A year out from his own run through the annual meeting gauntlet, Christopher Garland offers tips on being prepared, impressing the search committee -- and avoiding that last-minute meltdown in the elevator.
Three people in the United States have contracted the Middle East Respiratory Syndrome coronavirus, so far -- two while traveling abroad, the third through contact with one of them. Another 600 or so cases have been diagnosed elsewhere in the world since MERS first appeared in early fall of 2012, according to the World Health Organization.
Or rather, that many cases are now confirmed. It could well be that more people have had MERS (wherever in the world they may be) and endured it as if a terrible flu; it’s also possible to be exposed to it and develop antibodies without showing any of the symptoms. With a new disease, solid information tends to spread more slowly than the vectors carrying it. Some of the online news coverage calls the disease “highly contagious.” But that doesn’t really count as solid information: while MERS has proven fatal about a third of the time, it seems not to be readily transmissible in public settings.
No travel advisory has been issued, nor are special precautions being recommended to the general public, though health care workers are vulnerable. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention suggests washing your hands regularly and keeping them away from eyes, nose, and mouth as much as possible -- hygiene recommendations of the most generic sort.
But the fearsome label “highly contagious” became almost inevitable when MERS was branded with a name so close to that of Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome. For SARS was highly contagious; that’s what made it so terrifying. I use the past tense because no new cases have been reported in 10 years. The rapid spread of SARS was halted, and in its wake international efforts to monitor and exchange information about emerging diseases have improved.
MERS ≠ SARS. Even so, its very name calls up the specter of a quick-moving, lethal, and global pandemic. And those connotations insinuate themselves into discourse on the new disease -- as if to ready us for panic.
Well, don’t. That would be premature. (Try not to lick doorknobs or French-kiss anyone with a wracking cough, and you’ll probably be just fine.) The start of the 21st century may well be what CDC director Thomas Friedan has called the "perfect storm of vulnerability”: unknown new diseases can continent-hop by airplane and test their strength against antibiotics that have become ever less effective, thanks to overuse. But humans can think while viruses cannot, and it seems at least possible that could prove the decisive advantage.
Consider a new book from Southern Illinois University Press called Rhetoric of a Global Epidemic: Transcultural Communication about SARS by Huiling Ding, who is an assistant professor of professional and technical communication at North Carolina State University. It is a work of some factual and conceptual density, but I suspect it will play some role in how information about disease outbreaks will be organized and delivered in the future.
Ding has not set out to write the history of SARS, but she does reconstruct and scrutinize how bureaucracies and mass media, both east and west, communicated among themselves and with their publics as the disease emerged in China in November 2002 and began spreading to other countries in the new year. Her analytical tool kit includes elements of classical (even Aristotelean) rhetoric as well as a taxonomy of kinds of cultural flow based on Arjun Appadurai’s anthropology of globalization.
The author prefers to identify her approach as "critical contextualized methodology,” but for the purpose of making introductions we might do better to dwell on a single guiding distinction. Ding is wary of a number of established assumptions implied by the term "intercultural communication,” the very name of which implies two or more distinct cultures, standing at a certain distance from one another, exchanging messages. When things are so configured, “culture” will sooner or later turn out to mean, or to imply, “nation” -- whereupon “state” is sure to follow.
By contrast, "transcultural communication” drags no such metonymic chain behind it. It has a venerable history, with roots in Latin American cultural studies. “Transculturation,”writes Ding, “can be used to describe a wide range of global phenomena, including exile, immigration, multicultural contact, ethnic conflicts, interracial marriages, overseas sojourns, and transnational tourism.” A transcultural perspective focuses on layers and processes that constitute different societies without being specific to any one of them, and that can themselves be in flux.
So, to choose a SARS-related example, referring to "Chinese mass media” will, for most Americans, evoke a relatively simple-seeming concept -- one that involves messages in a single language, circulated through certain well-established forms of transmission (newspapers, radio, television) among a population of citizens living within the borders of a nation-state (presumably the PRC). I dare say “American mass media” has analogous implications for people in China, or wherever.
