Peer Leadership as an Emerging High-Impact Practice

Like many, my college years (interrupted by two years of missionary service) were transformative for me. Mars Hill University, the University of Utah, and Brigham Young University (yes, I transferred twice) were all tremendously impactful.
 By the time I had graduated I had new intellectual skills, had learned what it meant to be part of a diverse community, and had a much clearer idea of who I was and who I wanted to become (both vocationally and otherwise).  As with any kind of learning, there were a number of factors that contributed to my growth during this period, but my undergraduate experiences at

To be more specific, there were particular aspects of my experiences at these schools that were impactful.  At +Mars Hill, intercollegiate athletics helped me feel a sense of belonging and identity on campus, the common "Liberal Arts in Action" curriculum gave me a chance to reflect on and have conversations about big questions, and an internship in the Athletic Training department was my first taste of authentic experiential learning in the college setting.  I was only at "the U" for a semester, but it was impactful in that I figured out (a) that I really didn't want to be a doctor (thanks to 1,000 seat "weeder" classes in biology and chemistry) and (b) that I was really going to hate my college experience unless I found a way to really immerse myself in the experience, which was hard to do living at home with my parents.

Eventually I ended up at +BYU.  While I enjoyed many aspects of my BYU experience, it wasn't the classes I took (although I took some great ones) or my major (which I enjoyed immensely) that most influenced me during my three years on campus.  Instead, it was the two years I spent as a peer mentor in what was then known as "Freshman Academy."

More than any other experience I had as an undergraduate student, being a peer mentor met the criteria for high-impact practices put forth by the Association of American Colleges and Universities (AAC&U).  It provided me with meaningful interaction with faculty members, engaged me in critical thinking about important issues, provided me with undergraduate research opportunities, and taught me to work collaboratively with others on sustained projects.  In fact, in the recent alumni survey I completed, I cited it as the single most impactful aspect of my experience at BYU.  I say this because it made a more meaningful contribution to my realization of essential learning outcomes than any other part of my experience, and, more importantly, launched me on a career trajectory in higher education that I would never have imagined.

AAC&U has defined 10 discreet high-impact practices (HIPs) that are widely-tested and linked with substantial educational benefits:

• First-year seminars/experiences
• Common intellectual experiences
• Learning communities
• Writing-intensive courses
• Undergraduate research
• Collaborative assignments and projects
• Diversity and global learning
• Service and community-based learning
• Internships
• Capstone courses/projects

I'll argue, both here and hopefully at AAC&U's Centennial Annual Meeting next year, that peer leadership should be included on this list because of it's potential to contribute to 21st Century Learning outcomes and provide for a transformative undergraduate experience.  National studies of peer leadership point to this practice as an emerging HIP with potential to fulfill the promise of a liberal education (e.g. Keup, 2012).  Indeed, peer leadership promotes the hallmark outcomes that characterize liberal learning by integrating many of the characteristics of the more established HIPs llisted above.  

Yet, the quality of the PL experience varies across campuses.  But, when institutions merely cobble together sexy “best practices” rather than intentionally inter-weaving established HIPs to form a focused and intentional educational environment, the potential for the PL experience to yield substantial educational benefits is lost.  In contrast, when stakeholders thoughtfully integrate established HIPs into the PL experience, students are positioned for tremendous growth.

What are the characteristics of a high-impact peer leadership experience?

Close ties to the academic curriculum.  Peer leadership comes in a number of flavors, with peer leaders being used to support student athletes, first-generation students, and women in STEM.  And, at some level, any type of peer leader experience can be impactful.  But, peer leaders are likely to experience greater gains when their work is aligned with a credit-bearing course that is part of the required curriculum.  Required first-year seminars are a great setting for this type of peer leadership, but it could also take place in another substantial academic course that is a required part of the curriculum.  This alignment brings validity to their work, while also providing opportunities for peer leaders to engage with course content and pedagogies in ways that promote critical thinking.  Even better -- embed peer leaders as part of a learning community where peer leaders and students engage "big questions" and work to integrate their learning across courses.

Meaningful engagement with faculty members.  A big part of the reason I was changed by being a peer mentor was that it brought me into a situation where I was being mentored by full-time faculty members who were interested in my development and new how to challenge and support me.  Too often, peer leaders are hired or selected, provided with minimal sub-par "training," and then set loose to somehow figure out how to "lead" their peers.  In these cases, being a peer leader isn't likely to lead to much growth.  Worse--there's a decent chance it will do more harm than good.  Peer leaders should be provided with opportunities for regular and meaningful interactions with the faculty members who supervise them.  Even better -- engage peer leaders in research and assessment examining the impact of the peer leadership initiative of which they're a part.

Make it academic.  Peer leadership is often critiqued by those who view it as nothing more than taking students on campus tours during new student orientation or organizing weekend social events.  There isn't anything wrong with peer leadership experience that is firmly grounded in the social aspect of college; However, peer leadership that takes on a more "academic" tone, will both be viewed more favorably by the academic officials on campus, and contribute to the academic outcomes of the institution.  Whether it's substantial writing assignments or tasks completed by peer leaders, undergraduate research, capstone projects that invite peer leaders to integrate and articulate the learning they've experienced in their role, or an academic course that they register for as part of the experience, the peer leader experience needs to have some kind of connection to the academic life of the university.

Clear learning outcomes and focused assessment.  It isn't enough to just claim to be providing a great learning experience for peer leaders.  It needs to be directed by well-articulated learning outcomes and documented by high-quality assessment.  

High-impact peer leadership experiences are already happening on a number of campuses, but for peer leadership to really emerge as a truly high-impact practice, institutions need to approach it as such.  Considering the above issues will be a great start.

The Power of Productive Time Off: What would a sabbatical for undergraduate students look like?

I have a confession -- I'm really bad at relaxing, taking breaks, going on vacation, or anything else that means
just slowing down.  Case in point:  I haven't eaten yet today, am not likely to stop for lunch (or even eat anything for that matter), and will probably get home later than I'm planing.  It's bad and I should be different.
This malady isn't unique to me, and is particularly prevalent in high intensity work environments where there is an expectation to continually crank out new ideas, products, and programs.  A few weeks ago, I watched a TED talk from +Stefan Sagmeister, in which he argues for the value of extended periods of time off and shares his practice of taking every seventh year off to rejuvenate his creative outlook as a designer.  Sagmeister's shop shuts down completely every seven years and he takes off for some kind of exotic place.  But, he isn't just lying on the beach sipping fruit drinks.  He's relaxing in productive ways that mean he comes back at the end of the year with ideas and projects that drive his work for the next six years.

Watching the talk did two things:  (1) made me feel guilty for not being better at taking time off and (2) made me wonder what an undergraduate student sabbatical might look like.

Sabbaticals (or "professional development leaves" if you're at BYU where we rename everything), have been a long standing tradition in for faculty members in academia. The goal is to provide time and space for a faculty member to increase expertise, enhance creativity, or take a deep dive into research.  Because I'm not in a faculty position and never been on one of these leaves, I can't comment on whether or not they are truly renewing in the hoped for ways (I'd imagine that varies from person to person), but I'm willing to believe that it's a good thing.

So, if it's good for faculty, might it also be good for students?

An initial response from many might be that we already provide students with these opportunities through study abroad programs and internships.  Fair enough.  I'm willing to accept that some of these opportunities have the effect of truly being renewing and rejuvenating for students in ways that truly contribute to their academic experience.  But, the reality is that study abroad programs and internships touch only a small segment of the student population and, in many cases, are cost prohibitive.

