The importance of the CSO (Chief Storytelling Officer)

I spent the last two days with a group of public school teachers, counselors, and administrators.  For the last

six months, I've been privileged to meet with them about once a month to be part of discussions surrounding important issues in education.  This week's retreat was focused on the notion of stewardship in schools and the need for educators to hold a commitment and investment in the entire school community, as opposed to what happens in their classroom.  For me, the highlight of the two days was hearing two key stories that are at the heart of the work we were doing together.  

The first story came from Steve Baugh, who is a former school superintendent in Utah and now the Executive Director of the BYU-Public School Partnership and Center for the Improvement of Teacher Education and Schooling (CITES).  Paul's purpose was to familiarize us all with the story of CITES, and more specifically, the Associates Program that we are all participating in.  He described what led to the formation of the partnership, the evolution of its core commitments, and the purposes behind the Associates Program.  Hearing this story from Steve, who has been involved with the partnership in one form or another for the last two decades, was infinitely more impactful than reading about it in a brochure or on a website (which I have done multiple times).  When he finished his story, I felt a renewed sense of purpose, pride at having been asked to participate, and a commitment to fully engaging in the process.

The second story was told by Paul Sweat, the former principal of Wasatch High School.  Paul was the principal at Wasatch during two key events:  the move from the "old high school" to the "new building" and the 100 year anniversary of the opening of the first high school in 1908.  From what I can tell, Paul's most significant contribution to the school and the surrounding community was taking what was a highly emotionally-charged, politicized, and potentially controversial transition into a new building and using that process as a means of uniting both the school community and the surrounding community of Heber Valley.  His story described the process of moving into the new school, incorporating elements of the "old school" and its values into the new building, and skillfully generating support from nearly everyone involved, including current students, parents, alumni, and community members.  I've never seen a school or administrator be so intentional or strategic about anything--it was inspiring and instructive.

Steve and Paul are what I call Chief Storytelling Officers or CSOs.  In addition to the duties outlined in their job descriptions as administrators in their organizations, they play an incredibly (yet underappreciated and often unrecognized) role in ensuring that the wisdom, legacy, and values of their organizations are understood and appreciated by others.  Clearly, to be a CSO requires skill in story-telling (which I'll get to), but it's also a lot more:

1.  Deep history and vast experience.  Neither Steve nor Paul have been around from the beginning, but they've been around long enough that they have a rich institutional memory.  Steve has been involved as a teacher, administrator, or faculty member in the partnership for 44 years.  During that time he's been a close observer of the development and evolution of the partnership, positioning him to tell its story well.  In Paul's case, he has become a student of the history of his district, both by doing traditional research and spending hours and hours in conversation with others who have been around a lot longer than he has.  As a result, he knows the story of Wasatch High School and it means something to him (he had to hold back tears a number of times yesterday as he shared vignettes of the sacrifice and commitment that others have made over the years as teachers, coaches, benefactors, etc.).  A CSO knows the meta-story of his or her place because he or she has lived it, researched it, and listened the hundreds of micro-stories from others across all levels of the organization.

2.  Credibility and Respect.  Because of their experience, Steve and Paul have street cred, which means that when they tell their story, others listen.  Steve has a natural advantage because he's been around a long time and that, in and of itself, brings respect and credibility.  In Paul's case, his credibility has come through the hard work he's done to learn the story and his demonstrated abilities in bringing people together for a shared purpose.  CSOs can't just be good story-tellers, they have to have been successful in their other roles, be it as the CFO, superintendent, director of HR, or whatever it is they're job description says they're supposed to be doing.  That success buys them the story-telling capital they need for people to listen to what they have to say.