But whatever sense that outlook once might have made, it now distorts far more than it clarifies. The range and the audience of mass media are in constant flux; the messages they transmit do not respect national borders.
“My research,” Ding said in an email interview, "shows different values and practices of traditional newspapers housed in Beijing and Guangzhou (mainstream and commercial ones) despite the exertion of censorship during the early stage of SARS.” The People’s Daily, official mouthpiece of the Chinese leadership, remained silent on the health crisis until as late as March 2003. But by January 2003, regional newspapers in small cities began reporting on the panic-buying of antiviral drugs and surgical masks -- information that then became known elsewhere in the country, via the Internet, as well as to “overseas Chinese” around the world, well before the crisis was international news.
Ding also discusses the “ad hoc civic infrastructure” that sprang up during the outbreak, such as the website Sosick.org, which engineers in Hong Kong created to circulate information about local SARS cases and encourage voluntary quarantines. "Concerned citizens can learn from coping strategies from other cultures,” she said by email, "be it communities, regions, or countries, and adapt such strategies to cope with local problems. For instance, I am working on another project on quarantine policies and practices during SARS in Singapore, mainland China, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Canada…. Such bottom-up efforts often carry persuasive power, and in the case of Hong Kong, did help to introduce policy changes.”
Her reference to “persuasive power” is a reminder that Ding’s book belongs to the tradition of rhetorical scholarship. She devotes part of the book to an analysis of enthymemes in official Chinese commentaries on the crisis, for example. (An enthymeme is a deductive argument in which one of the assumptions goes unstated.) That a grassroots quarantine movement on two continents proved more successful and persuasive than state-sanctioned efforts to maintain social order is easy to believe.
What we need, Ding told me, are analyses of the "communication practices of global and/or flexible citizens, or multi-passport holders who regularly travel across continents in search of fame, wealth, or influence. Their familiarity with multiple cultures certainly introduce interesting transcultural communication strategies.” That bottom-up appeals for quarantine proved effective in a number of countries suggests she could be right: cultivating new skills in communication and persuasion might well be crucial for dealing with other public health crises, down the line.
The atmosphere at the university workshop on online learning was becoming a little edgy, with questions in the air like “What does flipping a classroom really mean?” And, more dauntingly, “Do MOOCs threaten our liberal arts model of education?” A high point occurred when one participant, addressing a panel of faculty and administrators, asked, “What is our solution to these changes?” with the not-so-gentle observation, “Because if we don’t have one, we are road kill.”
The response from the panel was slow in coming -- no big surprise. Fact is, there is no easy answer. That’s because the question of how not to become road kill presumes that we understand why we should not become road kill. It is only through a clear, here-and-now answer to the second question that we are likely to devise a credible response to the first.
So here is a here-and-now context for why. Truly harrowing challenges are upon us: climate change, with its companions, the sixth mass extinction, and ecological overreach, are all bearing down on us potential road-pizzas like a convoy of 18-wheelers.
By the time this year’s graduates are ready to send their children to college, the planet’s CO2 concentration will have reached 450 parts per million, summertime Arctic sea ice will be a thing of memory, and humanity will have committed a dozen future human generations to a minimum 2°C temperature rise. These are the terrifying facts of our current reality, and without proper leadership, our likely fate.
To meet these challenges, people -- our future leaders -- need the best possible technological expertise. More than that, they need to be able to think across multiple time horizons. If only liberal arts colleges provided that kind of relevance.
Well, maybe we do.
My daughter just got home from her first year at college — a liberal arts college. Had she experienced anything, I asked, that spoke to dangers that are so slow that they span generations, but are no less deadly for being slow? She looked at me as if to say, do you really know what you’re getting yourself into? Because that was the whole point of her paper about Virgil’s epic poem, the Aeneid.