What I'm softly arguing for is consideration of some sort of extended sabbatical as a required aspect of  the undergraduate experience and that drives students toward more productive outcomes in the one, two, or three years after their sabbatical experience.  My sense is that this sort of thing is happening in pockets on innovative, small, liberal arts campuses.  So, if you know about those schools, please let me know so that I can learn from them.

Until then, I'll just have to guess at what the characteristics of this kind of experience might be:

1.  Intentional alignment with institutional goals.  Because we've been told we have to by accrediting bodies, we all have learning outcomes and institutional aims.  The sabbatical should provide an opportunity for students to both explore these outcomes and demonstrate their progress toward fulfilling them.

2.  Flexibility.  For the undergraduate sabbatical to hold meaning for students, they need to take personal responsibility in crafting their experience (just like a faculty member would).  While study abroad or an internship might be what they select, students will come up with much more educative experiences if they are given the autonomy to design their own experience.

3.  Accountability and Support.  This characteristic serves as the necessary balance to #2 above.  Most students will need some guidance and support in developing a sabbatical experience.  Further, a simple set of criteria for evaluating and approving proposed sabbaticals will provide helpful constraint to students as they are making decisions, as well as ensure that sabbaticals meet their educational purposes.  Some kind of formal proposal process should be developed (perhaps a simplified version of the thesis/dissertation defense process).

4.  Accessibility.  Well resourced and well connected students are already having these kinds of experiences.  Institutions need to find ways to extend this opportunity to the rest of the student body.  This, of course, will involve finding ways to provide funding for experiences that take a student off-campus.  But, it also means providing advisement support (either through professional advisors or faculty advisors) to help students explore and identify suitable experiences, and then navigate the process.

5.  Immersion.  For a sabbatical to be both restful and impactful, it needs to be long enough and involved enough that a student truly becomes immersed in a project, new way of living, etc.  A year might be too long, but two weeks is definitely too short.

6.  Thoughtful consideration of timing.  Taking a sabbatical during a student's first semester or first year might be too soon because they may not have a refined enough idea for what type of experience they need and want.  Likewise, a sabbatical too late in a student's experience means they won't be able to bring their learning back to campus and use it to shape and inform the rest of their experience.  The ideal time seems to be after the first year, but before the fourth year.

7.  Bookends to both prepare and debrief students.  The first year could be spent helping students develop a plan and proposal for their sabbatical.  This would also engage them with faculty members and staff who serve as mentors, involve them in consideration of key questions about what they want to learn and how, and provide direction for decisions about first-year course registration -- all things we want first-year students doing anyway.  So, in many ways, providing students with the responsibility of developing this kind of plan can nudge them toward a whole constellation of  high-impact practices and behaviors during their first year.

When students return, they can be involved in a similar set of high-impact practices, including developing an integrative report/portfolio/project that reports on their learning and maps out next steps for using their sabbatical as a springboard toward future learning (both at the institution and beyond).


It would be a lot of work and take adaptation for each individual practice, but the "undergraduate sabbatical" would be a way of transforming the undergraduate experience and bringing new meaning and relevance to everything else that a student does during their experience.

The Reading Terminal Market: A model for small colleges (and a great place to eat in Philly)

I was in Philadelphia last week for the Annual Meeting of the American Educational Research Association.  One of the things I enjoy most when I am visiting new cities is eating good food, particularly "local" fare in local spaces.  My hotel (and the convention center where the conference was held) happened to be right next door to Philadelphia's Reading Terminal Market, which many consider to be one of the finest food markets in the U.S.  In addition to being really interesting, the story of the market, including its struggles through the 70s and subsequent renewal in the late 80s, provides important lessons for higher education--especially small colleges.

The market has nearly 80 independently-owned small businesses, representing a wide diversity of products and services.  The brochure I picked up in the hotel lobby boasts that the market "has something for everyone," and this isn't untrue.  As I walked through the market nearly each day of my 8 day trip I saw bakeries, coffee shops, ice creameries, a flower shop, craft stands, meat counters, seafood markets, produce stands, and sit-down restaurants (if you're planning on visiting Philly, my personal favorites were the Down Home Diner, Bassetts Ice Cream, and Profi's Creperie).  Based on this description, it would be fair to wonder how the Market is different from a run-of-the-mill mall.  And, this is the lesson for small colleges.

One of the challenges for any institution of higher education is balancing the tension between identity and universality.  If an institution is too parochial, it runs the risk of attracting too few students and too little attention from other important stakeholders (e.g. key community & government leaders, funding sources, researchers), similar to the fate of a highly specialized boutique that can't manage to get off the ground.  Alternatively, if an institution becomes too broad or too general, it loses its identity and becomes unremarkable and run-of-the-mill, like a shopping mall.  The key for a small college is achieving balance between these two extremes--enough diversity to attract a good group of students and faculty members, but enough identity that it can carve out a space and home on the higher education landscape.

The Reading Terminal Market is a great model of this balance.  Like I mentioned above, the promotional brochure produced by the non-profit organization that manages the Market, touts that it "has something for everyone." While I understand the appeal for its brochure to make these kinds of claims, I'm not sure that the Market really offers something for everyone, like a typical mall might.  In fact, what makes the Market such a great model for small colleges is that they have made some very strategic decisions about the constraints they would place on themselves and their vendors.  And, it is these constraints, tempered by a small degree of diversity among the types of vendors they invite to house the space, that bring the Market the identity and vibrancy that allow it to thrive.

1.  Connection to history and values.  First, the the Pennsylvania Convention Center Authority (the non-profit that runs the Market) has worked to ensure that the story and history of the Market have been preserved and represented in today's Market.  When the Market was re-built in the early 1990s, the Authority negotiated a preservation agreement that made sure that the refurbished Market would adhere to historic standards and maintain its historical integrity.  Those simple architectural decisions and constraints give the Market personality, voice, and signature that link it to its past and leave you feeling a bit like you've walked back into history when you walk through the market.  This creates an experience that visitors enjoy and remember--very different than walking into a shopping mall.

2.  Connection to the local community through signature services & speciality products.  When the Market underwent its initial reconstruction the Reading Railroad Company (who operated the Market until trains stopped coming into the terminal) recruited specific vendors who would tie the Market to the unique culture and history of both the city of Philadelphia, as well as the state of Pennsylvania more broadly.  This included a group of Amish merchants from Lancaster County.  They also made sure that Bassett's Ice Cream, who have been in operation at the Market since it opened in 1892, would remain in their original location.  Inclusion of these products and services diversified the Market's offerings, while grounding the Market in a local place and community.

3.  A personal, neighborhood feel.  Though I was an outsider at the Market, I felt like a local and felt like I had stumbled across something that only locals know about (which is actually not true of the Market at all).  The small vendor spaces, counter top dining, friendly merchants, and mixing of various types and demographics of people make the space feel like neighborhoods and communities should feel.  I was comfortable there, felt attended to by the merchants, and wanted to go back day after day.

Small colleges could learn a great deal from the Market.  Just as small businesses often feel the gravitational pull to become like the big-box stores around them, there is a tendency for small colleges to try to be everything to everyone.  The logic seems to be that the more we offer and provide, the more students we'll have, and the better off we'll be.  But, the reality is that identity, mission, and place are just as important has providing access to a broad range of academic programs and services.  The Reading Terminal Market has grown and innovated, but it has tempered this process by maintaining ties to its history and mission, grounding its work in the local community, and ensuring that it provides an experience that feels personal and supportive.  Likewise, there is a need for small colleges to pursue strategic and constrained growth and innovation by remembering the institutional stories and values that are at the core of their mission, providing a small set of signature programs that are ideally linked to the values and economy of the local community, and that leverage one of the greatest strengths of small colleges, which is their ability to foster a neighborhood or community of diverse, yet like-minded learners.

