Universities have started banding together to negotiate favorable contracts with software vendors. With new effort, a group of them aims to exercise similar leverage with publishers on behalf of students.
Davis has experienced periodic LMS outages for years, ever since it began to outsource maintenance of the system. But it is hardly the only university to suffer from this type of outage, and it is certainly worth considering what higher education institutions can do to avoid such situations. One of the first steps should be rethinking the role and position of IT professionals on campuses.
The people who choose, order, install, build and maintain IT systems on campuses usually have job titles like IT (maybe network) specialist or instructional (web) designer, and are in some branch of the campus org chart under the chief information officer. Such IT service staff almost never have the title “professor,” which means they are unlikely to have tenure.
We think that's unfortunate, because people who make decisions about ed-tech infrastructure need to hear from experts who have the freedom to speak on behalf of what's best for education, not just what's best for a university's bottom line. After all, if ed tech really is the future of education, these colleagues of ours will play a vital role in determining what that future will look like. That means they need the protections of academic freedom, which means they need to be able to earn tenure.
Of course, not all IT staff do the kind of work that justifies the possibility of tenure. The IT professionals who do hardware and network installation, repair work, and other support tasks shouldn't be faculty members. But other IT workers who choose and set up complex systems, work with students and faculty members on pedagogy and research, have advanced and highly specialized training, and who are expected to research and develop new systems for their universities should be faculty and should therefore be eligible to earn tenure.
The situation is similar in university libraries. A library, be it one with miles of stacks housing blocks of wood pulp or simply an air-conditioned server room full of electronic resources, is an essential component of any true university. Librarians affect education, even if they don't run their own classes. The American Library Association's Core Values of Librarianship closely resemble the values codified as academic freedom for more traditional faculty. Some library personnel who do tasks like reshelving books do not qualify for tenure, but certain IT staff could have an expectation of scholarly output, would be given positions in faculty governing bodies, would receive support for attendance at conferences, and so on.
Why should universities extend tenure to a new class of workers at a time when they're taking it away from so many other employees? Quite simply, it will save them money in the long run. If Davis had given its IT specialists tenure, they might have been much more likely to speak out against outsourcing their LMS maintenance. And if there hadn’t been so many outages, perhaps that institution wouldn't have required as many people to respond to each one.
Similarly, at a recent conference, a university IT professional (whom we leave anonymous to protect his job), told us that it would be impossible to use free, open-source software on his campus because the administration liked the control of having a contract with a commercial software vendor. Free software is said to require more and more qualified IT staff, but it still might be cheaper than a paid approach, because it doesn't require expensive licensing fees. This would also leave those IT staff free to customize the open-source software and to innovate with other members of the university community.
Industry generally pays much better than academe, so it can be highly competitive for a higher education institution to hire skilled IT professionals. But the job stability that comes with tenure could be an employee benefit for universities to offer those employees with skills in high demand. This is, in fact, a problem that universities have already solved: they attract people to faculty positions in law, business and the many other fields where there is lucrative employment outside academe by offering other incentives, such as job stability and the possibility to take risks, innovate and expand human knowledge.
Now, however, without the ability to speak freely, campus IT staff can as often be an obstacle as an aid in finding the best solutions that use IT. They usually enforce the use of the particular tools that the administration has purchased or licensed, with minimal regard to whether those tools actually solve the real problems of education or research.
It is unclear to us whether a change in perspective is at all possible with such IT professionals located where they now are on most campus organization charts. That's the main reason why we think the decision makers in IT merit tenure and the academic freedom that comes with it. Giving them protection and stability would co-opt them to work on behalf of scholarship and research, making of them allies of the rest of the faculty and not enforcers of a particular IT regime.
Without extending tenure to IT professionals, campuses will continue to spend money on expensive commercial IT systems and the inferior ed-tech tools that generally come with them. Moreover, the people who tend those systems will not be the kind of innovative individuals that institutions generally try to hire for positions on their regular faculty. Since IT professionals will play an ever-growing role in educational decision making in our increasingly wired campuses, giving them the same protections as regular faculty members is both economical and logical. To do otherwise is to risk forfeiting all the educational benefits that technology can bring.
So, with all the controversy swirling around students’ use of laptops in the classroom, have you decided to prohibit them or not?
Advocates of allowing laptops took a took a punch in the gut with a recent study out of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology finding that students -- unable to resist the Sirens of the internet during class -- performed better when laptops were not permitted in the classroom.
