Now that a little time has passed since Louis Freeh issued his report on the Penn State debacle, I’ve been reflecting on both the Penn State and U.Va. affairs. Reading the coverage, it seemed as though journalists and bloggers were observing a seesaw whose riders could not find equilibrium. When commentators compared the two state universities, they wrote about the relationship between presidents and trustees. The problem at Penn State, that argument ran, was that the trustees didn’t check up on the administrators. Instead, they participated in a culture that glorified football and the men associated with it. The problem at U.Va., that argument continued, was that the trustees stuck their noses in academic affairs, a place "where angels [should] fear to tread" – unless they truly understand online learning, MOOCs, hybrid courses, and perhaps even the contrast between close readings and the digital humanities.
Finding equilibrium is indeed a problem, but it is not the problem. The problem is corporatization. Not only trustees, but also politicians and administrators have bought into the current ideological assumption that higher education may once again thrive if it only becomes more business-like. The call to rationalization is not new. Nor are the characteristics of the people who are making that call. At many universities, the boards of trustees have much the same occupational distribution today as they had 30 or even 100 years ago, when in The Higher Learning in America, Thorsten Veblen wrote of how "captains of industry" were imposing their view of the world on universities.
Today’s situation seems so different, because after World War II, there was a “brief shining moment” when trustees, administrators and politicians deferred to faculty. Dedicated to leading the world in research and discovery, intent on expanding national productivity by educating the youth of the middle class and even the lower-middle class, government and corporate officials recognized professors as people who knew their stuff – as professionals who could decide which research was worthy of funding and publication and which topics were important to teach and learn. They also gave at least lip service to notions of shared governance – although it is also clear that those with a business orientation found the more idealistic liberalism of professors to be problematic. (Recall: Studies have found that people who become professors are more liberal than are the academically talented folk who enter other industries.)
Sometime in the 1980s, priorities began to shift and universities discovered that the supply of their previously preferred students – white males between the ages of 18 and 22-- was waning and the number of white women and people of color among high school graduates was growing larger. George Keller famously warned about this "revolution" in his classic 1983 book Academic Strategy. To fill the seats of classrooms and increase funds, at least some colleges and universities would have to expand their clientele. One way to do so is to accept nontraditional students, who today make up the bulk of the college-attending population. Another is to swipe undergraduates from other states and to charge them more. At Penn State’s University Park campus, in-state students pay $648 per credit and out-of-staters $1,161.
But supply, demand, and revenue streams were not the only issues. After all, to cite a waning supply of preferred students as a problem, one must be prepared to think about universities in terms of supply, demand, revenue streams, and marketing. After World War II, professionalism had been de rigueur, but corporate concerns personified as branding and marketing were to trump professionalism. Universities were to adopt facets of the institutional logic of the corporate world, as they competed for students, research money, reputation, philanthropic donations, and eventually even championship bowl wins. Instead of viewing higher education as an activity that contributed to the public good, corporate leaders, politicians, and even university administrators began to speak of it as an industry.
After drowning myself in news stories and commentary, I have come to think that Penn State and U.Va. share a common corporate concern with industrial competition, including branding. Both boards seem obsessed with risk, not in the old sense of the dangers faced when attempting to climb Mount Everest or dive off a platform 10 meters above a swimming pool. In those old examples, one faces risk by being brave. Today, like other corporatized organizations, universities face risk as what Michael Power has identified as "organized uncertainty" in his book of the same name. Sometimes you just can’t anticipate the results of even the best academic plans and organizational strategies. "The best-laid plans of mice and men" … and all that. As true of auto manufacturers, law firms, and insurance companies, the new corporatized universities care about risk as something to be managed, something that they can hope to control in order to ward off disaster. Like corporations they have departments dedicated to risk management.
The Freeh Report notes that at Penn State the Office of Risk Management "identifies and manages potential risks throughout the university related to financial, physical and reputational loss." The report states that "most of [the office’s] work centers on assessing contract-based risks," but even the inclusion of "reputation loss" is noteworthy. Supposedly, a university’s reputation contributes to the number of applications it receives and to its yield rate. Since the scandal began, applications to Penn State have risen by 1 percent and the number of donors has increased. Maybe these statistics mean that what matters is getting your name in print, as public relations specialists once assumed.