This was her experience: She had cried when Aeneas killed Turnus. But more than that, she was outraged. For the sake of a moment of vengeful glory, Aeneas had lost his way from the past to the future.
And that related to my question … how?
Try a little empathy, she suggested.
I eventually got it. This, the early part of the 21st century, is our moment. Our willingness to make painful sacrifices for the latter part of the century depends on our ability to empathize with people we have never met — our future grandchildren. Experience in empathizing across a broad expanse of time is one kind of relevance liberal arts institutions have a lot of experience providing.
A second kind of relevance to those harrowing challenges is directly related to the Internet itself. Few would contest that the Internet is an indispensable asset in describing the complex environmental and societal processes that collectively make up what is referred to as climate change. Put another way, no college graduate today should be ignorant of the potential for Internet-based computational power and knowledge to model and predict future climate.
This potential is, of course, much more general. Broadly speaking, the Internet and liberal arts share something very important. They are both about the creation and use of knowledge through collaborative work. How were Unix, Git, and LaTex created? All were the result of a very liberal-artsy vision for online collaboration.
Can liberal arts colleges provide that kind of relevance, too?
As educators, preparing future leaders to exploit the resources of the internet will require that we move into that space ourselves. We have to learn to recognize the opportunities for new paradigms for learning that the internet has created. One major shift already under way is a reorientation toward student-centered classrooms.
Flipping a class -- so that online lectures are viewed at home and class time is spent in active discussion -- is an example. Flipping isn’t new, but digital technology makes flipping easy, and that is new. It works because it lets humans and computers each do what they do best.
Beyond that are new digital tools that we are just figuring out how to use. Examples are discipline-specific software products like Spartan. Spartan produces molecular electronic structures, in three dimensions, on the computer screen. It lets students see and manipulate these structures by solving the most basic equations known to science. Maybe I’m not making that sound as cool as it is, so let me try again. If you think chemistry is an impossibly difficult, jargon-ridden, mysterious science, you are right. Spartan changes that by making every sit-down experience with it a unique, original investigation into the nature of chemical behavior. This is digital-based pedagogy with methodological muscle, formerly a graduate school tool, now accessible to freshmen. You just have to find a way to make it happen in your classroom.
It is through the combination of these two kinds of relevance -- Aeneas and Unix -- that students at undergraduate institutions, our future leaders, get wired for sound, classical judgment informed by the tools of modern life. And if individual liberal arts colleges can deliver these skills better than most, leveraging the advantages of small classes and inspired mentoring, then we are an important part of the response to that convoy rumbling our way.
These kinds of tools are not online grading, and not MOOCs either. They represent a new kind of information literacy. True, we are not there yet; it will take effort, and a bit of daring, to figure out how to teach tools like these. But as we grow into them, we will discover previously unimagined new paradigms for learning.
Rather exciting, actually, considering the stakes. And not at all like road kill.
Steven Neshyba is a professor of chemistry at the University of Puget Sound.
In recent weeks, amid all its woes over rising unemployment and a declining economy, France seemed to be embroiled in yet another impending disaster, at least to some French people. The French Assembly was about to vote on a controversial proposal that would ease legal restrictions on courses taught in English at French universities. Watching the positions publicly unfold, I understood the benefits to be gained from more exposure to English particularly for French researchers and students. I further recognized the challenges that France must face in making the new law meet its stated goals. Yet I could not help but lament the potential loss for American and other foreign students studying at French universities.
As this drama played out day after day, it brought to mind my concerns a number of years ago when my son was considering study-abroad programs. I was then taken aback by the fact that Sciences Po Paris was offering courses in English as an option. (That number has now reached one-third.) My son’s American university, to its credit, nonetheless insisted that students take their entire program in French along with the French students. As a parent I was a bit apprehensive. My son, on the other hand, rightly saw this as a reasonable charge that ultimately carried lifelong dividends. His French vastly improved, he learned a new approach to organizing and presenting an intellectual argument, and he developed transatlantic friendships that have endured.
