Is Getting Loud Really the Answer?

The writer is a current president. 

I have always kept any political identifiers out of my everyday activities and have been able to navigate and forge relationships with donors, community members, and legislators of all political parties. 

Now I find myself questioning if that was/is the right thing to do. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so silent and hidden my true feelings for the sake of getting along and making sure that my college was seen in the best possible light. Maybe speaking truth to power and using the power of my position to have a platform would have been a better choice. 

The risks are high with that approach, and that includes the consideration that, in the eyes of our critics, I am one of those childless-by-choice, former cat-owning, highly educated females that are the source of all that is wrong with our country and culture. I am not naïve to the fact that on my own campus, the policies of the far right are accepted and even welcomed, and the number of people may be higher than I think. I read the blogs and articles and review strategies that others are using to fight this form of educational annihilation, but I feel unprepared, vulnerable, and unsure of how to proceed. There—I said it—and willingly admit to these feelings presidents aren’t “supposed” to have, much less mention. 

I have students and employees in the LGBTQ community, and I fear for them. I mourn that we are not going to be able to have difficult conversations about complex topics, and those topics are central to any higher education experience and a healthy working environment. I mourn that we may be back to no gender studies classes, and history will again revert to only one perspective. I mourn for my colleagues at large universities that must plan for ICE raids, and for my students who are too afraid to come to class because they are undocumented or have family members who are.

Like most of my presidential peers, I have always been an eternal optimist, and while this job challenges that worldview, I have tried to maintain it and keep perspective. That optimism keeps me grounded and not given to overreacting or fearing the worst and helps me think through challenging times and complex issues. 

I love celebrating with my students at small, quiet moments, like when they had just enough courage to walk in the door on the first day of class up to the big moments when they graduate. I grieve with my students when things aren’t going well, and because I know that we have limited means to help in times of crisis. 

So I ponder bravery and what that means for me as a person and a president, what it means for my students and for my college’s employees, for my local community, my state, and my country. I have no answers yet. 

The writer is a current president.

I don’t think of myself as a leader. I am a guy with a job.

That said, given that my title is “president,” I think about the courage needed to guide an institution of higher education in today’s climate. I wonder if making a statement would help advance the ideals I try to put into practice every day.

As educators, we lecture about the value of college, the economic return, and the long-term benefits. We want young people to sit in our classrooms, experiment in laboratories, buy textbooks, and heed our lectures because we know the benefits are real. 

Yet one out of three high school graduates in the U.S. today chooses not to listen to us.

When I talk to students about going to college, they say they’d rather make something. They want to learn with their hands and believe they will not succeed if asked to learn from a book. They say two or four years of classroom work is for the privileged. They don’t have that kind of time.

They see the world advancing. They understand that today’s work requires special skills. They feel left behind and angry, unseen and unheard, left out because the world of classrooms, lectures, laboratories, and textbooks—our world—is not for them. They hear us tell them they are not enough. They even hear us tell them their values and beliefs are wrong.

It follows that part of this country’s divide is driven by our inability—our unwillingness—to listen to those Americans who feel dismissed. As leaders in higher education, we must take responsibility for our failures. We need to open our doors, open our minds, and listen.

Maybe we should spend less time contemplating statements and start listening to all our potential students. Maybe we can spend less time lecturing and muster the courage to act on our beliefs.