The U.Va. board's firing and rehiring of Teresa Sullivan also involved risk management. But the U.Va. Board of Visitors and the faculty cared about different risks. Apparently, members of the Board of Visitors feared that other prestigious universities would pass them in the race to become identified with online higher education; they are said to have worried that U.Va. wasn’t changing fast enough. Among the faculty the concern almost harkens back to the 1960s and 1970s: If the members of the board have so little regard for a president whom we respect and so little regard for our own professionalism, the occupationally mobile professoriate at U.Va. seemed to ask, is this a place where I want to be? Sullivan put it more directly: she worried that the actions of the Board of Visitors would encourage talented faculty to find jobs elsewhere. Not all professors can easily jump from one job to another. James Duderstadt was probably thinking of distinguished professors, like many of those found at U.Va, when in A University for the Twenty-First Century, he wrote that holding on to one's faculty can be like trying to keep frogs from leaping out of a wheelbarrow.
The Freeh Report on Penn State mentions risk and avoiding potential disaster by talking about how administrators engaged in what can be called a cover-up to protect "their brand." The Nittany Lions is more than a football team and its mascot. It is a university. Similarly, U.Va. has its brand. I don’t mean the plume-hatted cavalier whom I’ve seen swagger around at basketball games. I mean the glorification of academic integrity supposedly inherited from Thomas Jefferson, the founder of U.Va. If Joe Paterno and the Nittany Lions had personified Penn State, Thomas Jefferson’s faith in the search for knowledge as truth has symbolized U.Va. Both representations are a brand.
Penn State, U.Va. and their governing boards messed up as they entered the fray of corporate competition. Neither university could find its balance on what commentators have described as a seesaw or balancing act. Each was so intent on glorifying its brand that key people forgot that education is not a competitive game. Penn State hyped football; U.Va., its status as the first public university and a leader in higher education.
Governing a university is not a matter of balancing the concerns of the board against those of the top administrators. A university is not a seesaw. Routinely, both presidents and trustees invoke "stakeholders" to show their understanding that many groups of people feel they have an interest in a university's future. Many strategic plans mention stakeholders; Helen Dragas, chair of the U.Va. board when it moved against Sullivan, referred to the participation of stakeholders in her June 21 statement about the challenges facing the University of Virginia. But, too often, when they make key decisions, trustees and presidents ignore the pretty sentiments etched in their plans and official statements. They return to the seesaw model.
A good solution to failed risk management at each of these schools is a return to shared governance. Many professors at Penn State had decried the power of the department of athletics. Many professors at U.Va. know much more about digitization than members of the Board of Visitors. Universities boards and administrators might want to recognize that professors are a resource, not just a nuisance to be audited and held accountability for their productivity and economic contribution to their employers.
Gaye Tuchman is professor emerita of sociology at the University of Connecticut. Her books include Making News: A Study in the Construction of Reality and Wannabe U: Inside the Corporate University.
Diversity is a core value of Guilford College, where I serve as president. It challenges us to welcome a variety of persons and perspectives.
Much talk of diversity is about race, ethnicity, nationality, gender or sexual orientation. But what about diversity of perspectives and how we treat that kind of diversity? Every college and university has Democrats and Republicans, environmentalists and developers, occupiers and capitalists, vegetarians and carnivores, and fans of Fox News and NPR. Diversity is a matter of listening to all sides with deference and a mind that is open to new ideas.
Don’t misunderstand me. There are still rights and wrongs and self-evident truths: Hate speech is evil, evolution happened, the earth circles the sun, and the Red Sox are the best team in baseball. Apart from those absolutes, isn’t being a sanctuary for unfettered dialogue the essence of a college education?
It is in theory but not always in practice, including here. Many believe that Guilford is a left-wing echo chamber where it is easier to be accepted if you are a social activist who abhors capitalism, sports and the American flag. Many believe this – fairly or not – of many colleges and universities. It’s not wrong to hold those views, but it is wrong to think that only those views are proper or that Guilford is really that much of a one-party state. It’s also perplexing given how much my colleges’s Quaker founders risked in promoting peace and tolerance.
When I came to Guilford in 2002, I heard about a short-lived tradition of the men’s soccer team to rise before dawn on February 6 and chalk the campus to commemorate Ronald Reagan’s birthday. They did it, one claimed, to annoy the hippies. Or consider this: Why must we take precautions against disruptions when we invite Tony Blair or Ralph Reed to speak but not Bill Clinton?
