say beyond assessing whether the painting represents what it’s supposed to in a way that is somehow “realistic.”
Our approach is to give students a handful of “hooks” that allow them to point out certain aspects of a given artwork. We begin with the format of the class, which is centered on Ovid's Metamorphoses, a work that has inspired artists for generations. As a result of this framing, the majority of works that we study are somehow representative or narrative in form, giving the students a basic orientation. The ready availability of different works on the same subject also gives us the
opportunity to highlight the differences between different media and the types of choices that artists make within the same medium.
On the level of form, we try to give students a ready familiarity with a few basic concepts. In music, the most important goals include being able to hear consonance vs. dissonance (which is fairly intuitive once it’s pointed out), knowing how to talk about melody and harmony, and being broadly familiar with the distinction of major vs. minor. With painting, we focus on the use of perspective, the interaction of colors, and the composition of the piece as a whole. These tools give them enough to begin thinking about how the expressive content of the artwork can reinforce, compliment, or complicate the emotional content of the narrative being portrayed.
By halfway through the semester, I had developed a certain level of confidence on art and music. Yet the syllabus threw me a curve ball when I was required to introduce a new art form by taking the students on an architectural tour in downtown Chicago. Here I felt my ignorance much more acutely, and instead of trying to create my own tour, I asked a senior faculty member to demonstrate the tour he had given the previous year, which I simply repeated.
We had only a short time for the tour, and so I could only point out a handful of extremely basic points. I showed them a few buildings that were built before the skyscraper technique was developed (basically, the outer walls had to be load-bearing before the skyscraper technique allowed for an internal distribution of the weight) as well as some early skyscrapers. I talked about the ways that the architect can get us to “read” a building — how the eye is drawn upward, how a building can be “capped” with a different design on the top floors, how the base of the building can provide indications of where the entrances are and how the facade can reinforce that. We saw some buildings that were highly ornamented and some that were very stark. We also looked at lobbies in a similar variety of styles. Finally, I tried to point out to them the way buildings interact with each other.
None of this was very advanced, and indeed, I was most often simply pointing out to the students what my colleague had pointed out to me on our tour. Yet the students reported that they had benefited from simply being told to step back and actually look at the buildings and from being given certain rough-and-ready indications of what to look for. Some reported they had never really thought about architecture at all, that it had always faded into the background. Even a more knowledgeable student said that being asked to look at buildings in the context of the cityscape rather than in isolation was a step beyond what he’d done before.
None of this resulted from any special skill I brought to the table — even the mechanical execution of the tour was pretty inept, and I’m known to mumble. (My students strongly discouraged me from pursuing a career as a tour guide.) It was simply a matter of being told to look and being given a few specific things to look at. It made them want to look more closely in the future, as indeed preparing for the tour made me want to look more closely as well.
While it was most pronounced with architecture, I've been learning along with the students throughout the semester. During trips to the Art Institute of Chicago, I've found that my way of looking at paintings has changed. A recent visit to the symphony with my students revealed that I'm getting better at following and thinking about classical music — after the concert, I found that I really wanted to talk about it and even investigate it further, in a way that wouldn’t have been true before. I see similar progress in my students, as they become more and more comfortable with talking about the formal elements of the artworks and relate them in more sophisticated way to their representational or narrative content. In fact, one of my students who transferred from a local art school claims that she has had more and better discussion of art in our class than she did in art school.
At this point, my reader may be skeptical. Perhaps I am giving students an adequate introduction to the fine arts, making up for my ignorance with my enthusiasm — but wouldn't they be better off with a more knowledgeable professor? In some ways, I'm sure they would. Yet I would turn the tables and point out the disadvantages of having an accomplished expert teach an introductory course. Too often, such classes consist in the delivery of scholarly knowledge that only serves to exacerbate the distance that the students feel from the material itself. Instead of learning how to look at an artwork or listen to a piece of music, students learn how to categorize them: this is early Renaissance, this is Impressionist....
The two skills don't have to be mutually exclusive, but on a practical level, they most often are — and I would rather that my students begin by gaining the confidence to analyze and respond to a work and only then delve into the historical and scholarly background according to their interest. We live in a time where there's no shortage of access to facts, but college may be their one chance to develop a real understanding of how art and music work. From that perspective, my inability to supply “the right answer” or to indulge my students' curiosity about historical trivia that distracts our attention from the work before us counts as a positive advantage.
