Presidents Get Real About Their Challenges and Fears

The writers are all current presidents.

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I can’t stop thinking about the many levers the federal government could choose to pull to affect our mission. So far we’ve seen the endowment tax, indirect cost recovery, vague executive orders around DEI, and immigration enforcement. There’s so much more that could be done. I shudder for someone in D.C. to remember the mechanism used in the Solomon Amendment to withhold federal funding if institutions didn’t get in line about one particular thing. Think of all the things! Such a mechanism could be used to, unimaginably, turn the keys to each of our institutions over to Chris Rufo and his little friends. 

Should faculty continue to be responsible for the composition of the faculty and the curriculum? Of course not—that’s the government’s responsibility. And should university leaders and their boards be responsible for financial stewardship, how we support student and faculty success, and so on? No way! That, too, should be the responsibility of someone in D.C. And they could pull Pell Grants from institutions on the naughty list, especially rich institutions on the naughty list (that use their large endowments to, God forbid, provide financial aid to students!). 

But wait, there’s more! Some universities provide health care in their communities. So the government could get even tighter with reimbursements to universities to squeeze us even more. And maybe, given the importance of intercollegiate athletics in many Division I schools, there’s a nice lever that could be pulled there to invoke even more pain. Oh, my. Lots of levers could be pulled.

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Most challenging has been to resist the call to write a statement to our community or to gather the community to talk about all the things that are going on in D.C. I know the students want to hear from me. I know the faculty wonder if I am actually doing anything about any and all of the things, I know my alumni are waiting to pounce if I say something that gives them ammunition, and I know my board is skittish. “We don’t want to be a target,” they say. Believe me, I don’t want us (or me) to be a target, either.

So instead, I say things in small groups (nothing in writing that could be forwarded). I talk about our unchanging values; I reiterate that we are not pulling back on our commitments to be a university that welcomes, supports, and affirms all. I remind people of our history—and that women, people of color, and international students have always been a part of who we are. 

And I know this is not enough. They all want more from me. Reassurance that everything will be all right. I know they are asking me to promise no students will be snatched off the streets, no faculty who teach in certain departments will be told they can no longer teach certain things, that our cultural centers will not be closed. I tell them not to worry. We’re flying under the radar, at least for now. I am going to keep the faith that troubles don’t last always. 

And yet when I close my eyes, I dream of standing on a cliff surrounded by endless bodies of water and the only way for me to get to dry land is to jump to a ledge that juts out just beyond my reach. The water is closing all around me and I am afraid I will fall in if I jump. What I most fear is that what I always believed about this country—that the arc of the universe ultimately bends towards justice—is not actually true and we are all in deep trouble.

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I worry about the small daily decisions during all this that may add up cumulatively in ways I haven’t yet anticipated. I worry that it’s the dismantling of higher education as we know it. If that is what this administration is set to do, it turns out that the levers are many more than we could ever have imagined and easier to put into place than seemed fathomable mere months ago. While the administration may think it’s going for the wealthy, elite places, this will reverberate throughout the sector with downstream effects that are worse than the worst dystopian novel.

Like many of my peers, I’m fighting fiercely, but I’m also perhaps in denial because that’s the only way to get up in the morning and keep fighting. Descriptions of the recent California fires come to mind—the devastation, the random houses that remained. I hope that higher ed isn’t facing an inferno that will leave only a few random institutions standing, but I fear that we are.

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For higher education, I fear for our collective ability to communicate why what we do matters, beyond the career prep for students, the research that cures diseases; more than the value we bring as anchor institutions for our communities, we are the places where independent thought is treasured, where ideas are challenged, where common ground is laid. We’ve ceded ground over the past three or four decades and are isolated in our ivory towers. We look like we are in a clown car together as we pound our fists, failing to drown out the noise, rather than being humans, talking plainly to folks, and being honest about our sector’s failures and a reassertion of the extraordinary thing that is the American system of higher ed.

Most challenging for me has been to push the faculty and staff to innovate, to change how we do what we do, ask more of them and require them to move quickly, knowing that for many this moment in time has brought forth extraordinary pain as they see the history of their communities erased or rewritten, their friends and family at risk of deportation, their own right to exist as a gay person or transgender or Black veteran or whatever denied. I know I am asking for more of their time, effort, and dedication when they have existentially more important things to deal with.

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What keeps me up at night is the sheer cruelty of the decisions and insanity of orders coming out of Washington. They appear intent on the destruction of every institution that is designed to do good in the world, from educational institutions to those that make discoveries to advance science to HHS that is designed to promote health and prevent disease to global institutions designed to protect world peace, hunger, and health. I fear for the next generation that we are raising and how they will differentiate good from evil, right from wrong, moral from immoral.