A parent walked out on me because he claimed that his daughter was not sent here to have her hard-core socialism questioned or even discussed. Yet having your beliefs challenged might change them or just make them stronger. President Kennedy reminded us that, "Tolerance implies no lack of commitment to one’s own beliefs. Rather it condemns the oppression or persecution of others."
Other institutions wrongheadedly embrace the other extreme. State legislatures and boards of trustees threaten loss of tenure or expulsion for being gay, opposing war, promoting choice, protesting economic inequality or questioning authority. Right-wing academics hallucinate that smart liberal kids become coddled academics or social workers and smart conservatives go into business and make money. They miss opportunities like the majestic generosity of Guilford students increasing their own activity fees to provide financial aid for the neediest among them.
When I was growing up, my family perpetually argued. Both of my parents believed that FDR was a covert communist. Their Disneyland was small government and low taxes. Then, I journeyed from being a right-wing Republican to an independent who is an economic conservative and social liberal. At Syracuse University, I joined a March on Washington against the Vietnam War. Of course, I still had enough Republican DNA that I did not hitchhike to D.C. or sleep in a church with my friends. I flew first-class and bedded at something like the Ritz Carlton.
The advice I give students, and that I hope faculty members at all colleges will join me in promoting, goes something like this:
Think it possible you might be mistaken. To paraphrase Churchill, truth is like an elusive butterfly — gleaming, fluttering, settling for an instant with wings fully spread to the sun, then vanishing in the shades of the forest. What you believe depends on the slanting glimpses you had of the color of its wings.
Avoid groupthink where everyone shares the same beliefs or think they do. Faculty, staff and even students in trendy, self-validating clusters tend to delude themselves that the people around them are roughly representative of the general society. This assumption is tough to overcome because it is so soothing.
Dump the stereotypes. Dave Barry and others ask if we really believe all red state residents are dumb, racist, xenophobic, homophobic, NASCAR-obsessed, gun-fondling, Bible-bullying, redneck, sweatshop tycoons who claim government doesn’t work, and then get elected and prove it; or that all blue-state residents are godless, unpatriotic, ear-pierced, Volvo-driving, latte-sucking, tofu-chomping, tax- crazed bleeding-hearts who presume people shouldn’t have to work and beg our enemies, "Please don’t hurt me."
Seek out people with different beliefs. People want to be around others who think and act like themselves. Imagine what a cataract of horrors it would be for some Harvard University professors to be on the same faculty with a member of the Tea Party. But beyond that difficulty lies an opportunity for understanding and compromise. Imagine if the politicians in Washington could collaborate to get something done rather than demonize each other, spew half-truths, and bankrupt us all.
Like Mark Twain, “Sometimes I wonder whether the world is being run by smart people who are putting us on, or by imbeciles who really mean it.”
Protect the rights of others to be different. Conformity imprisons liberty. Don’t be a hostage to prejudice or a bystander to intolerance. Get in the way. Remember what Voltaire said about dissent: "I do not agree with what you say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it."
Kent John Chabotar is president of Guilford College. This column is adapted from his remarks at this year's Guilford commencement.
"This is the first stride towards making SUNY the economic engine that it can be and should be for this state. SUNY is poised to be a great economic engine." That was New York State Governor Andrew Cuomo last August, signing a bill that gave the four SUNY centers $140 million to drive regional economic development.
Since I work there, it’s the case I’m most familiar with, but SUNY is hardly the only school to label itself an economic engine in recent years. Indiana University, the University of Iowa, Rutgers University, Ohio State University: there’s hardly a public university out there that hasn’t let legislators know that investing in it will pay off economically.
The "economic engine" model implies a certain story about why the university matters. Universities do the research that drives technological innovation, the story goes. The inventions of faculty are spun off into start-ups, or transferred to existing companies, where they create new products, jobs, industries, and economic growth.
In some ways this is true, of course. Google was started at Stanford University, Genentech at the University of California at San Francisco. But lately, selling the university as an economic engine seems to be the only way to gain legislators’ support in a climate of scarcity.
Metaphors matter. If we think of universities as economic engines, we’re going to encourage some activities — like technology transfer and public-private partnerships. And these may indeed be things we want to
encourage. Choosing some priorities, though, means not choosing others. Some implications of the economic engine model, like the defunding of the humanities, are fairly obvious. Others, though, get less attention. Here are five reasons we should think twice about what we lose, as well as gain, when we turn our universities into economic engines.