This isn't to say, of course, that I must never teach in my own area of expertise. Indeed, my experience as an “ignorant schoolmaster” has already changed the way I think about teaching things within my comfort zone as well. It has pushed me to think more about holding students accountable for the ways they reach their own answers than about how best to give them — or Socratically help them stumble upon — the “right answer.” Even in classes where I bring much more to the table, the focus is and must be the material we're working on together, not all the information I'm bringing from the outside. More than that, though, all that information must be put to the test of the material itself, so that I always have to be open to the possibility that the interpretation I brought to the table is wrong, or at least not the whole story.
The approach I'm describing here goes against many of the deeply engrained habits that academics develop in graduate school and carry over into their teaching. While Rancière and others would cast moral aspersions on the expertise-centered approach to education, I view it more as a failure of imagination. Robert Hutchins, the University of Chicago president whose approach forms the basis for Shimer's curriculum, once said that liberal arts colleges tend to imitate graduate programs because at least graduate programs have a clear idea of what they're doing — namely, producing experts. An undergraduate education, however, neither can nor should achieve that goal. The liberal arts approach in particular provides a unique opportunity to form broad-minded critical and creative thinkers who have the right combination of intellectual boldness and intellectual humility to enter a wide variety of professions and explore many bodies of knowledge. A crucial part of that formation is learning to have the courage to admit one's own ignorance, and I believe students would be better served if faculty members were more commonly called upon to display that same courage.
Recently, I had lunch with a group of women who had moved to the upper levels of leadership in higher education. As is usual when such a group gathers, we talked about some of our more “challenging” moments as the first women provosts, deans or presidents. But this time, the stories were about team-building experiences that didn’t quite work when a woman was added to the mix.
One dean recounted the weekend retreat she was required to attend at the president’s cottage, where after a day of activities, everyone was expected to join the others... in the hot tub, which makes for an awkward splash if you’re the only one wearing a two-piece. Another woman described the “bonding” day her executive vice president led that involved a race with her colleagues in the equivalent of bumper cars. And still another described a hunting and fishing expedition more akin to a men’s sweat lodge.
Each story left me wondering: with the increasing mix of men and women in prominent leadership roles, is something lost if institutions of learning have to adjust their informal interactions? Do the guys no longer feel free to be, well, guys, if a woman is suddenly in a cabinet meeting? And is that a bad thing? I don’t think so.
When I first went to graduate school, a wise senior professor commented one day on how glad he was that more women were in his classes. “It had started to feel too much like a men’s club,” he announced. Similarly, another colleague once told me that a member of Margaret Thatcher’s cabinet had remarked how relieved he was not to be in a “men’s club” any longer, now that Thatcher was around. In other words, the presence of women — or I should say the presence of women and men together — moves things up a notch. It makes men grow up.
Or put in a more ladylike way, groups of mixed gender encourage more professional interactions to the benefit of all. Such professionalism allows everyone to develop more balanced lives where colleagues are expected to be just good colleagues, and faculty then see mutual respect modeled. Sure, some may become friends, but that’s not the point. And maybe it frees the men from having to join in the hot tub as well!
In fact, the potent combination of women and men in campus leadership together challenges old school thinking. It counteracts men’s tendencies to invest everything in their work because when women lean in to opportunities of institutional advancement, men are also required to become partners at home.
And when both contribute in leading both a university and a home, each benefits. Men gain the freedom to develop a rich set of relationships in and outside academe while developing a fuller range of human and emotional experiences, made more possible with the presence of women. And for women, the university begins to recognize — and affirm — the existence of a life beyond the classrooms.
With women now leading more at higher levels of academic institutions, both the workplace and personal lives can shift, allowing us to form real partnerships in the process of negotiating our ever-changing realities. Rather than creating unhealthy dependencies or enabling behavior that responds only to rigid cultural expectations — like the “guys' clubs” can do — both discover a new freedom to grow as human beings. As one author put it, “The difference between the equal sharers (co-parenting and dual career) and other couples was not that mothers cared less, but that fathers cared more.”
So when women “lean in” at the academic leadership table, that is, when they advance in their scholarship and campus leadership roles, men begin to care more about their children and others, not less. But when we don’t collaborate, women and men alike tend to work under the assumption of stereotypes perpetuated by the popular media and the unfortunate data of lopsided gender roles in higher education, rather than enjoy the range of gifts that each individual can contribute, man or woman.
