Presidents Take the Blows (It’s in the Job Description)

And, here I offer a modest proposal to create robust and passionate disagreements on campuses.

From Rachel Toor

Next week I start teaching again (the quarter system—I know, I know).

What can I say to a group of upper-level, mostly first-gen college creative writing majors staring down high unemployment, a heating planet, and a boiling political situation (including the terrifying chilling of free speech) about how to be writers in the age of AI? I feel like I've got nothing.

Last week, just before I spoke with the new head of a major higher ed association, I was glued to the news. She understood when I said I’d been crying.

Like many of you, I am worried and afraid. But unlike you, I need only to give strength and hope to one classroom of students.

Working on this newsletter keeps me from spending all my time doomscrolling, but it’s hard to figure out how best to support leaders in this time. Y’all know better than anyone that, as the president featured below points out, your job is to take the hits. And you are all awash in news and don’t need more of that from me. (Though I do hope you check out Sara Custer’s new editor’s note in IHE each Thursday.)

However, I do have something to offer during these dark times. On Sunday, I went to see a film made by Brandt Johnson about his wife, Ellen Jovin, as they traveled the country engaging in often-fierce debates with a wide variety of people.

If you need a model for meaningful disagreement, this is a great place to start. Should a noun ending in s get another s in the possessive? (Hell, yes.) Should you always use a serial comma? (No debate. And let’s call it what it is—the serial comma, not the pretentious “Oxford comma.” Take that, AP style.) And, beloved president friends, do I need to buy you all the T-shirt that proclaims in black and white that two spaces after a period are the mom jeans of punctuation?

We all have opinions. And as Ellen Jovin jovially points out in the film, sometimes we get to make choices and sometimes, well, ~~you’re~~ we’re just wrong and ~~you~~ we need to be educated. (Note: My contract with IHE specifies that I get to use serial commas in The Sandbox.)

Going to a screening of Rebel With a Clause in Spokane (with a Q&A with Ellen and Brandt as part of their cross-country tour) was exactly what I needed to end a hellacious week, a dab of balm in Gilead. If I were queen of the world, every campus would show this film, and some generous alum or foundation would buy free copies of Ellen’s book for students.

Watch the trailer if you want a taste of this delightful confection. Then invite Ellen and Brandt to come to your campus to screen the film and answer urgent grammar questions (like how to spell “y’all”). These good-hearted people are not scolding grammarians. They show us how to have civil disagreements and maybe even change some hearts and minds, all while making us laugh really, really hard.

The writer is a current president.

In this role, criticism often lands on the president whether or not it’s deserved. Sometimes that’s simply what leadership means: being the person who takes the first blows so others don’t have to.

When student enrollment dipped, I said publicly the responsibility was mine. The downturn was shaped by many forces outside my control, but by taking the hit I allowed my team to stay focused on recovery instead of defending themselves.

With the board, I’ve absorbed mischaracterizations that could easily have spread to my leadership team. Choosing not to escalate kept partnerships intact, though it meant letting the blows fall on me. The same was true when new mandates were introduced—no one wanted to voice concerns, so I stepped forward. It wasn’t easy, but better I take the pushback than let silence stand in for agreement.

The pattern repeats in other places. On diversity, equity, and inclusion, I’ve taken criticism from all sides—too much, not enough. And with major initiatives, I’ve become the visible target for skepticism and political resistance, so the people advancing the work can keep going without distraction.

This is part of the hidden side of the presidency. There is a personal cost—the burden of being the one who absorbs the hits. But taking them helps protect others, preserve trust, and keep the university moving.

To sustain myself, I’ve had to develop practices of resilience. I lean on a small circle of trusted colleagues where I can be candid, though I am intentional about when and how I share what I’m carrying. Letting people see my humanity builds trust, but I also protect them from the full weight, so they can stay focused on their work.

I pause before responding so I don’t react out of emotion. I separate me as a person from me as president, so I don’t take every criticism to heart. And I try to take care of my body and mind—rest, exercise, simple routines—because this work requires real stamina.

I walk the campus to remind myself why I’m here: the students. Keeping that purpose front and center reframes criticism as part of the work rather than as a personal attack.

Most important, I remind myself that today’s crisis is rarely tomorrow’s defining moment. Taking the long view makes the daily blows easier to carry.

The Sandbox

Not your typical weekly newsletter. This is a space where presidents and chancellors can say what they really think without fear. Everyone is welcome to read, but only those who have been in the top job can submit to us. The Sandbox, by Rachel Toor, is an exclusive benefit of our paid Insider membership program.

Presidents Take the Blows (It’s in the Job Description)

The Sandbox

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