The short-term beats out the long-term. The private sector, reasonably enough, wants to collaborate on research that will impact the bottom line within a few years. But sometimes it’s the research that will take a decade or more to bear fruit that matters most.
Take public plant breeding, for example. Big agricultural companies have huge programs that support research in plant breeding. But they only focus on a handful of commercially viable crops, and while they fund some academic science, they’re mostly interested in research that will have short-term results.
But plant breeding is slow work — after all, generations of crops have to grow. Though genomics is speeding things up, developing a new crop variety can easily take 10 years. And it’s the ambitious, long-shot research — on perennial grains that could make better use of marginal lands, or minor crops, like millet and tef, that are important to the developing world — that won’t get done unless academics do it.
Yet public plant breeders are rapidly becoming an endangered species. Plant breeders attract six-figure salaries in industry, but face declining budgets in academe, even though they’re probably among our most important scientists. By valuing short-term priorities that work for industry over longer-term investment, the current model pushes them closer to extinction.
Profitable products are favored over more diffuse benefits. The economic engine model focuses on discrete inventions that can be transferred to the private sector for development. What it deprioritizes is research whose economic benefits are not so easily captured.
Universities are very fond of research on pharmaceuticals and medical devices, for example. A blockbuster drug, while a long shot, can result in payoffs in the hundreds of millions of dollars from licensing revenues.
But the payoffs from public health interventions, which often keep people from getting sick in the first place, can be just as large. Yet public health research is chronically underfunded in relation to medical science. Improvements in workplace safety, disease prevention, infectious disease control, and food safety transformed life in the twentieth century. But no one will ever launch a campaign for universities to drive economic
development by studying how to prevent heart disease. There’s just no money in it.
Not all economic growth is created equal. The purpose of an economic engine is to drive economic development. But development is good because it creates human benefits, not for its own sake. Making
economic development the mission of the university doesn’t distinguish between the kind of growth we want, and the kind that deserves our skepticism.
The American Economic Review, for example, recently published an article on the environmental externalities created by different industries. Nicholas Muller, Robert Mendelsohn, and William Nordhaus estimate
that the air pollution produced by some industries, notably oil- and coal-fired power plants, costs more than the economic value they create.
Universities, then, might want to think twice about the real benefits of the growth they hope to create. Hydraulic fracturing, for instance, creates opportunities for public-private partnerships that many universities would like to take advantage of. But using the university to drive the expansion of fracking before its environmental costs are clear is not a winning strategy.
Innovation is prioritized over education. In the economic engine model, universities’ impact comes from their scientific inventions. But research is only one part of what universities, even research universities, do. And in a zero-sum budget climate, sinking support into scientific research can come at the expense of education.
To pick an example close to (my) home, the State University of New York at Albany is very proud of its College for Nanoscale Science and Engineering. It has attracted many billions of dollars in investment from
companies like IBM, Intel, and Samsung, and has world-class facilities. President Obama stopped by recently to hold it up as an example of what the U.S. should be doing more of.
But the CNSE is almost purely a research operation. The $1.2 billion contributed by the state of New York over the last 11 years has produced only 135 graduates to date.
Now, education is clearly not CNSE’s main purpose. But while it expanded, the rest of the university — whose budget is separate from CNSE — lost 30 percent of its state support, some $30 million, over three years. Notoriously, this resulted in plans to close three language departments, classics, and theater.
There are lots of reasons CNSE has received so much money from the state, not least that it’s attracted even more from the private sector. And it’s not like someone stole the funds from French and gave them to CNSE. Yet at some level these tradeoffs are real — we’re choosing to fund innovation, but not education.
Non-economic benefits are discounted entirely. All the tradeoffs above are, in some sense, economic. But there is one more tradeoff that is at least as important. By focusing on universities’ roles as economic engines, we devalue their noneconomic contributions.
Universities produce not only workers, or technology, but citizens— ideally, ones who can think clearly, critically, and independently. Having more such citizens is vital to our democracy, not just our economy. And at their best, universities transform people’s lives through the love of learning and the pursuit of knowledge, not just by improving their job prospects.
When the economy is stagnating and university budgets are being cut, it may make sense, strategically, for universities to declare themselves economic engines. It may even be inevitable. But if we do, we should be
very aware of what is lost, as well as gained, when we make this call.