The passions evoked in the French media also brought to mind the words of the French writer Stendahl, that "The first instrument of a people’s genius is its language." Perhaps no people have taken this premise more to heart than the French. And perhaps never have the French felt their language more threatened than from the current rise of English as the global lingua franca. The idea of English replacing French as the language of intellectual endeavors has struck a particularly sensitive nerve for many French leaders and educators. The surrounding debate has plumbed the depths of national identity, cultural pride and the inevitable consequences of globalization. It also has given rise to pragmatic issues that bear on the quality of instruction and the effect on the learning experience for both native French speaking students and those visiting from elsewhere.
A key point of contention is the "Toubon law." Adopted in 1994, the law is a broad sweeping mandate on French usage, including a requirement that education at all levels, other than foreign language classes, be carried out in French (with a few exceptions). From the beginning, various purposes have been ascribed to the law: to insulate French from being overcome by English, to maintain France’s political and economic position in the face of transnationalism, to protect the country’s status as a nation-state within the European Union. Underneath the Toubon law, and the present opposition to weaken its force, lies an unshakeable mindset among many of the French that their language must remain a symbol of cultural preeminence widely recognized in centuries past.
The Assembly, France’s lower house, approved the new measure on May 23rd following hours of rancorous debate invoking the nation’s literary giants. The law permits university courses to be taught in another language (presumably English) if they are part of an agreement with a foreign or international institution or if they have financial support from the European Union. Several amendments (link is in French) were adopted in the course of deliberations: the use of English must be justified by "pedagogical necessities," foreign students must also learn French, and French proficiency must factor into the awarding of the diploma.
According to Geneviève Fioraso, France’s minister of higher education and research, the new law, part of a comprehensive package of higher education reforms, will place the country in a more competitive position on several fronts. It will allow French universities to attract the brightest foreign students, especially from emerging economies like China, India, and Brazil where France has economic interests. France now ranks fifth as a destination for foreign students, behind the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia, and Germany.
The law will prepare French students for a job market where English language skills are increasingly a requisite and not merely an asset. And it will enable French researchers to contribute to and gain from a knowledge base, particularly in the sciences, where English is now the common currency.
As the positions unfolded, discordant voices could loudly be heard. The Académie française, the official guardian of the French language, denounced "the dangers of a measure" that favors the "marginalization of our language." The Observatoire européene du plurilinguisme, an organization that promotes linguistic diversity against the forces of English, sounded the alarm (link is in French) that a uniformity of thought in English among scholars would "kill the innovation" tied to the "history of words" embedded in a particular language and culture. Various prominent professors spoke of the project as "suicidal," a "self-destructive impulse," a "war" on the French language, where the stakes were nothing less than national pride and French identity itself.
Those lacking job security, particularly part-time faculty, feared being replaced by native English speakers. Lawmakers weighed in, renouncing the use of French taxpayers’ money to promote American and British interests.
Others, including several Nobel laureates, made public claims to the contrary (link is in French). Noting the dangers of France’s “linguistic bunkerization,” they argued that placing international students in English classes would enhance the ability of French students to communicate and learn in English and offer them access to the global economy. Some chastised the opposition for being out of touch with reality. After all, many of the elite grandes écoles and business schools already offer up to one-quarter to one-third of their courses in English, apparently bending the Toubon law with no questions raised. Some, including the minister of higher education, believed the changes would eliminate these inequities, allowing all French university students and not just the most privileged the opportunity to learn in English.
For still others the debate was pointless since the law merely would allow and not mandate the use of English and only within narrow parameters. The left-leaning newspaper Libération offered the most graphically forceful support in a front page story, totally in English, with a headline reading “Teaching in English: Let’s Do It.”
Surprisingly, throughout the accusations and denials, no one even mentioned the European Union’s repeatedly affirmed goal for every citizen to gain practical skills in at least two languages beyond the mother tongue to promote European integration. The English question seems to have eclipsed that project. Or perhaps the unstoppable spread of English is more efficiently achieving that end, though without the intended multicultural understandings.