3.  Story-telling Chops.  Steve and Paul both told their stories in very different ways, but in both cases it was effective.  Steve spoke from hand-written notes and had no visual supports, which some would say is a big no-no.  But, his sincerity and humility are disarming.  I felt like I was listening to the grandfather of CITES tell me a story that I'd heard before, but that I couldn't stop listening to.  Paul used visual images really well, from pictures of the first high school and how the new building incorporated some of its architectural elements, to the new school seal,, to the mural that was created by an alum (who also happens to be a respected artist) to visually represent the story of the first 100 years of WHS.  The images he shared, sprinkled with vignettes about key events and characters from the school's history, left me wanting to quit my job at BYU and go to work at the High School, and I've never even stepped foot in it.  

Although I'm not an employee of Wasatch County School District or of the McKay School of Education, hearing these stories left me feeling a sense of stewardship for what happens in Wasatch County Schools.  I care about the students there and want to be a part of the learning that goes on in their classrooms.  That means Steve and Paul both played their role as CSOs very well.  The stories they told helped me understand and feel connected to the legacy, culture, and purposes of their organizations.

Steve retires this year and Paul has moved on to a position at the district level.  There is an inherent risk that their stories will be forgotten.  If that happens, both the McKay School and the District will have lost a tremendous asset.  In fact, yesterday after Paul's presentation I asked him whether students and teachers at the high school knew much of what he had shared with us.  He mentioned that there is an orientation for new students in which some of the stories are shared, but also acknowledged that since he has left the HS, a lot of the stories have been forgotten.

Individuals have short memories.  Organizations, particularly those with high degree of turnover, have even shorter memories.  One of the dangers, any organization needs to be aware of and avoid, is letting CSOs go unnoticed, or worse, letting them move on without imparting their stories to new CSOs.   

So, whether you're a family, a business, a school, or a church congregation, you need to be asking yourself a set of questions relating to your stories:

• What are the key stories that need to be told?
• Who are the CSOs who can tell them?
• Who will be the new CSOs?
• How do we prepare them?

What concerns me is that neither the McKay School or the District seem to recognize Steve and Paul's roles as CSOs.  

Access . . . to what?

Yesterday I had the opportunity to visit two fairly unique educational institutions in the Wasatch County access in preparation for a more intensive two-day conversation that will be held in January.
School District as part of my involvement with BYU's partnership with the District.  The purpose of the day was to provide raise issues of

Our first visit was to the North Campus of Wasatch High School, which is a satellite campus of Wasatch High School and whose mission is to support students who are at risk of not graduating from high school.  As an aside, the District has taken a unique approach to supporting highly at-risk students by eliminating its "alternative school" and integrating it with the traditional high school.  In addition to countering the stigma of "alternative education," it provides these students with access to the resources and opportunities enjoyed by their peers (e.g. clubs, interscholastic athletics, elective courses).  After brief remarks from the administrator of the North Campus, Adam Hagan, we heard from a panel of eight students who described the challenges that led them to the North Campus and what they were currently doing to work toward graduation.  Every one of them was articulate, candid, and respectful in their responses and it was incredibly enlightening (and somewhat sobering) to hear their stories of school and where our traditional approach to education had fallen short in their cases.

Our second stop was at the Wasatch County Jail where we had the opportunity to meet and talk with two panels, both a group of men and a group of women who are enrolled in adult education programs while incarcerated.  Again, they were far more articulate than I had naively assumed, seemed passionate about learning, and incredibly grateful for the access they were being provided with to improve their lives (One of the most interesting stories of the day came from 45 year-old Duane who was raised on a farm in Ohio and to this day has never stepped inside a school.  He's learning to read and write through the adult education program at the jail).