Productive paranoia and fear in the first year of college: Should we be scaring them more?

Last Friday, we welcomed a new group of students onto our campus as part of our Winter 2014 New Student Orientation.  We hold three orientations like this each year in June, late August, and January. While there are some unique aspects to BYU's New Student Orientation (e.g. A tour of the Education in Zion Gallery and presentations on BYU's Honor Code), much of what happens during these days is similar to what you might find on any college campus.  There is an opening convocation featuring addresses from university administrators, campus tours, registration/advisement support, social activities, and so on.

Among other things, one of the objectives of all of these programs and events seems to be extinguishing or easing students' fears.  While there is clearly some merit to this approach (i.e. leaving students less fearful about their college experience), Karen Thompson's January 2013 TED Talk ("What Fear can Teach us") raises some interesting questions about the role that fear might play in the beginning college experience and when leaving students fearful might actually be productive or beneficial.

Thompson argues that one of our most useful skills might be the ability to "read our fears" such that we can distinguish between those fears that are irrational and worth discarding, and those that are "true" and worth paying attention to.  She points out that fear, while sometimes debilitating, can in some circumstanced operate more like "productive paranoia" that promotes planning, preparation, and a helpful forward-looking perspective.

This all raises interesting questions for new student orientation and other first-year programming.  One of the problematic tensions or dilemmas with the approach taken by many campuses is that of sending two conflicting messages to students.  First, we want students to manage their time, plan ahead, and be organized.  But, at the same time, many of us seem intent upon putting to rest any and all fear they might have regarding their new experience.  We may not be able to have it both ways.

Clearly, scare tactics and the like are not likely to appear on any best practice list from the National Orientation Director's Association (NODA) or the National Resource Center for the First-Year Experience.  But, instead of working to make students fearless and completely comfortable or confident about beginning college, there may be some benefit in helping first-year students learn to identify, read, and respond to their fears in productive ways.  Whether it's a fear of failing Calculus, not making new friends, or running out of money before Christmas, a healthy dose of fear may be just what new students need to engage in the planning and preparation that is critical for a successful first semester.

So, what might this mean for anyone who advises, teaches, or orients new students?

1.  Engage students in open dialogue about what scares them.  Before students can read or manage fears, they've got to acknowledge (and, ideally, share) those fears.  This could happen en masse in a Convocation where the University President or Student Association President raises these questions, in small-group discussions during Orientation or in a First-Year Seminar, or individually with a faculty advisor or peer mentor.  The key is opening a space where students can grapple with their fears and start to sift through which ones are worth listening to.

2.  Avoid the temptation to try to make everyone feel better.  Again, fear isn't a bad thing.  So, when students are in a state of "productive paranoia" (Thompson's term), let them stay there.  We'll earn our salaries when we help students leverage this fear and use it to be more successful.  It wouldn't be a bad thing for us to stop telling everyone "you'll be fine," "things will work out," and "Don't worry about it."  Those are fine things to say once we're confident students have an effective plan for managing their fear, but until then, those feelings of fear are helpful.

3.  Let fear drive students toward supportive people and resources.  A common refrain on my campus is that students just don't use the resources provided for them.  While this is sometimes due to a fear of asking for help (an unproductive fear that we should try to extinguish), the vast majority of students don't suffer from this fear when they begin their college experience--instead this fear comes later, often when they are in over their head and ashamed.  The more productive fear that many students bring with them when they first arrive on our campuses can, however, be leveraged to encourage students to make use of valuable campus resources before it's too late and they feel too embarrassed.  There's a subtlety here in that we might be inclined to convey messages to the tone of "Don't worry, there are people here to help you," which isn't all bad.  But, more effective is a message to the effect of "If you're worried, talk to someone.  They'll be able to help and then you won't be as afraid."  See the difference?  The first flavor of "don't worry" encourages procrastination, while the second is proactive and promotes help-seeking.  But, for this message to work, it has to be accompanied by a companion message relating to what Carol Dweck has termed a growth mindset.

To sum up, first-year programming (particularly New Student Orientation) should be thoughtfully designed to, rather than eliminate fear, help students read, manage, and respond to fear (productive, valid fears that is).  That doesn't mean letting students die on the vine while they languish in fear, but acknowledging those productive fears that students hold and then designing our messaging and support in ways that help students move beyond fear to preparation and productivity.

Educating the Whole Athlete: The Georgetown University 'Hoyas Lead' program

I'm often critical of intercollegiate athletics in these posts; however, as a former student athlete I do recognize the contribution that college sports can make to a student's development.  The problem is that most large Division I institutions are not as strategic and intentional about creating athletic programs that facilitate this growth as they could be.  There are, however, some notable exceptions.

One institution that seems to have gotten it right is Georgetown University.  Now in its second year, Georgetown's Hoyas Lead program is a very intentional, organized, and well-supported attempt to make good on the institutions philosophy that athletics should, ultimately, be focused on achieving developmental outcomes for participants.  The existence of the program isn't all that noteworthy because virtually every Division I athletic program has some kind of program, initiative, or council whose stated mission is to support the overall development of student athletes.  What is impressive about Georgetown's program is it's comprehensive approach, its scalability, and the high level support it has received on campus.  Indeed, there are a number of things about Hoyas Lead that set it apart from the myriad other programs which seem to only pay lip-service to their missions.

Visible, public, and financial support from the Univ. President.  President John J. DeGioia created and funded (from his own budget, not athletic monies) the assistant athletic director position with responsibility for overseeing and administering the Hoyas Lead program.  If nothing else, this is a symbolic gesture that conveys a message of urgency and importance to both the athletic department as well as the rest of the campus community that he's serious about providing a certain kind of experience to student athletes.  And, because he has financial skin in the game, he's likely to be more interested in what's happening in the program and following up to ensure that they are achieving their outcomes.

The right leader.  Hoyas Lead is led by +Michael Lorenzen, Georgetown's Assistant Athletic Director for student-athlete leadership and development.   Lorenzen brings a unique background and set of experiences to his role that position him to have credibility with stakeholders both in and outside of the athletic department.  He's a former Division I head coach (and was very successful when judged by traditional measures of athletic success), which earns him credibility with coaches at GU;  ran a consulting firm for college athletics administrators, which means he understands the administrative realities of NCAA athletics; and has a PhD. in leadership education and is a well respected scholar in that field--a tremendous asset when it comes to interfacing with faculty members and administrators at GU who don't live in the fieldhouse.  It's this last credential that makes Lorenzen most unique.  Very rarely does an athletics department hire an "academic" to fill these kinds of roles.  The fact that they have isn't just savvy, it means that Lorenzen has a philsophical and research-based approach to his work.

Bridges across campus.  Although Hoyas Lead is administered by the department of athletics, it brings together colleagues from athletics, academics, and student services (a rare feat in the academy).  Not only does this mean that its visibility is elevated, but by bringing together experts from all three of these areas, GU is able to provide a much better service to student athletes.  Compare this to the typically insular attitude and approach that "athletic success centers" typically take (case in point:  I have sent probably 10 emails to the director of my instition's "Student Athlete Academic Center" over the last year to notify him of first-year students that are struggling and, in every case, the response has been give or take a few words "Thanks, we'll take care of it."  No additional questions, follow-up, or requests for support from the academic side of the house).