As countries like Germany have learned, there is a definite economic and academic advantage in expanding English language courses. With the world becoming smaller by the nanosecond, a common vehicle of communication has become a necessity. For better or worse, depending on one’s view, English has taken that place. While some might rail against the trend with charges of linguistic "imperialism" and cultural "hegemony," this is a course with no end in sight. The shift toward English as the preferred language of scholarly publications and colloquiums worldwide is moving at breakneck speed. Many academic publishers now accept manuscripts only in English.
According to a large-scale study (link is in French) conducted by the Institut national d’études démographiques between 2007 and 2009, 77 percent of French researchers, across disciplines and ages, believed that English had become so dominant that there no longer was a choice. Among those born in the 1980s that figure rose to 90 percent, though 42 percent overall reported being limited in their own use of the language. Younger researchers also were less inclined to equate the use of English with the domination of Anglo-Saxon culture. Within the hard sciences, 96 percent of laboratory directors reported using English in their work. From my own observations, as academicians across disciplines increasingly work in a comparative mode, the trend has moved even further in favor of English in the intervening years.
The problem is that France’s resistance to English has prevented it from preparing its citizens for the change that other countries are now more ready to institutionally embrace. Among native speakers within the 27 European Union countries, France ranks 23rd on the Test of English as a Foreign Language, just barely ahead of Lithuania, Latvia, Cyprus and Montenegro (ETS). A 2012 European Commission study of over 50,000 students aged 14 to 15 similarly found France far behind 12 other European countries in mastery of English.
France undoubtedly is on the right track in accepting the utility of English as the common language of academic discourse and commerce. That being said, though the new measure imposes certain limits, there is always the temptation to exceed defined bounds, as the end runs around the Toubon law have proven. Universities must understand the dangers of storming ahead without first addressing the challenges, most notably the lack of English proficiency among French faculty and students. If not, then the project will encounter many snags. Some French professors will struggle to convey their thoughts at a level only commensurate with their weak English language skills, simplifying the content and sapping the material of its emotive meaning.
As one of the law’s detractors put it, it would be like forcing a right-handed person to write on a chalkboard with the left hand.
At the same time, many native French-speaking students will struggle to process merely the letter and not the spirit of what is taught while foreign students likewise will get less than what was promised from the prized French university experience. In the end, whatever gains may be had in competitiveness will be lost in intellectual rigor, classroom interaction, and intercultural growth.
These problems are not unresolvable or unavoidable. For the short run, French universities would be well-advised to move slowly and cautiously, limiting participation to faculty and students with adequate English skills while providing others with intense language instruction to quickly get them up to the task. Judicious use of visiting Anglophone faculty might be an interim solution. Faculty exchange programs with Anglophone universities would further enhance English language skills among French-speaking professors. For the long run, the French education system must make a stronger commitment to teaching English in primary and secondary schools. The ultimate goal would be to prepare students who can function at a high intellectual level in English by the time they enter the university and, for some, the professorial ranks.
At the same time, universities should continue to offer a sizeable number of courses in French at least as a choice, especially in the humanities and social sciences, and to demand of foreign students a basic competency in French as a requirement for the diploma, as the new law mandates. French professors still can participate in the global academy and even publish in English as they continue to intellectually engage their students in French. Meanwhile, French students will strengthen their English language skills through enhanced offerings in English and contact with foreign students.
The most serious danger, and one that France cannot fully control, is that American and other Anglophone students will become lulled into the false belief that foreign language study is useless or that one can fully appreciate Flaubert or Sartre in translation. To do so would deny the joys of truly accessing a people and understanding its culture, values, and worldview, not to forget the lyrical beauty of the language itself, as only the original allows. Above all, the rise of English should not mean the end of French. Each plays a uniquely important role in the world of scholarship and the exchange of knowledge.