These two experiences have shifted my view of issues of access in education.  Typically, dialogue around access centers on rather simplistic (though not unimportant) questions of providing educational access to underrepresented or underserved populations, and providing access to technology.  But, what I realized in listening to the students I met yesterday was that access is a much broader issue than just making sure kids get to school and have a computer.  The stories they told, except for in Duane's case, were not about access to school or even access to technology.  They went to school and, for the young students at the North Campus, had access to a relatively rich array of technological tools while at school.  But, what they repeatedly shared with us was that their experience of school failed to provide them with access to nurturing and supportive relationships.  Each of them told the story a little differently, but the overall theme was the same.  For Orlando, he didn't have access to teachers who were willing to try and understand the challenges he faced as a 17 year-old father and student for whom English is a Second Language.  For Joe, there was no one who knew him well enough to know that he was working 40+ hours a week at the community grocery store, so he could buy a car that would be dependable enough to ensure he could make the long drive to school each morning.  For Starr, who was probably the most articulate of the group and wise beyond her years, "people listened, but never heard" her.  And, McKayla, an Iraqi immigrant who you'd guess had lived in Utah all her life because of her complexion and perfect English, had no one to talk to about what it was like to be bullied because of her ethnicity.

Everyone we spoke to was quick to recognize their own personal responsibility and failings that had contributed to their struggles; however, it was clear that, to a person, they had felt forgotten, overlooked, and isolated throughout the vast majority of their school experience.  They had access to school, but had not been able to access the relationships they needed in order to navigate and make sense of their school experiences.  The value of the "schools" they are in now is that relationships are a key focus.  At North Campus, students benefit from what Adam Hagan described as "shoulder time," where a caring teacher works one-on-one to teach, answer questions, encourage, and challenge.  And, at the jail, Ms. Wheatley (who was described with fondness, accompanied by tears, by more than one inmate), has clearly left students in her classroom feeling valued and respected because of the individual attention she provides.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't be focused on more traditional issues of access and work to provide educational opportunity for all students.  However, part of the discussion of access needs to include consideration of, not only how we get students "into school," but also how we provide access to the human resources and relationships that, ultimately, are the vehicle for meaningful learning.  Whether those relationships are with teachers, parents, aides, peers, or anyone else within the school environment may not matter as much as structuring schools and school systems in ways that allow these relationships to take hold and flourish.

The take home for me from my experiences yesterday is that access is a layered and multi-faceted phenomenon including access to opportunity, access to subject matter or content, access to learning tools and resources, access to dialogue and conversation, access to models and exemplars, and access to relationships.  If we're really going to tackle problems of access, we've got to take on the whole problem.  A piecemeal approach won't do.

The best kind of colleague

One of my favorite collegial pairs, partly because I'm a descendant
 of the actual Butch Cassidy (aka Robert Leroy Parker).

“A good definition is almost impossible, but you know one when you see one. The connection is almost immediate.You know it's going to be a good day because you will be seeing that colleague.”                                                                         

-Anonymous



This morning, in her "A Kinder Campus" column that regularly runs in Inside Higher Ed, +Maria Shine Stewart posed the question "What makes a good colleague?" The column is thoughtful, well-written, and inspiring--well worth the five minutes or so it took me to read it.  And, it invited me to reflect on what kind of colleague I am.  This assertion, from one of the colleagues Stewart interviewed for the piece, was particularly thought-provoking for me: a colleague is someone who listens and helps a peer when it would be easier just to focus on his or her own responsibilities." Far too often, I'm guilty of becoming wrapped up in my own to-do list or project and forgetting about or even consciously avoiding interactions with others so that I can be more "productive." My department (and my own soul) will be kinder when I finally kick that habit that has crept into my work over the last few years (I rationalize by blaming it on becoming absorbed in my doctoral study, which is probably a factor, but clearly not the only culprit).

In reflecting on Stewart's column and her description of collegial relationships, I recalled a Christmas gift I received over the break that initially only struck me as incredibly thoughtful, but which upon further thought seems to represent the best kind of colleague I could ask for.

My friend +Drake Allsop ordered me a copy of Dan Pink's newly released book (To Sell is Human) and had it delivered four days before it was even available in bookstores.  For someone like me who loves to read, loves social science-esque books, and is a fan of Dan Pink, it was a pretty cool gift to receive.  In that respect, it was the type of gift I might have received from any of a number of friends and family who know those things about me.  But, because of my relationship with Drake, the experiences we had when we worked together at BYU, and some subtle things he did in the giving of the gift, it was a uniquely collegial.  Let me explain.