A multi-faceted approach.  While Hoyas Lead does include the traditional orientation and leadership coursework that is found in a lot similar programs, it also includes co-curricular components (e.g. field work, mentoring, opportunities to teach, and service).  Even more notable is the fact that Lorenzen spends a good chunk of his time consulting and interfacing with individual head coaches and athletes.  He observes teams "in the field" so to speak by attending practices, games, and team meetings to get a sense for team culture.  Then, meets with individual coaches and athletes to integrate the more formal parts of the program to the unique needs of individual teams.  The most important by-product I can see from this approach is that he now has relationships with coaches and athletes.  And, relationships are vehicles for change.

The right not to participate.  I've written before (quite adamantly at times) about the need for institutions to require more of students.  And, I still assert that for the overall campus population, requiring students to engage in a small number of practices that clearly lead to positive outcomes is a good practice.  However, in this case, I think Lorenzen has been wise to shy away from requiring every student athlete to participate.  The first and second year curricular component is "required," but technically isn't mandatory and Lorenzen doesn't hunt anyone down who doesn't register for the coursework.  While this is potentially problematic because it leaves students wondering what the term "required" really means, it's not a bad approach to have an expectation that everyone will participate in the low-level introductory aspects of the initiative.  Once student athletes reach their junior year, their participation is completely voluntary.  This means that Lorenzen can devote the most valuable resources and impactful aspects of the program to those students who are truly committed to and invested in growing as leaders.  And, in reality, without a voluntary buy-in to things like service, mentoring, and the like, students aren't likely to grow anyway.  The key is in developing a culture and expectation among new students that carries through to these later years.  That way, it's understood that "Hoyas lead," and there's some social pressure to participate, but ultimately it's up to each individual to take up that opportunity.

Georgetown has provided a great model for the rest of the NCAA to follow.  Maybe the women's hockey teams at Ohio State and Bemidji State should pay attention.

(Mis)Education and Experience: Two examples grounded in the work of John Dewey

Recently, I've been re-reading John Dewey's seminal work Experience and Education.  It's not an easy read (though it's short), but it's a must-read for anyone who believes that education is about more than transmitting information.  The core of Dewey's argument is that all genuine learning comes about through experience; however, not all experience is equally educative.  He differentiates between educative experience, which expands a learners opportunities for learning and growth in the future; and miseducative experience, which stops or distorts future growth and learning.

I came across two cases this week that are great examples of each of these categories of experience.

First, the miseducative experience from the German school system.  There are 4 million muslims living in Germany, which has led German government and school officials to look for ways to integrate German-Muslims into communities, while still respecting their religious beliefs.  The most recent case has centered on required swimming lessons in German schools and has received a fair amount of international media attention.  At the heart of the buzz is a German court's ruling that Muslim girls must take part in co-educational swimming lessons as part of their educational experience, but will be allowed to wear burqinis.  There are two issues associated with the case--modesty and male-female interactions.  The modesty issue has largely been addressed through allowing Muslim girls to wear burqinis.  However, the plaintiff in the case, a Muslim teenage girl and her parents, claim that requiring her to participate in swim classes with other young men runs counter to their religious beliefs and practices.

German schools clearly believe that swimming is a fundamental skill that all German students should master.  This seems sound and, at some level, the court's ruling makes sense.  If they were to grant exemptions to this requirement for particular students, they would be neglecting their obligation to educate all students.  However, this is faulty logic, and here's why.

The ultimate goal of educational experience is to facilitate and encourage future experience (see Dewey's definition of educative experience).  It's probably safe to assume that the basic swimming instruction German student's receive isn't enough to make them master swimmers.  Instead, it's purpose is to equip students with basic levels of competence and also encourage them to participate in recreational swimming outside of school.  It's a sound approach (and one educators apply in all sorts of other disciplines).  But, the German court's decision is likely to have the opposite effect.  By forcing Muslim girls to swim, they will ensure that these girls will swim for the few hours a week they are required (during the few months when they are in the class).  But, this forced participation is also likely to turn Muslim girls off to swimming in the future.  And, in that way, this will become a miseducative experience  because it is likely to inhibit these students' learning and growth as future swimmers.  In this case, the court has forgotten that the swimming lessons offered in schools are the means to an end.

Now, the educative experience from a pretty unlikely source--a grassroots movement to end street harassment toward women.  Essentially, +Emily May and the Hollaback movement she started invites women to use their smartphones to document, map, and share incidents of street harassment with a worldwide internet community.  It's a really clever idea that uses technology, social networks, and social pressure to fight back agains a pretty ugly trend.  And, it invites and empowers women to participate in an experience that meets both Dewey's requirements for educative experience.  First, it attends to the criterion of continuity because it positively impacts the future experience of both the women who participate as well as the men they are "hollabacking" at.  Women who share or read stories of fighting back against street harassment are likely to be more empowered and skilled in doing so in the future (which would then provide additional experiences and learning opportunities)
.  And, the men who they are responding to are likely to think twice before making similar comments in the future.  Second, Hollaback has provided meaningful opportunities for interaction through its platform because it allows women to share and hear one another's stories in ways that lead to learning.  So, in addition to Hollaback being termed a "movement," it might also be characterized as an educative experience.  From this standpoint, Hollaback is fulfilling the role of an educator to provide, design, order, or facilitate an experience that leads to long-term and meaningful growth.

My point here is that, when it comes to issues of learning and the types of experiences educators should provide, it's important to consider long-term outcomes and how educational experiences and environments can be designed to not only ensure that learners "do what they're supposed to" in the short term (the German example), but that the experience we've provided has the potential to lead to additional learning and growth in the future.

Legitimate Peripheral Participation: A new lens for viewing the first year of higher education

At the outset, let me say that I'm a theoretical and philosophical nerd.  I like to read about theory and educational philosophies because they're just plain interesting and they lead me to see educational experiences differently, which I enjoy.  That said, my strong stance is that, without a theoretical foundation, those who design and order educational experiences (whether that is in a classroom, a home, a playing field, or music hall) aren't nearly as intentional and impactful as they can be when they are operating from a clear set of theoretical or philosophical principles.  Steve Yanchar, a faculty member in the Department of Instructional Psychology and Technology at BYU, has written very eloquently and persuasively about this idea here.

So, with that roundabout disclaimer for any theory-averse readers, here goes.

One of the most interesting theoretical frameworks for describing and understanding learning that I've come across is Jean Lave and Etienne Wenger's notion of Legitimate Peripheral Participation (LPP).  To really understand the theory, you'll need to read their book.  But, for the sake of this post and your time, here are the main ideas.

• Learning isn't merely knowledge or skill acquisition; rather, learning is the process of becoming increasingly skilled in the practices and discourses of a particular community of practice.  This means that "learning" is situated in particular contexts, activities, and social groups.  For example, learning to be a nurse isn't just understanding what to call particular body parts or how to give an injection (though this knowledge and skill is part of the process).  Instead, learning to be a nurse involves learning to think, act, and talk like expert nurses do.  Ultimately, it is a way of being that subsumes a whole constellation of knowledge, skill, and values.  So, learning is the process of becoming like the experts or "old-timers" that are part of an already existing community.
• In order to learn or become in these ways, a novice or newcomer needs to have access to the practices of the community.  So, that means being around old-timers, hearing the stories they tell, the way they describe problems, and seeing the way they do their work (whether that's making hamburgers at McDonald's, working on stopped up toilets, or writing academic articles).
• Learners also need opportunities to participate in legitimate and peripheral activities within the community and with other community members.  Lave and Wenger use the example of apprentice Vai and Gola Tailors in West Africa, who learn to be master tailors, first by hemming cuffs and attaching buttons to already finished articles.  From there they move on to increasingly complex tasks, all of which are integral to the overall process of tailoring an entire piece of clothing.  By participating in these practices, they don't just learn how to tailor, but learn what it means to be a tailor, with all of the complexities that come with that craft.  All three principles (participation, legitimacy, and peripherality) are key here because if any of these conditions isn't met, learning isn't likely to occur.  For example, if a tailor isn't performing a legitimate aspect of the tailoring process (e.g. distributing handbills in a public square to generate more business) or one that is peripheral (e.g. working in a setting completely disconnected or isolated from the master tailors), he or she isn't likely to master the knowledge, skills, discourse, or tools necessary to be a good tailor.  Rather, the "learning" will be fragmented and artificial.