Of course, as with critical-thinking courses and outcomes assessment, everyone and their dean has a theory on the subject. As a longtime advocate of permitting laptops, my intuition has been that we who took notes by hand back in the age of pens and paper simply can’t appreciate that keyboard note taking is more efficient for today’s students weaned on computers. I concede the high distractibility quotient of laptops and can accept the MIT study’s claim that they depress performance. I’m just not persuaded that our students are scampering around cyberspace at a much higher rate and to a significantly worse effect than in the days of yore when we daydreamed, doodled and passed notes in class.
And I’m not convinced that, at the level of higher education, efforts to enforce attention aren’t a bit too paternalistic. Perhaps banning laptops deprives the internet surfer of the important life lesson that, in the end, cutting corners has consequences.
Given that, why have I now changed my mind and defected to the opponents of laptops in the classroom?
Because, almost without fail, when I call on a student who’s been clacking away taking notes during class to apply a rule or concept under discussion, their eyes instantly dart down to the laptop screen in front of them as they scroll through the notes they’ve just taken to find the answer. One would have thought I’d asked a court reporter to read the last sentence back. Since the question normally requires the student to use, rather than simply repeat, material they’ve just typed into their machine, they do not find the answer and set off on a futile treasure hunt through all their notes to locate it.
My best guess is that today’s students’ keyboard skills are sufficient to allow them to mindlessly record what’s said in class, like a secretary too hurriedly taking dictation to think about what’s actually being said.
I haven’t been a student myself lately (as the allusion to secretaries taking dictation makes pretty clear), but I don’t recall being able by hand to record verbatim what was being discussed in class. Instead, I believe we were forced -- due to the relatively slow rate at which one can take handwritten notes -- to grasp, paraphrase and summarize in more or less outline form the information we were taking down. Laptops may, in other words, convert students into tape recorders whereby learning is postponed till whenever the transcript of a class is reviewed, corrupted by imperfections in the transcripts and impeded by the resultant inability to ask questions in class. Paradoxically then, inefficiency in the speed of note taking may help infuse an understanding of the subject matter into the notes.
I will break the news of my defection to the dark side of the laptop issue to future classes in the following way: effective note taking is not a one-step process where classroom content travels directly into your laptop via your hands, which, it appears to me, is the natural route of laptop note taking. Instead, it is a two-step process where the material must first travel through your mind, to be inspected and rewrapped, and only then recorded via your hands.
A neuroscientist may well cringe at my explanation. On the other hand, without the benefit of the better of the two note-taking methods, he or she may have had a harder time becoming a neuroscientist in the first place.
Jay Sterling Silver is a law professor at St. Thomas University School of Law.
Over the past two decades, and across the nation, the university has been undergoing profound changes. These structural changes underpin an emergent philosophy of the new university today -- one that should give pause to anyone concerned about the direction of higher education.
For much of the 20th century, and especially after World War II, the university served as the vehicle of upward mobility, the principal pathway to securing a middle-class and eventually upper-middle-class life. Yet that prevailing 20th-century model of the university began to give way in the late 1980s, slowly at first and then more dramatically and visibly with the onset of the new millennium.
Beginning in the early 1990s, conservative and vocal state legislatures began increasingly questioning the use of public funds by state universities for specific “liberal” courses, programs and hires. The mounting attack on affirmative action admissions and hiring in higher education, as one example, coincided with stagnation in middle-class wages brought on by an increasingly anemic American economy. One recession after another (1993 to 1995, 2002 to 2004, and 2008 to the present) further stimulated a downward spiral of public funding for higher education.
The result? Once seen to be an investment in a reliably upwardly middle-class life for millions, higher education is no longer viewed as a presumptive public good. Instead, we have seen the demonization by conservative politicians and public commentators of the university as the bastion of liberal values. This has been accompanied by an ideological “imperative” of austerity, a centralizing of administration and board oversight at the expense of faculty governance, and a focus on the professions and work preparation (STEM, technology, business and law) as the dominant if not singular goal of higher education at the expense of the human sciences and the arts. All these trends have profoundly transformed how the university is understood and how it conceives and organizes itself.
It is perhaps completely understandable that higher education would be fiscally impacted and forced to adapt to trying economic conditions. Moving beyond the shortsighted extent of the state budget cuts, however, what is most disturbing is the way the fiscal challenges have been tied to a radically new and largely implicit -- let alone thoroughly untested -- concept of what and who the university is for and how it should be run.