Despite this, when I speak with my own students, they are now approaching commencement with optimism and enthusiasm for their futures. This gives me hope that our next generation will survive this crazy era. They are truly remarkable; they are resilient, brilliant, and talented, and I believe they will become the best generation we’ve known.

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My biggest heartburn right now is that the load of crap coming out of D.C. is spreading across some/many state legislatures and boards of trustees. Either it is emboldening them or they are getting in line for fear of retribution. As we see, those that stand up are punished. It’s all fine for the Wesleyan president to stand up (I assume his board backs him up and his institution is less reliant on public funds). If I stand up, wave a red flag, and am then fired, how is that serving the institution? If states and boards would stand up to the federal government, I think I would get a lot more sleep at night.

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For now, I’m not worried about any of the big decisions we’ve made. The scrutiny and visibility of our moves creates a certain type of comfort. What I worry about is the series of small decisions that make perfect sense at the time given the information we have—but that, in retrospect, will reflect anything from a big-picture miss to a full-on failure to meet the moment. Those decisions often don’t show up until it’s too late.

I feel confident I’m being consistent, using appropriate shared governance, seeking expertise to fill gaps, benchmarking, being intentional about our values, and then stepping up and making the tough calls. The high scrutiny we face, a willingness to bring in outside expertise, and an intentional inventory of what we value gives me confidence that we are doing the best we can with the big issues. We certainly didn’t seek these crises out, but our crisis management is real. I look at myself in the mirror and know I’m not running from the challenges of these times. But I don’t know what I don’t know, [and] that worries me tremendously.

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For me, most challenging is the process of deciding how we will respond to the feds when they come for us and how to communicate that plan to our internal and external constituencies in ways that will not make us an immediate, prime target but will help us to galvanize opposition and support should the worst come to pass. In other words, what is the best strategy to set us up for negotiation and mutual resistance, in order not to concede anything that is core to our mission and values but preserves as much of our ability to continue to serve our mission as possible? 

What makes this even more fraught is that we cannot reveal all our strategic or tactical moves outside a small inner circle that includes our general counsel, particularly strategies of resistance and plans for mutual aid.

I fear that letter from the feds—or maybe it just appears in a press release—that says, “Your university’s federal funding, including Title IV funds, is being terminated.” That if we do the following things, which includes violating the academic freedom of our faculty and the free speech of our constituents and requiring us to assist Homeland Security in deporting international students, then we (the feds) will discuss how we might restore some of your funding.

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Much depends on whether Trump 2.0 jumped the shark with tariffs. In other words, will this cause supporters in Congress (and in state legislatures) to back off on culture war stuff because the brand has become toxic? In terms of tough decisions, I think the toughest one is not knowing what even to decide, because every day brings new edicts, temporary restraining orders, and the like, and how to keep communicating, over and over, “We don’t know … stay tuned.”

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Do we tell our international students about what is happening with visa revocations? Do we/can we/should we forewarn them? Is there anything we can do to protect them? With a vibrant international student population on our campus, I fear that the unconscionable and never-imagined actions of the U.S. government will put such terror in the hearts of students that those thinking about coming won’t come because they won’t be able to. I fear those already here will be paralyzed by the threat of being forced to leave a country that once welcomed them. I fear that agents of the government will storm our campus with a list of students they will take away against their will and that I will be helpless to stop that.

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I’m struggling with balancing my urge—and duty—to resist harmful policies that are weakening my institution (and the higher ed sector in general) with my responsibility to protect our institution and keep the ship afloat. Many constituents are demanding that I speak out in ways that, from my vantage point, will only draw unnecessary attention to our campus and endanger its people and its financial stability.

What I fear most in the near term—what’s literally waking me up in a cold sweat at 4:30 a.m. (beyond perimenopause)—is the possibility that one of my students will be arrested and deported, or that across-the-board visa cancellations will decimate our student body. The cruelty of this moment, and the fear it has instilled in our campus community can only be described as terrorism. We are terrified. And, aside from conferring with legal experts and offering a modicum of pastoral reassurance, I just don’t know how else to protect the most vulnerable members of our campus community. 

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The recent decision that has been most challenging is my decision to not renew the contracts of multiple teaching faculty on what have been renewable annual appointments to address overstaffing in underenrolled academic programs and departments.

In the immediate future, I fear that in a dynamic of overreaction to recent federal guidelines, individual faculty, presidents, and institutions of higher education will internalize and practice a degree of caution—indeed, self-censorship—that goes beyond what is required by these new guidelines. We already have seen some examples of this resulting in the chilling of the exercise of both academic freedom and First Amendment rights.