There's much more that could be said about LPP, but that should be enough to provide a basic overview of the theory.  

Given the work I do with first-year students on my campus, my question is how LPP might inform the way we welcome, orient, and "teach" students during their first year.  Here are a few thoughts:

1.  First-Year Experience programs should be built around meaningful tasks.  Although there are certainly things that we want first-year students to know and be able to do by the time they finish their initial year on campus, talking at students about these things (whether it is in new student orientation, in a freshman seminar course, or any other formal setting) isn't likely to lead to any real learning or growth.  Instead, we should be identifying a series of developmental tasks that students can be invited (or better yet, expected or required) to participate in during their first two semesters.  And, no, I don't just mean coming up with a list of courses.  Thoughtful FYE administrators will consider what the practices and behaviours of "expert students" are and structure FYE tasks/objectives around these things.

2.   First-year students should be provided with a comprehensive view of the mission and purposes of their particular mission from the very beginning of their experience.  In West African tailor shops this happens through the early tasks novice tailors are asked to complete.  It's very simple, by working with finished garments that have been tailored by master's, newcomers develop a good sense very early on of what a quality finished garment should look and feel like.  And, having that comprehensive understanding helps guide and focus their learning as they move through other tasks.  For a first-year experience program this can and should happen at New Student Orientation.  I've written before about how this could happen during an Orientation Convocation, but there are other, more active ways to give students this perspective as well.  One that was suggested on my campus by one of the administrators involved in orientation was to invite second semester students to serve as orientation leaders.  At first this seems risky, after all, how much can a second semester student really know about campus or about what new students need to know.  But, there is an intriguing idea here in that expecting second semester students to convey institutional messages and model effective student habits for their peers might speed up their development.  By expecting nearly new students to help to orient and support even newer students, we provide them with a meaningful opportunity to embrace and internalize a set of beliefs and practices that are important for their success.  And, by involving them in these ways, we involve them in an important aspect of our work (legitimate peripheral participation).  Similarly, any opportunities for new students to mentor, tutor, or advise their peers (even if that is in a simple setting like a study group) can move forward their growth, again, because they are participating in the work of the institution in meaningful ways.

3.  First-year students should have access to "old-timers."  This could mean anything from experienced students, to faculty members, to administrators or staff members.  The key idea is to structure the first-year in ways that provide opportunities for these interactions.  As a non-example, consider the practice of packing new students into large lecture halls for "survey" or "intro" classes.  Not only is this generally a poor way to learn, it provides little to no opportunities for students to have meaningful interactions with a faculty member.  In contrast, small seminars, employment and research opportunities, and mandatory advising facilitate these types of interactions where new students can learn by watching, talking, and participating with more seasoned members of the campus community.

Ultimately, the goal of the first-year experience should be to invite new students to become full participants in the campus community by structuring their experiences and interactions in ways that allow them to actually participate in those practices.  And that can extend well beyond the realm of traditional academics, to the arts, meaningful service, and anything else that a particular campus might value.

Redesigning our Campus Communities: What would a TEDCampus2.0 Conference Look Like?

On September 20th, TED will be holding its 2013 TEDCity2.0 conference, a day-long conversation led by an eclectic group of thinkers from a variety of backgrounds, including art, anthropology, sustainability, engineering, and transportation to name just a few.  Their goal?  Discuss and imagine what future cities might look like.  As I see it, they are essentially exploring the question "How can we design and create more effective communities?"

That's a question institutional leaders should be asking as well.  Granted, some probably are; however, TED's City2.0 conference provides an interesting model for how campus leaders could go about exploring this question.  Rather than insulated conversations among small groups of academics, what would happen if a campus or group of campuses were to convene their own Campus2.0 conference?

First, there would be a small number of core themes or issues that would be explored.  Second, experts and innovators from a broad range of areas would be invited to ensure that a wide range of perspectives are represented.  Third, the dialogue for each session would be built around a number of provocative questions.

Here's my vision of how it might look.


Session #1:  Redefining what it means to be a member of a campus community.  
Those of us who live and work on college campuses have become too tied down by our "roles" and the scripts that go along with those roles.  Students go to class, take exams, and occasionally participate in on-campus events. Faculty members teach classes, sit on committees, and do research. Administrators worry about their specific programs and make sure that resources are allocated.  It's all very fragmented and disconnected.  Sessions and presentations around this theme would help members of a campus community consider common goals and purposes, invite members of the community to reconsider what their role in the community should be (particularly as it relates to shared purposes), and discuss how various members of the campus community can be brought together to collaboratively address real challenges on a college campus.

Guiding Questions

• What does engaged citizenship on a campus community look like?
• How can a campus community enact principles of democracy in meaningful ways?
• Who are the vulnerable campus populations that need a voice in the campus community?
• What does a thriving campus community look like?  Feel like?  Sound like?

Who would be there?

• Citizenship & community experts who can discuss the philosophy of citizenship and community building and how those ideas can be applied on a college campus.
• Local, state, or national community organizers and activists who can apply their expertise to issues of community on campuses.
• Poverty experts, not necessarily because traditional forms of poverty are issues on college campuses (although they are probably more prevalent than we would like to admit), but to help members of campus communities to consider what other forms of poverty and vulnerability might exist (e.g. the plight of first-generation college students, adjunct faculty, etc.).  
• Historians who could discuss what citizenship has meant in the past, across societies, and what it can and should mean in the future.

The Dream Team (who we'd invite if we could have our pick of anyone)

• Robert Putnam, to discuss issues of social capitol and community
• David McCullough, because he's interesting and seems to have thoughtful things to say about just about anything.
• Clayton Christensen, because I disagree with the management principles he applies to higher education (it's good to have opposing viewpoints represented), but think he's an excellent thinker and it would be good to have his perspective on issues of campus citizenship.

Session #2:  Reinventing the Campus Experience

In a thriving campus community, the campus experience would shift from being focused on transactions (e.g. taking classes, providing instruction, coming to work to clean the buildings) to shared experiences that build meaning, social capital, and relationships.  So, we'd invite people that could speak to the ways in which experience can be designed to lead to these outcomes.

Guiding Questions

• How has the campus experience shifted in the last 20 years?  What might campus experience look like moving forward?
• Who are the key players positioned to impact campus experience?
• What are the elements of experience that will contribute to the academic, social, and civic aims of higher education?

Who would be there?

• Artists, poets, and musicians who could help us understand how to create aesthetic experience within our campus communities.
• Anthropologists who could speak to issues of human experience and what we know about it as a phenomenon.  
• Technologists, to help us think through both the promise and peril associated with integrating technology (especially new and social media) into the campus experience.
• Experience architects who can raise issues of story, design, aesthetics, interaction, and place within experience.

The Dream Team

• Tom Kelley, who could share IDEO's expertise in designing and shaping experience.
• Clay Shirky, to explore the impact of technology upon experience and what it means for communities.
• Jason Sweeney, who could help us understand how participatory art (and other large-scale community collaborations) can contribute to aesthetics, dialogue, and cohesion in a community.
• Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, to discuss what "flow" on a campus community might look like, feel like, and how it could be designed for.