Indeed, too many universities have been reorganized to privilege revenue-generating ventures and restructured along contemporary corporate lines. Administrative staffing, planning and oversight have outstripped academic faculty and intellectual imperatives and appointments. Faculty governance is being hollowed out, more frequently replaced with top-down organizational mandates with less and less substantive faculty consultation. The logics of an accounting and audit culture have assumed a central place in organizational purpose.
At the same time, administrative functionality on the ground has shifted more and more to the shoulders of individual faculty members and their departments, as too have an increasing proportion of the ordinary operational costs. Room rentals, cleaning, after-hours heating or air-conditioning and, in some cases, increased bandwidth all come with a fee structure to be borne by the academic units initiating the requests. Faculty phone lines have been cut in the interest of savings, relying instead on personal cell phone accounts. Mandatory unpaid holidays -- over end-of-year breaks, for example -- have become a matter of course. In short, units and individuals are being held responsible for covering the costs of their own infrastructural needs.
In this shifting landscape, entrepreneurialism has tended to outrun critical pushback from faculty and students. Consultancy work, spin-off start-ups, corporate ventures and the pursuit of outside grants are emerging as the main means of supporting and supplementing academic work, costs, even salaries. Indirect cost recovery now makes up an increasingly significant proportion of annual university budgeting, both institutionally and individually (in the latter instance, paying for the research and graduate student and postdoctoral support, as well as to cover operating and material costs, such as phones, computers, academic support staff and so on). Perhaps the most visible examples of profit-seeking companies that have been successfully spun off from faculty efforts are the MOOC ventures, Udacity and Coursera -- both created by Stanford University faculty. But they are far from alone.
This logic of faculty enterprise impacts undergraduate teaching, too, now disproportionately provided by adjunct or contingent instructors. Contingent faculty members, including adjuncts, have increased from 43 percent of the teaching force in 1975 to more than 70 percent today. And the growing erosion of tenure at major universities, as represented most notably by the Wisconsin university system, along with irregular salary increases and dwindling research support from within public institutions, suggest the creeping “casualization” of work conditions for ladder-rank faculty, as well.
These developments have gone hand in glove with spiraling competition both for research funding and tenure-track positions. A recent open search on my campus in a highly ranked traditional social-science department produced more than 400 applications for a single appointment. And faculty members constantly feel like they are under surveillance -- both in the classroom and out, on the campus and off -- from administrators, legislators, political lobbying groups and issue advocates, as well as students and their parents. Morale has sunk like cement in water.
All this has had significant consequences on the learning side of the equation. As students increasingly stress certification and job placement, educational institutions are responding by highlighting the college “experience” -- as much socially as intellectually. Tuition costs have escalated as the social experience -- dorm living, recreational and social networking opportunities -- has spiraled in importance in the selection process of students and their families. Students as consumers have fueled the move to personal-interest learning -- more often than not a function of perceived marketability -- at the cost of a common body of knowledge. That is not to deny that both are important, but the former is eclipsing the latter with growing alacrity.
Instant Delivery Over Lifelong Learning
Taken together, then, these trends amount to uberizing the university. How so? Broadly conceived, Uber represents on-demand access, a claim to a flawless experience with minimized hassle, immediate gratification, all at the best going rates. It provides the digital platform drawing together the elements necessary for instant delivery while hiding from view some of the significant delivery costs, such as maintenance and operations, health care and Social Security. In other words, Uber U offers, to larger or lesser extent, a platform and experience rather than the foundation for lifelong learning, conceptual and critical thinking, methodological and analytic rigor, listening and clarity, coherent argumentation and engagement. It privileges in-time, on-demand vocational skilling for the task at hand rather than the capacity for deep thinking.
It also increasingly turns to data-driven managerial imperatives. That means fewer opportunities to interact with managers for thoughtful discussion and feedback about one’s work. Operators -- whether drivers, professors or administrative staff -- are considered not employees but service providers, managed through monitoring and rating systems in semiautomated loops of big data and messaging.
Just as one can follow in real time on the platform map the progress of the Uber car approaching the pickup point, so one can map out and monitor the timeline of the student working through the training modules for which he or she has registered. Faculty members too are being subjected to mandated trainings regarding sexual harassment, inventory handling or, in the case of faculty and staff supervisors, the applicable rules and regulations by which the institution operates. Broken into modulated sessions, the platform regulates the minimal amount of standardized time to be spent on each module, mapping progress through the learning session.