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I am in a blue state where I am aligned with the governor, Legislature, and board. I understand this is unique and so feel fortunate to be where I am. However, our initiatives addressing equity gaps could be challenged by the current administration—programs creating opportunities for underrepresented groups in higher education and professional fields. These inclusive pathways improve retention without lowering standards, benefiting the broader student body. While legally defensible, I worry courts may disagree. Stopping these positive programs would be tragic and unnecessary.

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The hardest decision I have had to make (aside from massive budget reductions) has been not caving when we are being barraged (again this past week) by Jewish mothers (not of our students, but who have been alerted to complain to us) telling us the things SJP is doing on our campus are “like pogroms” and we must shut them down ASAP. We are fighting for neutrality, safety, and freedom of expression, but that entails getting yelled at by a lot of people, yet again.

What I fear most is not related to the current administration’s barrage of executive orders and dismantling of the [Education Department]. It is much more urgent and closer to home: not enrolling enough students and not being able to balance our budget and stay afloat. Financially, we have struggled for years. And we are finally fixing the underlying structural challenges, but I fear not having enough runway to turn things around. I am trying to do everything I can not to be the president to close this historic institution.

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The most challenging thing has been to decide how much change we implement to decrease the target on the institution, our students, and our employees, knowing that the target on us is likely larger in my rural community because of my identity.

What do I fear most? There are so many worries, it is hard to choose just one. But I think there is a real concern that with the dearth of employees at the Department of Education (or whichever agency may be in charge at the time), federal aid will not flow to institutions in a timely manner. For those of us with enough cash, a few months’ delay is an inconvenience. But for many small colleges, it will be the death knell.

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My university is not a focal point in these culture wars. Rather, I fear the impact of decades of deferred culture maintenance. Our faculty is utterly disenfranchised. Trust is so far out of sight in the rearview mirror that trying to retrieve it is a fool’s errand. I fear that rebuilding trust will take so long that the administration will not have the faculty as a partner/collaborator as we navigate the troubled waters ahead.

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I am most concerned about our students and the potential gutting of financial aid, including Pell Grants, loans, work-study, and SEOG funding. If these funding sources are curtailed, it will lead to problems for all our institutions, many [of] which are already suffering from enrollment declines and budget problems. 

Almost more disturbing are the authoritarian and dystopian moves by the administration in D.C. that are not only wrongheaded but inhumane. Deporting people and canceling visas without reason or warning, hammering brand-name universities by pulling millions and billions in funding, and blindly killing critical research funding with no obvious way to fight back puts us all in jeopardy. I’m not sure that trying to stay under the radar is the best defense, but that’s what I’m seeing. It is not an overstatement to say that democracy is in the balance, as is the future of higher education. 

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I have spent my entire professional life committed to advancing education and justice. I see the two as intertwined. I am driven by purpose and impact; I need to know that I am making meaningful contributions to humanity in my work. I don’t seek notoriety or public recognition, though a few expressions of gratitude or evidence of positive impact now and then are important.

For the past several months, however, it’s been increasingly difficult to sustain that sense of purpose and value. The attacks are so broad, deep, and destructive, and the loss of basic democratic freedoms escalating so quickly, that it’s hard to see how to resist the dystopian reality that is unfolding or believe in the value I can bring to my students, my community, and my institution. I am dispirited. I indulge in fantasies about retreating to a rural environment, installing solar power and a well, growing my own food, and going completely off the grid. However, that would also be dispiriting. I am struggling daily to continue in my role while shouldering the hopes and expectations of people around me to protect and sustain them.

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Thing I most fear is midterms not flipping at least one chamber of Congress—the effects on higher ed would take years to turn around.

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In the face of a political crisis that demands dissent and resistance, the hardest decision for me is not to speak. I’m also an immigrant, so a lot of this feels personal—both the fear and the anger. I have the moral responsibility of (a little) power, yet I know that speaking publicly in my professional role might only put a target on my students’ backs. Instead, I can only go around on campus in person, assuring students and colleagues that we are not about to change our values or our mission. I want to f*cking shout.

My worst fears for higher ed under this government are identical to my worst fears for the nation. They are the extreme: full-on authoritarianism, economic collapse, violent oppression, and violent resistance. No institution like ours could survive. It might take as little to destroy us as further chaos around FAFSAs or loan disbursements to impact our enrollment fatally. Or, say, 10 or 20 percent of our students’ parents losing their jobs during the recession that looms over us.

What I fear the most is that financial aid will be terminated completely. Without the ability to borrow money, most of our students just could not attend. I do believe in the value of a college degree, but also know that without financial aid only the most privileged of classes would be likely to pursue an education. I don’t think it really matters if financial aid were to be under another government department, as long as it exists.