In short, we rise together. At another “bonding” retreat for leaders, I once played the game where two individuals sit back-to-back on the floor. We had to lean into each other, exerting equal pressure, in order to stand. It’s a good metaphor for what can happen when men and women also rise to yet greater heights and health. A woman doesn’t hesitate to lean in and a man meets the challenge because they need each other to get off the ground. We rise together when each exerts the same amount of pressure, benefiting students and faculty alike. And when that happens, I suspect the stories will be much different at the next lunch gatherings.
Janel Curry became the first woman provost at Gordon College in 2012. As a cultural geographer, she has served as a professor, chair and dean in higher education for over 30 years.
An article in these pages last week, "We Are Not Luddites," by Brooks Kohler, argues that being skeptical of online learning does not make one a Luddite.
Very well, then. I think most academics would agree. If his article had gone on to critique the tendency of tech folks to alienate skeptics of online learning by labeling them backward or hopelessly outdated, I would have been on board.
But Kohler takes a curious turn when he writes that liberal arts instructors who welcome online learning are in a state of “technological hypnosis.” Students, according to Kohler, are in a “fixative trance.” Apparently digital technology is a dangling medallion swinging back and forth, and we are all getting very, very sleepy.
Kohler goes on to describe a “pathetically sad” scene in which “a classroom could be reduced to a rectangle (sic) screen on a distant wall, or thought to be comparable to that of a interior space where a qualified human stands as the moderator before eyes that are watching.” Online learning to Kohler is inherently dystopian, akin to Orwell’s 1984, while the face-to-face classroom is, in contrast, natural and human.
This conversation calls to mind Plato’s Phaedrus. In this dialogue, Socrates laments the technology of writing because he fears it will diminish memory skills if Athenian citizens no longer have to memorize and practice oral discourse.
Worse yet, writing is inferior to speech, according to Socrates, because we can’t argue with a piece of paper like a living person; writing only has the appearance of wisdom, not wisdom itself.
Frankly, I’m not interested in reinforcing such a strict for/against dichotomy when discussing online learning and new digital technologies. I think such binary thinking is part of the problem.
I teach face-to-face, online, and blended sections of composition at a small rural state university and I see strengths and limitations in all three approaches. My online classes look nothing like Kohler’s panoptic nightmare. Or, at least, I hope they do not -- now that I think of it, perhaps students calling me Big Brother isn’t a term of endearment after all.
Kohler does not take kindly to being called a Luddite, yet he suggests teachers and students working hard to make online learning rigorous, academic and accessible are hypnotized dupes attracted to shiny surfaces and entranced by blinking lights. Worse yet, he charges that online learning encourages contingent academic labor and the demise of tenure-track positions when in fact this erosion has been a decades-long process with roots extending long before online learning.
Notice I’ve been using the term “online learning” and not “MOOCs,” the latter against which I harbor a much deeper skepticism, but that’s a story for another time. I highlight this distinction because a sleight of hand occurs when Kohler begins his article by discussing MOOCs only to substitute that digital phenomenon with a more generalized “online learning” later in the same paragraph.
I’m not just splitting hairs. MOOCs and online learning are too often conflated. They are, of course, not the same thing. Suggesting otherwise is merely shoving stuffing into a straw man. The problems of MOOCs do not automatically extend to online learning in general.
A similar game of three-card monte is performed when Kohler uses a generalized “technology” when he really means new digital technologies. This slippage leads to historical and theoretical quandaries.
For example, when Kohler chortles “as if a pen and pad were inherently inferior” he fails to recognize that pen and paper are technologies, and that writing itself is a technology, as Walter Ong famously argued. Conflating new digital technologies that facilitate online learning with technology in general results in a fixed, narrow, and uncomplicated definition of technology.
Again, this isn’t academic hair-splitting. Such a distinction is helpful because it leads our dialogue away from dystopic visions and forces us to confront the fact that even analog technology like Kohler’s “pen and pad” shape how and what we learn.
Because teachers believe that online learning can be a worthwhile experience does not mean that we are hypnotized, nor does it mean that we are chasing fads and abandoning “literature and writing” and a “fine attention to detail,” as Kohler claims.
Instead of charging one another as either entranced by new technologies or a Luddite, we should be cultivating dialogue, criticism and best practices to make online education better.
We should also pay more attention to issues of race, class and access when it comes to online learning. And we should be building space and time into our online courses for students to reflect on their own skepticism and concerns with digital learning. Including students in this dialogue is essential.
I too am skeptical of online learning. However, this skepticism does not lead me away from online teaching, but toward it. I want to make it better. I believe it’s our duty to make it better. Drawing broad caricatures of online teachers and students only reinforces the importance of not devolving into a strict for/against dichotomy in our dialogue.