But the system also regularly maps each of the clients or customers -- the new learners, the uberlearners -- to ensure they are spending the minimal time necessary to complete the lessons offered. While there are test questions to complete each module, there often may be no passing or failing. All this means, in principle, that instructors can be monitored for the time they take both to prepare and oversee online learning modules, and students can get certified (now digitally badged) with no assurance they have learned anything. The certification autogenerated by the platform, much like the Uber receipt on one’s smartphone, is more about customer service, liability and immunity from potential litigation than it is about the acquisition of consequential knowledge.
Similarly, the current culture of crowdsourcing is upending traditional modes of assessment. Uber accompanies the electronic ride receipt with a persistent request for an evaluation of the ride: one can then check the rating of one’s assigned driver as the car approaches. Analogously, real-time teaching evaluations are becoming the new mode of review. The University of California, Davis, has experimentally introduced a clicker system that allows, if the professor programs it, in-class student assessment of the lecture in progress. Much like CNN voter-viewer ratings of political debates in progress, the system registers student ratings of a lecture module as boring or interesting, informative or obtuse. That way, the instructor can adjust immediately within the class to the students’ thumbs-up or rotten tomatoes. RateMyProfessors is so yesterday!
This reduction to purely transactional economies has a series of ripple effects. The university aspires to be a brand -- and to become a branding institution. The perceived value of the brand underwrites the price of the certificate awarded. Ranking, of the student experience and the major sports teams, at least as much as academics, becomes the driving logic of institutional life and reputational capital. Some knowledge areas consequently get occluded, to the point first of irrelevance and then ultimately nonrecognition as even valuable. A well-placed physicist recently complained to me that in undergraduate physics courses today, for example, the conceptual thinking key to advancing knowledge in the field and once central to learning physics has increasingly disappeared. It has been replaced by heightened training in the technical and mathematical skills necessary to the discipline. Rote over reasoning.
Uber U faculty members, where necessary at all, amount to brokers in the knowledge economy, hedge-account managers whose function is to network students to those marketplace skills and social competencies necessary to get ahead. Much of the base-level training -- what should be foundational -- is outsourced to adjuncts who are expected likewise to bear a large part of the self-sustaining and reproducing costs. As those costs are passed on to less resourced and unprotected individuals, so too is responsibility for any misdirection, wrongdoing or failure. The institution washes its hands of any malfunctioning agent, the marginalized bad apple.
All these trends are now spreading across the academy, fundamentally reshaping institutional priorities and dispositions. They are disproportionately in play across a broad range of institutions, restructuring some more deeply than others. As with Uber, taken discretely rather than systemically, these developments at their most positive respond to existing needs and unsettle sedimented and often outmoded systems and structures. Just as the Uber platform makes getting a ride easier, often less expensive, easily shareable and cashless, so the Uber U platform potentially simplifies getting credentialed and is supposed to drive down costs and render higher learning more accessible. These new developments no doubt can challenge us to think anew about higher education, opening up creative opportunities to refashion pedagogical and operating practices, advance student learning and transform knowledge production across a broad swath of areas.
Yet we should not be naïve about the costs or touted benefits. Universities are not principally service providers. In addition to training grounds in a given field, they provide the foundations for thinking, both instrumentally and critically, for how to read and write, and for civic engagement. In addition, for many people, they still offer a gateway to adulthood as well as reasoned citizenship.
Meanwhile, Uber-inspired service platforms across a broad range of enterprises -- restaurants, groceries and package delivery, parking services, personal car rentals -- are seeing higher operations costs, lower service-provider wages, declining service quality and even bankruptcies. Platform control hides behind the anonymous technological neutrality of algorithmically produced, crowdsourced data inputs and recommendation outputs, none of which has reliable checks and balances.
The immediate future for academe is one of the growing robotification of basic skills and service delivery and smart algorithms autogenerating their own code. The pressures to downsize the human interface of learning, to limit faculty determination of what and how things are valuable to be learned, and to discount critical knowledge and thinking capacity in every sense of the term will only intensify.
Uber has announced its plan to develop and purchase driverless cars, so it is now joining the roboticizing of the workforce. In higher education, we are increasingly facing the distinct possibility of a faceless future, teacherless courses, online everything. We should confront this intensifying prospect of Uber U with eyes wide-open, counter clickers firmly in hand.