To begin with, Drake was a student who worked for me in BYU's +BYU Office of First-Year Experience.  Consequently, our relationship should have been dictated by the traditional employer-employee norms, with me as the authoritative supervisor and him as the student who followed directions and did his work (a far cry from collegiality).  However, Drake very quickly became much more of a colleague because he engaged with me in ways that few other students have.  He read what I read, initiated enlightening conversations with me about academic ideas, challenged me when my thinking was off or he saw that I could make some kind of improvement (I'll never forget the day he told me my presentation slides for an upcoming conference were pretty boring--it's true they were and the revised slides were much better), and became a partner with me in my learning.  We also laughed raucously and irreverently almost every day we worked together, which I've found goes a long way towards building a relationship.  

I see a lot of the best parts of my relationships with good colleagues represented in Drake's gift.



1.  It recognized, acknowledged, and validated my intellectual interests.  Drake knows I like Pink and knows what kinds of ideas I enjoy being exposed to.

2.  It invited me to grow and expand my mind.  Drake knows I'm busy and that I'm probably not reading as much as I should now that the new semester has started.  Sending me the book was a subtle reminder to me that I need to continue to expose myself to new ideas, even when I don't think I have time or energy.

3. It challenged me.  A little context is helpful here.  Drake graduated from BYUs Marriott School of Management, and while he is definitely not your typical business student (case in point, he is now an elementary school teacher), we had and probably continue to have some philosophical differences about various issues.  He probably also knows that I shun commercialism, sales, and most profit-motivated ventures.  So, receiving a book that, on its cover (literally), is all about selling myself is a bit of a challenge to my way of thinking.  I appreciate that and it is something that the best colleagues do for their friends.

4. It was an invitation to engage in a conversation with Drake about important ideas.  In the text message Drake sent me a few days after I had received the book he mentioned that he is reading the book too, and that he looks forward to talking with me about it.  While that's the kind of thing acquaintances say to each other (kind of the grown-up or academic version of "hey, we should hang out sometime"), but don't really mean, Drake is sincere.  I fully expect to have that conversation with him when I finish the book.

I'm grateful for both a new book, as well as good colleagues.  They make my work, my learning, and my life (which are all terribly intertwined these days) much more meaningful.

Character as an aim of higher education

"True education seeks to make men and women not only good mathematicians, proficient linguists, profound scientists, or brilliant literary lights, but also honest men with virtue, temperance, and brotherly love."

This statement from educator David O. McKay has always intrigued me.  For me, it is simultaneously inspiring and discouraging.  Inspiring because it speaks to some of my most deeply-held beliefs about the purposes and possibilities of education, yet discouraging because it seems like such a long, steep, and unmarked road for us to climb.  This aim, though not shared universally by institutions of higher education, seems to be commonplace in mission statements in one form or another (see, for example, the mission statements from Westminster College, Mars Hill College, and Longwood University, each of which address character development in their unique way); however, the cynic in me wonders how often we succeed in developing students of high moral, ethical, and civic character.  I become even more worried when I consider the ways in which the current culture of higher education, one that often views learning as a commodity and education as a marketplace where this commodity can be gained merely through some kind of transactional purchase like what we do when we go to the grocery store.  see all of the forces working against us in this effort

Clearly, though, there are thousands of students each year who graduate having had experiences which have had deep and lasting impacts upon their character development.  These are the students who leave our campuses with an appreciation for diverse perspectives, a desire to make meaningful contributions in their community, and an integrity born of hard work and overcoming challenges that arose during their educational experience.  

Those of us who work and live on campuses whose missions include a focus on character development would like to think that our institutional efforts (read:  programs, initiatives, or events) were instrumental in facilitating this kind of growth in students.  Hence, we praise the general education program with a required service-learning component, the required attendance at "chapel" or "devotionals," or the inspiring keynote lecture during "character week" as silver bullets that "transformed" students.  In sum, we often come to believe that it is our technical responses to the need for character development among students that are successful in realizing this aim.  