John F. Raucci Jr. is an assistant professor of English at Frostburg State University.
America's public research universities face a challenging economic environment characterized by rising operating costs and dwindling state resources. In response, institutions across the country have looked toward the corporate sector for cost-cutting models. The hope is that implementing these “real-world” strategies will centralize redundant tasks (allowing some to be eliminated), stimulate greater efficiency, and ensure long-term fiscal solvency.
Recent events at the University of Michigan (suggest that faculty should be proactive in the face of such “corporatization” schemes, which typically are packaged and presented as necessary and consistent with a commitment to continued excellence. The wholesale application of such strategies can upend core academic values of transparency, and shared governance, and strike at the heart of workplace equity.
Early this month our university administration rolled out the “Workforce Transition” phase of its “Administrative Services Transformation” (AST) plan. From far on high, with virtually no faculty leadership input, 50 to 100 staff members in the College of Literature, Science, and the Arts (LS&A) departments were informed that their positions in HR and finances (out of an anticipated total of 325) would be eliminated by early 2014. Outside consultants, none of whom actually visited individual departments for any serious length of time, reduced these positions to what they imagined as their “basic” functions: transactional accounting and personnel paperwork.
It became clear that many of those impacted constitute a specific demographic: women, generally over 40 years of age, many of whom have served for multiple decades in low- to mid-level jobs without moving up the ranks. A university previously committed to gender equity placed the burden of job cuts on the backs of loyal and proven female employees.
These laid-off employees found little comfort in learning that they would be free to apply for one of 275 new positions in HR or finance that will be contained at an off-campus “shared services” center disconnected from the intellectually vital campus life.
The resulting plan reveals no awareness of how departments function on an everyday basis. Such “shared services” models start with the presumption that every staff member is interchangeable and every department’s needs are the same. They frame departments as “customers” of centralized services, perpetuating the illusion that the university can and should function like a market. This premise devalues the local knowledge and organic interactions that make our units thrive. Indeed, it dismisses any attribute that cannot be quantitatively measured or “benchmarked.” Faculty members who reject these models quickly become characterized as “change resisters”: backward, tradition-bound, and incapable of comprehending budgetary complexities.
The absence of consultation with regard to the plan is particularly galling given that academic departments previously have worked well with the administration to keep the university in the black. Faculty members are keenly aware of our institution’s fiscal challenges and accordingly have put in place cost-cutting and consolidating measures at the micro level for the greater good.
Worries about departmental discontentment with AST and shared services resulted in increasing secrecy around the planned layoffs. In an unprecedented move, department chairs and administrators were sworn to silence by “gag orders” prohibiting them from discussing the shared services plan even with each other. Perturbed, close to 20 department chairs wrote a joint letter to top university executives expressing their dismay. As one department chair said, "The staff don't know if they can trust the faculty, the faculty don't know if they trust the administration.”
Within a few days, at least five LS&A departments had written collective letters of protest, signed by hundreds of faculty members and graduate students. Over the past few weeks, that chorus of opposition has only intensified as faculty members from all corners of our campus have challenged AST. Some have called for a one- to two-year moratorium and others for an outright suspension of the program.
The outcry against the planned transition itself reflects the growing rift between departmental units and the central administration at the University of Michigan. Championed as an astute financial fix by a cadre hidden away in the upper-level bureaucracy, the shared-services model is the brainchild of Accenture, an outside consulting firm which our university has also contracted for a multimillion-dollar IT rationalization project.
Caught off-guard by the strong pushback, the administration has issued several messages admitting that their communication strategies around these changes were inadequate, stating that for now layoffs will be avoided, and assuring us that there will be greater consultation and transparency going forward.
While these definitely are hopeful signs, important questions about institutional priorities and accountability have arisen.
Initially, the university’s consultants claimed that AST would render a savings of $17 million. Over time that figure shrunk to $5 million, and by some accounts now is reputed to be as low as $2 million. Yet the university has already reportedly spent at least $3 million on this effort with even more spending on the horizon.
Where are the cost savings? How much more will the university spend on Accenture and other outside consultants? How will replacing or shifting valued employees, even at lower numbers and salaries, from their departmental homes to what essentially is a glorified offsite “call center” actually enhance efficiency? How can a university ostensibly committed to gender equity justify making long-serving and superb female employees pay the price of AST? What credible proof is there that centralized management will provide any budgetary or administrative benefits to the specialized needs of individual departments?