David Theo Goldberg is the executive director of the Digital Media and Learning Research Hub and a professor of comparative literature, anthropology and criminology, law and society at University of California, Irvine. He is also the director of the systemwide University of California Humanities Research Institute. His latest books are Are We All Postracial Yet? (Polity, 2015) and Between Humanities and the Digital (co-edited, The MIT Press, 2015).
I treasured the hours between the time I got a letter and the time I answered it. I loved ordering my thoughts and savoring the agenda. How would I arrange fact and impression to let my friend know how things were with me: describe a mood, pass on information, think out loud about a book or an event, build an atmosphere on the page larger than the facts. Writing a letter was a greater pleasure than receiving one: yet a shared excitement.
-- Vivian Gornick in The New York Times
Not too long ago, a lady in my literary circle remarked that she found the irony of Hester Prynne, protagonist in The Scarlet Letter, interesting, in that the character wore the letter “A” as a symbol of scorn -- not as a badge of honor as it would be worn today. She was more right than she realized: young people would be particularly impressed by Prynne’s ability to express herself in just one of the 160 characters she could fit into a text on her mobile phone.
The job of an English teacher, in high school or college, has become exponentially more difficult over the last 15 years as the phenomena known as texting and tweeting emerged as primary forms of written communication for most of the civilized world. New challenges abound in cultivating young writers, as professors must now override students’ instincts to ignore grammar and punctuation, use emoji in place of human descriptions, and instantly share their unfiltered thoughts without a moment’s reflection.
At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man … kids these days.
The texting generation of today, and its partner in crime, the Facebook, Twitter and Instagram crowd, have all but eviscerated the concept of contemplative thought. Perhaps if students texted and tweeted for the sake of expediency, mindful of its intended purpose, the tolerance levels of English instructors such as myself would be higher.
Sadly, this is not the case. Generation Y, or the digitally minded techies, have adopted these new-age tools as a way of life and all but lost the concept of confronting and pondering ideas as it has been taught for centuries. Students have been seduced into believing that these immediate exchanges are the CliffsNotes for the challenge of critical thinking, when, in fact, such mediums are not even up to those humble standards.
Even for preteens, it is virtually unthinkable to be untethered to their phones, not unlike Linus and his security blanket. The angst suffered by those who are not included in Facebook’s roster is akin to losing one’s sense of self, brought on, in my opinion, not by a desperate desire for human interaction, but a cathartic need for approval. For better or -- as this writer believes -- worse, we have traded down from the precious rewards of personal pride to the hollow recognition of others.
It’s apparent by the time students reach high school -- if not before -- that these shortcuts and outlets for mass communication have compromised their mechanisms of creativity and, more importantly, analytical thought. Our pedagogic predecessors never encountered this modern dilemma, and therefore, as self-appointed champions of the English language, it is our responsibility to devise new methods to enable our students to overcome this modern-day threat to literary artfulness and flair.
The goal here, then, is to wean the students off their electronic devices, convince them of the precious time lost to the use of their cell phones and then impart to them an appreciation of the transmission of ideas through the classic use of the written word. Aside from requiring students to power down during lessons -- this should be a universal requirement in all classrooms -- here are some suggestions to open their app-filled eyes:
Permit students to use their cell phones for a new assignment: texting a friend about a recent experience, one emotional in nature. Then assign them to do it again, but this time in essay form.
Using a 15-minute time limit, have each student text and then write a Dear John letter to a partner, real or imaginary.
Give them a hypothetical do-over. Assign the students to share personal thoughts -- first via text, and then in a letter -- that they feel should have been said prior to the passing of close relatives or friends.
Set a timer for 10 minutes and have the students compose a 100- to 200-word Facebook status update about a recent enjoyable experience -- such as a vacation, night out or weekend plans -- with the intention of putting it on their walls. Rather than submitting the posts, they should hand in the updates.
After the first three assignments, the students should compare the text and essay forms and evaluate which messages served as better reflections of their feelings, which form of communication captured the essence of what they wanted to convey. For the fourth, return their unedited assignments the following week, have students examine their words with a critical eye and ask if they are comfortable posting the status updates with no changes whatsoever.
My hope is that these exercises will shine a light on the shortcomings of our modern forms of communication and demonstrate the potential of the deliberately crafted written word. We must reveal that the inherent depths of language convey a power stronger than a combination of abbreviations and smiley faces that culminates with send.
Ronald Neal Goldman is a professor of English at Touro College and University System.