Session #3:  Reimagining the Physical Campus

Campuses come in a variety of shapes and sizes.  Some are small campuses in large cities, others are large campuses in what students would describe as the middle of nowhere.  And, the exact design of a physical campus should vary depending on a variety of factors, including the size of the student body, whether it is a residential or commuter campus, and its institutional mission (agricultural land grant institution vs. science and technology).  The key is making physical design decisions intentionally and for the right reasons, not just under the pressure of space and cost.

Guiding Questions

• What can campus planners learn from successful cities?
• How can physical design decisions be leveraged to make a positive impact upon citizenship, engagement, and the student experience?
• What can physical campuses learn from successful virtual spaces that can be applied on a college campus?  What are the cautionary tales to be learned from these virtual spaces?
• What are the various types of spaces that should exist within a campus community?

Who would be there?

• Architects, because they design and build the stuff.
• Traffic engineers, because they understand the dynamics of moving bodies within spaces and how to make intentional decisions about flow.  
• Artists and graphic designers, because it should look nice.
• Industrial designers, to help us think through the products and materials that should be placed within communities and how they should be designed.
• Sociologists, to make sure the builders and accountants don't dround out the other voices.

The Dream Team

• Ray Oldenburg, because he understands the characteristics of effective community spaces and how to create them.
• Jane Jacobs (yes, we're bringing her back from the dead), because she could help us think about a campus community as a city and what that might mean.
• Toni Griffin, whose background in urban design, architecture, and place-making would provide incredible insights for a college campus.

So, now we just need TED to plan this conference and invite us all.  Would you come?

Community basketball courts as a model for schools

About two months ago, Provo City opened it's new Community Recreation Center.  It is a fantastic facility.  It's well designed, has state of the art equipment, is located in the heart of the city, and is a great value (a 12 month pass for my family was just under $400).  On average, I visit the rec center about once a week, mostly to use the fitness center.  To get to the fitness center, I have to walk by the four basketball courts located on the main level of the facility.

For me, they are one of the most interesting features of center, because in some sense, they have given rise to their own mini-community.  I realized this last week when it occurred to me that nearly every time I walk by the basketball courts, I see a young man from my neighborhood there playing basketball.  Sometimes he is there alone, other times he is playing one-on-one with a friend, and on other days he is in the middle of a pick-up game with a little larger group.

But, the biggest thing I've noticed about him is how much his game has improved in the last six months.  I know this because last winter, I saw him playing basketball in our church one night and, to put it bluntly, he was awful.  He couldn't make anything further than four feet from the basket, he missed half the lay-ups he took, and it was painful to watch his jumpshot.

When I saw him last week, he was by no means ready for the Timpview HS basketball team, but he was holding his own against a group of average guys his same age.  He even "looked" like a basketball player--he wore the basketball shoes you'd expect from a relatively serious player, had on the long basketball shorts that you see when you watch an NBA game, and even had the same type of socks I know HS basketball players wear.  It was like he had been enrolled in some kind of basketball school where they taught him how to shoot a jumpshot, how to play defense in the low post (he's a pretty tall kid for his age), and even how to dress.  In fact, he has been in "school," just a different type of school than what we typically think of.

While, I highly doubt that Provo City designed the basketball complex to facilitate learning, it has a number of features that make it a great place where learning (basketball-specific learning) can take place.  It's a lot like the neighborhood boxing gym or skateboard park in that it brings together a mini-community of people who are all interested in and engaged in the same activity, but who all possess varying degrees of skill and experience.  And, any organization who cares about how its members learn could take a few cues:

1.  A focus on authentic learning.  The kids and adults who play basketball at the rec center aren't participating in artificial drills, practice sessions, or contrived activities.  For the most part, they are engaged in real basketball games that allow them to participate in all of the aspects of the game of basketball from conditioning, to shooting, to defense, to rebounding.  So, each time they play, they're developing the full range of their game.  In addition, real games are much more motivating than artificial activities, which impacts learning and development more than nearly any other factor in the learning environment.

2.  Openness and opportunities to watch other learners in practice.  The three full-size courts in the complex are located next to one another in a large open space, without any dividing walls.  Additionally, there is an elevated track above the courts, and glass windows looking into the three-court complex.  Although the fourth court (a smaller one) is separated from the other three by a thin wall, it is next door, and also surrounded by glass windows.  This all means, that regardless of what court I'm playing on, I can see what's going on in the games next to me.  This is particularly critical for novice players because it means they have the potential to watch more advanced players in the game next to them.  So, a young player can see what good defense looks like, watch a reverse lay-up, or stand in awe at a smooth jumper.  In essence, it provides a novice with access to a wide range of practices within the community.  That access and the observational opportunities that come with it are invaluable for novice learners.

3.  Learners of various skill level together in the same space.  Because of the open design of the basketball complex and that fact that anyone can use it, there is a wide range of basketball ability represented on the courts at any one time.  Just last week when I was there, I saw one game being played by middle-aged men, another game made up of kids from the age of 10 - 15, and a Dad and his three kids playing on another court.  Again, this mix of ability levels means that new basketball players are likely to be playing right next to advanced players, which provides great opportunities for learning.  And, in addition to providing benefit to novices, it may even provide mentoring opportunities for veterans or "experts" looking to give back.

The take home message here is that learning is inherently a social enterprise that occurs most effectively when it becomes a community activity.  However, much of the formal learning that takes place in schools looks very different than the kind of learning I've described above.  Instead of being based in community, where learners from varying skill levels come together and watch, learn, and participate together, it is terribly fragmented.  It happens in isolated classrooms, where everyone has the same relative degree of knowledge or skill, and is rarely authentic in the ways we hope it would.

So, what would a school look like if it were patterned after a boxing gym, a basketball complex, or a skate park?  Could it work?  And, how would it be administered?











 

Why did the academy lose when Adam Smith won? (How efficiency gets in the way of meaningful work)

In one of the best TED Talks I've heard in a while, +Dan Ariely  addresses the question of what makes us feel good about our work. The core of his argument is that we naively assume that traditional incentives like money are the best way to motivate, increase productivity, and produce happiness in work settings (in this way, it is quite similar to the main argument of Dan Pink's book, Drive). Ariely spends most of the talk addressing the issue of incentives and what his research suggests about what really motivates us.

But, at the end of his talk (about the 18:25 mark), he changes gears a bit and shifts to something of an historical commentary regarding how the industrial revolution has influenced the nature of the work we do. To make his point he starts by contrasting Adam Smith and his emphasis on efficiency, with Karl Marx and the importance he attached to meaning.  The fact that, with regard to the work we do, Smith won and Marx lost is apparent almost everywhere one looks. Factory workers assemble cars and computers, the food I'll eat at dinner tonight likely went through five or six pairs of hands from the time it was grown to the time I took it through the grocery store checkout line, and large organizations are divided into departments and divisions where everyone plays a unique and specialized role. Gone are the days of the artisan or craftsman who saw a project through from start to finish.While the implications of this shift from meaning and wholeness, to efficiency and fragmentation are clear for industrial settings, it's also important that higher education consider its own "industrialization" and what this means for those of us who spend our time on college campuses.