The implications of these questions are thrown into starker relief when considering that almost to the day of the announced layoffs, the university launched its most ambitious capital campaign, “Victors for Michigan,” with festivities costing more than $750,000 and a goal of raising $4 billion.
Whether or not the collective protest initiated by a critical mass of faculty will result in change or reversal remains to be seen. Nevertheless, the past few weeks have been a wake-up call. Faculty must educate themselves about the basic fiscal operations of the institution in these changing times and reassert their leadership. Gardens, after all, require frequent tending.
Otherwise, we remain vulnerable to opportunistic management consultants seeking to use fiscal crisis as a source of profit. Public institutions that remain under the spell of misleading corporate promises will ultimately save little and lose a great deal.
Anthony Mora is associate professor of American culture and history at the University of Michigan. Alexandra Minna Stern is professor of American culture and history, and a professor of obstetrics and gynecology at the University of Michigan.
A recent article in The Economist, “Learned Luddites,” described liberal arts instructors who refused to adopt MOOCs as “Luddites,” a term made famous in the 19th century by English textile workers who were so paranoid that machinery would replace their jobs that they took to the task of physically destroying the machines they used. To conclude there is a connection between what the Luddites did and the arguments against online learning is reaching, if not absurd, and devalues the discussion happening in academic departments nation wide.
In America, after the launch of Sputnik in 1957 and the creation of the National Defense Education Act of 1958, emphasis was placed on math, science, and foreign language studies, as these three disciplines were deemed crucial to national security. Move forward 10 years and by the late 1960s one out of seven Americans was employed in the defense industry, military spending had risen from 1 percent to 10 percent of the gross domestic product, and corporations were increasingly profiting from an infusion of money from government contracts.
At the same time, high debt from domestic spending combined with outside competition from foreign markets was having an affect, and by the mid-1970s America had slipped into post-industrialism as jobs moved away from manufacturing toward more office based and service type employment opportunities.
The end result of shifting from assembly line to office tech, resulted in a college degree becoming a necessary component to a career, and as universities and community colleges began to accept more and more applicants, higher education began to trend course loads to part-time instructors.
Today, in 2013, a majority of those teaching in academia are working on a contingent basis. Tenure is nearly nonexistent, and liberal arts professors are being made to feel as though they are simply no more than an application, a helpmate, so to speak, that guides the student along as though they were a navigator steering a ship, following a mapped course not set by them, but by some far-off captain who serves as a default programmer for a higher purpose that is kept hush-hush until the time is right, a captain whose job it is to make sure the cargo arrives on time and without any scuffing from the occasional rogue wave.
At worst, more than a few professors feel they are becoming little more than a retention tool, a gimmick or novelty act whose entire future depends on whether or not one can “get with the program” of algorithmic evaluation, spreadsheet printouts, and constant barrage of software programs designed to make keeping track of grades easier, as if a pen and pad were inherently inferior, and all the while the academic is asked to maintain a classroom atmosphere that is not only educational but also so entertaining that even the most mind-numbing of subjects can compete against the fixative trance of the portable handheld device.
Ironically, the analog education one received before the Digital Age, an educational model that emphasized literature and writing, is admired for its fine attention to detail, as detail is considered to be hallmark of success. Yet that style of learning, though suitable for Fitzgerald and Stein, will not work in world where students are groomed as future customers and national security is commingled with corporate wants that drive the areas of study that schools find most lucrative.
It is pathetically sad to think that a classroom could be reduced to a rectangle screen on a distant wall, or thought to be comparable to that of a interior space where a qualified human stands as the moderator before eyes that are watching. A cold, sterile scene from Orwell's 1984 comes to mind in a world where the educator is 20 miles away and the students are considered close.
As a professor, I am not opposed to online teaching, but I do believe we are losing more than we are gaining from a technological hypnosis that has the potential to reclassify the teacher as a network administrator. I am not a lab rat, nor do I want the classroom considered a lab. Our culture is fascinated with language bewitchment and making the obvious appear novel. Yet at the end of the day the MOOC is still no more than a student interacting with a computer regardless how convenient or user friendly the experience has become.
If our embracing and use of technology becomes more important than our mission to teach, to meet in groups for discussion, or to sit one-on-one with a student seeking guidance, then not only should online education be critically evaluated for its unintended affects but also the very system itself that would interpret skepticism as a regress.
Brooks Kohler is an adjunct instructor with an M.A. in history.