In our ever quickening attempt to model ourselves after industry and corporate America, we have come to worship efficiency. This is particularly true of large campuses like mine where division of labor and specialization have become increasingly prevalent. Admissions officers decide who gets in, student affairs staff welcome students to campus and help them feel comfortable, academic advisors make sure they have classes on their schedule, financial aid counselors make sure students can pay for everything, and faculty members teach classes (we've even divided the faculty role into "teaching faculty" and "research faculty," signalling our view that teaching is no longer an inherent aspect of being a college professor). Not only does this fragmentation take its toll on the student experience, there are hidden costs in terms of the meaning and purpose faculty, staff, and administrators attach to their work.

In his talk, Ariely asserts that we find meaning when our work involves us in creating, developing, or producing things or ideas, particularly when we can see those things through to some kind of meaningful closure or conclusion.  The problem with the current division of labor in higher education is that the structure of most campuses means faculty and staff are only involved in a narrow segment of the student experience. Few of us have the kind of prolonged engagement with students that positions us to see them develop across time. There are at least two problems with this fragmentation. First, it creates an environment where meaning is hard to find. Students drop in for an advising session during their second semester and we don't see them again. We admit them with high hopes that they'll be the first in their family to graduate, but we never see them again after their campus visit. They take our intro to psych class and we never find out if they decided to take the next course in the sequence. Fragmentation in structure, leads to fragmentation in relationships and interactions. And, without relationships, meaning is tough to come by.

Second, a fragmented structure makes it difficult for members of a learning community, whether it is faculty, staff, or students, to keep sight of the overarching purposes that unite them. If all I ever do is admit students, take them on tours, or teach the same history course, I forget that these independent activities are intended to contribute to a much broader and more meaningful set of objectives.

So, what to do? I'm not so naive as to suggest that institutions should dissolve all departments, divisions, colleges, etc. Or, that any one of us should be able to perform every function on a college campus. However, campus leaders would do well to examine their structures and identify potential points of integration where fragmentation could be reduced. For example, how might faculty members play more of a role in academic advisement?  How could admissions officials be involved in meaningful interactions with students during orientation? What would it mean for a college president to teach intro level courses?

By giving up some efficiency, we stand to gain a great deal of meaning. And, ultimately, that increased meaning could have far-reaching effects on quality (and maybe even be more efficient than we think).

On Intentionality: An argument against hoping good things will happen

"Unless the students' experience of classes is connected, it is trivialized. Any course that isn't part of a larger journey is a dead end."

This comes from one of the best books on higher education that I have read in the last decade, The Learning Paradigm College, by John Tagg. It represents what I believe to be the biggest failing of higher education, which is our consistent inability to provide a cohesive, holistic experience that, taken together, actually means something for students. If you haven't read Tagg's book, you should.  And, if you think you don't have time or that the $9.69 it will cost you to buy it used on Amazon is too steep a price, at least read the seminal article upon which the book is based.

Given my frustrations with the problem of fragmentation that pervades higher education, I was ecstatic to hear about my own institutions efforts to provide our students with an alternative approach to their general education.  As I listened to our Associate Dean for General Education describe this new "mosaic" approach to general education, I had to pinch myself a few times. What she was describing seemed nearly identical to what I had dreamed about for some time. General education courses would be grouped thematically. Students would be invited to select a mosaic that provided a series of linked courses, all exploring a larger theme or issue. There were options that aligned with particular courses of study, as well as more general mosaics that could complement nearly any degree program. And, most importantly, it seemed aimed at providing students with an integrated experience that could connect with their interests and future goals. But, the longer I listened, the more I started hearing what became a very troubling phrase: "We hope. . . ."

Let me be clear, there are lots of things for which I hope. I hope my March Madness bracket doesn't get any worse than it did last night. I hope it will stop snowing outside my office so I can walk across campus to the Education in Zion Gallery. I hope my daughters will fall asleep early tonight, so I can spend quiet time with my wife. And, I hope that both of those daughters will become more and more excited about learning as they grow and eventually want a college education.  Hope is great.  But, only if it moves someone to action and becomes an incentive for making intentional decisions that increase the likelihood that the hope will be fulfilled. Without intentionality and action, hope is empty.  What's more, empty hope inevitably leads to the discouragement and frustration that come with unfulfilled hopes. And, as I sat listening to the presentation on BYU's new general education mosaics, I saw us headed down that path.

Theoretically, the notion of mosaics seems sound. After all, if the problem is that students aren't connecting their learning across courses, the solution is to connect the courses for them, right? If we map out those connections and then tell students to take, for example, "Environmental Biology," "Introduction to Human Geography," "Theories of Human Freedom," and "Current Social Problems," they will have completed the "Human Dignity" mosaic and have had a connected experience. Right?  Well, what I found out during part two of the meeting was that we hope this happens. While the mosaic initiative sounded great on the surface, it turns out the proposal is to do nothing more than provide students with a webpage that shows how various courses are connected around loose themes. No culminating or integrative academic experience. No collaboration among faculty members. No invitations to students to demonstrate that they have had the type of integrative experience we hope for.  The moment in the meeting that was, simultaneously, laughable and unbearingly frustrating was when the presenter was asked how many students she thought might take advantage of this opportunity (My guess is next to none because central administration has, in an incredibly curious move, barred the sending of any formal communication to students about this new initiative. Instead, the hope is that students will find their way to the obscure website I linked to above, be fortunate enough to take the initiative to meet with an academic advisor who happens to be aware of and endorse the mosaics, or be told about mosaics by one of the 13 students who meet the previous two criteria).  The response to the question: "We're really not sure how many students will take this route.  But, we hope that even for those who don't, just thinking about the possibility of making these connections will make GE more meaningful for them." Cue unicorns, money descending from the sky, and raucous laughter at our foolishness.

This assumption that grouping courses thematically and attaching a hip name to these categories will fundamentally change the experience of students flows from what Tagg has described as the Instruction Paradigm.  From this perspective, the business of colleges is to offer instruction and "learning" is then operationally defined as teaching classes. You see this at the core of my campus's mosaics: "If we offer the right courses (hopefully the same courses, so it doesn't disrupt things too much) and then point out that they are "connected," students will the make the connections and have an integrative experience.  Lots of empty hope, without any intentionality or strategic thought about the process of learning.

In contrast, Tagg's Learning Paradigm defines a "curriculum" as being about what students learn, not what teachers teach or what courses are offered:

The curriculum should be the institution's systematic plan for what and how students learn (emphasis added). The guiding principle in restructuring curriculum should be that the whole is more important than the parts. Individual courses are of trivial importance. What matters in terms of the students' whole experience is how courses--or other learning experiences--fit together. Colleges should seek to create a curriculum that leads somewhere rather than spinning in an infinite variety of nonintersecting circles. A curriculum should not be a list of classes; it should be a description of learning outcomes. (The Learning Paradigm College, Tagg, p. 326).

The problem with BYU's mosaics is that they are still built around individual courses.  We're still operating from the Instructional Paradigm. Until there is a fundamental change in perspective away from trying to recycle worn out tiles (i.e. courses) to cobble together a poorly looking mosaic (general education), we'll still be providing a fragmented experience for students. Instead, what BYU (and a lot of other institutions) needs is to stop thinking about courses and start thinking about learning. There are at least two fatal flaws in BYU's current mosaic program. First, there has been no attempt to show students where we want them to end up, which is to say that we haven't developed any clear and understandable descriptions of the outcomes for the mosaics (rubrics, video recorded interviews with students who have achieved these aims, and other multi-media descriptions of this type of learning would be a great start). Second, we haven't designed any learning experiences or environmental features that encourage integration across the courses that make up a mosaic (e.g. capstone experiences, assignments or projects that span across courses, faculty collaborations, reflective or integrative writing assignments).

To hope is not enough. Institutions have a responsibility to design and structure both experiences and environments that move beyond hope and into the realm of intentionality and action.

Sending a message very different than the one we intend

Because I am a graduate student at the institution where I work, I receive an email each semester I am enrolled in courses (which at this point is every semester, because the sooner I finish my dissertation the sooner my wife can stop being an academic widow) inviting me to submit "student ratings" for the courses in which I am enrolled and the instructors who teach these courses.  Although I doubt the utility and value of the exercise, my sense of duty compels me to try to submit thoughtful ratings each semester.

I've completed this process at least twice a year for nearly the last 10 years; however, it wasn't until this morning when I was submitting my ratings for the current semester that I noticed this statement on the "Student Ratings Homepage:"

A message to students from President Samuelson

Student evaluations of BYU faculty and courses are extremely important.

• Faculty are expected to consult them to improve their courses and teaching methods.
• Department chairs are expected to review them annually with faculty to assess teaching effectiveness.
• University committees consider them carefully as part of faculty reviews to determine who is retained and promoted.

Without your responsible input, we cannot effectively assess and improve teaching performance and student learning.  Please be honest, fair, and constructive as you complete your evaluations.

Your evaluations matter.

Thank you,

President Samuelson 

  

At first glance, posting a message like this on a webpage where students initiate the rating process makes sense.  An institution wants students to submit ratings, so someone on a committee suggests that a formal statement of support be made and displayed in a public place.  It is a very simple thing, doesn't require much time of anyone, and we can all feel good about being "supportive" of a particular initiative (in this case, student ratings).

However, one could offer a very different interpretation of the one above, which is the interpretation I made when I noticed the statement this morning.  A committee somewhere in the institution was charged with finding a way to increase student participation in the rating process, was told "these evaluations matter," doubted the truthfulness of that statement (the person who said it probably did too), a secretary somewhere drafted a statement, it was approved by the university president, and then "publicly" displayed but in a place and in a fashion that made it discrete enough that it wouldn't cause any problems or change any aspect of the cultural norms that prevail on campus with regard to teaching and learning (e.g. faculty can teach a course any way they want so long as they don't give inaccurate information, act abusively toward students, or teach anything that would make the Board of Trustees anxious).  The net result of the hypothetical process I've described above is that a very different message than the one originally intended becomes encoded in the way the explicit message (Evaluation Matters) is conveyed.  While the text of the message clearly states that the institution cares about student ratings, the tone of the message (e.g. its formality), the way it is displayed (on a webpage that 1/2 the student body visits and that probably 3% read), and the absence of this message in any other venue outside of the email sent to students (reminding them that their ratings are "important to the University and used in many ways"), convey a counter-message that student ratings are a necessary part of the institutional landscape but one that few of us really care about.

Again, the issue here isn't whether or not institutions should care about student ratings.  Rather, institutions should be careful to consider all of the components of a message, not merely text, when attempting to convey a message to students.  Factors such as tone, placement, repetition, consistency, and alignment with institutional practices will, ultimately, be much more powerful communicators than static text on a page or in the body of an email and communicate a hidden curriculum to students that can be quite impactful.  And, when these factors have the potential to communicate a message very different from the one intended, institutions run the risk of coming across as insincere, bureaucratic, and naive.

For a great example of holistic messaging that really conveys the message an institution wants students to hear and embrace, see Westminster College's message about e-Portfolios from former president, Michael Bassis.  Contrast the amount of time, energy, and thoughtfulness that went into this messaging with the message I referenced above from my own institution.  Could a student doubt that Westminster College values e-portfolios after watching a taped message from the President and then reading through an e-portfolio that he created himself?  Very different from the message that would have been conveyed had the college opted for a static text-based message on an obscure webpage.

Designing to preserve risk & ambiguity

Typically, risk and ambiguity are things that we try to eliminate from our lives.  We make our kids wear helmets when they ride their bikes to decrease the risk of head injury.  We're given detailed instructions for how to put together complex appliances or pieces of furniture.  And, we make sure plastic storage tubs come with explicit warnings like this, to make sure there isn't any question about the inappropriateness of storing children in such containers.  Clearly, I'm being a bit facetious here, but the point is that most of us operate from the assumption that the more we can get rid of risk and ambiguity, the better things will go.

While this is true in some parts of our lives, there are some aspects of our experience where moderate degrees of risk and ambiguity actually improve our behavior and performance.  Take the design of roads as an example, as reported here and in much more depth in Tom Vanderbilt's interesting book, Traffic: Why we drive the way we do (and what it says about us).  The essence of the argument is that drivers are more cautious, more aware, more considerate, and ultimately more safe when roads are stripped of the features we've long believed make them safer (e.g. signs, dividing lines, large distances between roads and sidewalks, and width to name a few).  Road designers (largely in Europe, those West Palm Beach, Florida has seemed to catch on) have realized this and started to design roads that are just risky enough that drivers have to slow down and drive skillfully (which most of us can do when we are actually thinking about it--the problems occur when we are lulled into autopilot by the "safety" of the road).  It is an incredibly interesting approach and one that will likely revolutionize urban planning and road design in the future (it is a philosophy first pioneered by a Dutch traffic engineer--Hans Monderman)

Risk is a theme I've taken on in this blog a number of times.  I think it has tremendous implications for learning.  My current wondering has to do with what it might mean for higher education institutions to embrace risk and ambiguity in calculated ways.  College campuses are full of the equivalent of road signs and safety features, meant to "protect" students and get them where they're going in a metaphorical sense (be it a job, graduation, or just becoming an engaged citizen).  We have advisement centers and student support services that notify students that they are on academic warning, reminders about graduation deadlines, policies preventing students from enrolling in more than a specified number of credit hours, and course catalogs that attempt to remove ambiguity by clarifying and outlining hundreds of policies and processes relevant to a particular campus.  I'm not ready to say that we should think about getting rid of any or all of those things.  However, I wonder if in our effort to protect students through our various policies, support services, and "clarifications" we might actually be causing more problems than we're solving.  And, are there "risks" that we might allow to become more visible and instructive so students approach their experience with a bit more caution and concern than they might otherwise?

A quick example--the course syllabus.  This great column from Inside Higher Ed (you really should read it, if nothing else, you'll laugh) illuminates the tension instructors face between including so much information that the document becomes laughably long and painfully detailed, and failing to outline the course w/ enough clarity so as to avoid "scandals" that arise when students question policies or procedures.  There is an inherent risk in a faculty member having a thin syllabus.  If the expectations for the course, course policies, and schedule aren't made unambiguous, students may not learn what they need to, we may have an argument with them about absences, or they may not know what to do in the event there is a Tsunami and they aren't able to get to campus for class.  But, when a course is so structured that the syllabus comes to be viewed as a recipe, that if followed leads to learning, we're in trouble.  From my own experience, I can say that when the syllabus outlined exactly what I had to do to earn my "A," I did that and nothing more.  Typically, the course became a hoop jumping exercise.  It was clear and safe, but I didn't learn much.  In contrast, I have had a few classes where ambiguity reigned supreme.  Initially, it was very frustrating for me as a learner because I wanted to know what to do, when to do it, and how to report back that I had done it.  But, the ironic thing is that the ambiguity increased risk and often nudged me to do much more and better work than I would have otherwise.  I don't know that this type of course design is a universal solution; however, designing for learner autonomy can lead to great motivation for some populations of students, particularly high-achieving or self-directed students (see Dan Pink's book Drive for a great discussion of this idea).

Of course, campuses must still be physically safe spaces and be structured in ways that allow students to feel comfortable enough that they aren't perpetually thinking about leaving; however, a little risk might go a long way in improving overall outcomes.