While there is nothing inherently wrong with formal attempts to support character development, we sometimes neglect the power of human relationships in promoting this type of growth among students.  Hence, my suspicion is that the campuses who are most successful in achieving these aspects of their mission are those who also embrace, emphasize, and value a human response to the challenge of educating students' character.  Those who know me could surely make an argument that my alma mater failed me when it came to the development of my character; however, I would like to think that I experienced some gains in this domain during my undergraduate years.  And, when I think about the experiences that were most impactful in terms of my character, it isn't participation in formal aspects of my education that made the difference.  Rather, it was interactions and associations with roommates, classmates, faculty members, work supervisors, and others that had the greatest influence upon me.  Whether it was a roommate offering gentle correction in response to less than upstanding behavior from me, a faculty member describing how he approaches his research as an attempt to answer "big questions," or a work supervisor who helped me see that there may indeed be other perspectives in the universe outside of my own, it was the quotidian of my experience and not the formalities, that had a cumulatively transformative effect upon me.

It would be a mistake for institutions to eliminate formal programs focused on character development.  The existence of these programs on a campus, if nothing else, serve as a symbolic statement regarding the high value we place on developing character among our students.  And, when designed thoughtfully, these programs can facilitate the unplanned experiences which, in my estimation, are much more powerful in shaping students.  But, if these formalities are not supported by a collective effort among the individual members of the campus community to talk about, model, and celebrate character as an aim of education--e.g. the faculty member who offers holistic mentoring outside her discipline, the classmate who refuses to silence or ignore diverse perspectives, or the administrator who models ethical behavior in all of his interactions--programs will have little impact.  

So, the challenge for campus leaders becomes one of clearly articulating a set of values embracing character development, recruiting and retaining faculty and staff who genuinely believe in and work toward this mission, educating prospective students about what it means to be members of the (fill in institution name here) community, and providing a campus environment (which includes everything from co-curricular programs, to physical spaces, to curricula ) where the day-to-day experiences we have with one another have a chance at building our characters.

What if admissions offices cooperated rather than competed?

Earlier this week, Inside Higher Ed reported on initial results of the Predictive Analytics Reporting Framework and the potential for this data to connect students to those online institutions to which they are best suited (the title of this particular section of the article is "Match.com for Higher Ed").  The senior statistician for the project, Sebastian Diaz, comments that his data set positions admissions and recruitment officials more effectively find, recruit, and enroll those students who are most likely to be successful on their campuses.  But, the article points out that this sort of academic matching service would require a level of collaboration and sharing among institutions that doesn't seem very feasible at present.

On the surface, viewing admissions as a purely competitive process makes sense.  After all, for any given institution there is a limited number of students who are, first, at all interested in enrolling at that campus and, second, who are good candidates for the experience provided, whether that is an intimate liberal arts experience, a distance ed experience, or the traditional state school experience (if there is even such a thing any longer).  What's more, for a group of institutions who share much in common, this pool of students is largely the same.  So, at some level, it is perfectly understandable that institutions compete for students.

However, this standard view of the admissions process, while acknowledging the competitive dynamic among peer institutions, fails to acknowledge two things.  First, among institutions who are very different, there is no real need to compete for students.  Second, many of the students who apply to a particular school aren't students that school is competing for and, in fact, may be better candidates for another institution.  And, despite the best efforts of campus recruiters and sometimes very expensive marketing campaigns, campuses don't always get the students they want.  So, if you and I are both in admissions on our respective campuses (and lets assume we aren't at "peer institutions" but that our campuses differ in some meaningful ways) I will, inevitably, receive applications from students that my institution doesn't want, but that yours does (and the reverse is also likely to be true--you'll receive applications from students that I want).  The trouble is that we aren't ever likely to realize this or talk to one another about it.  Instead, we'll each send our diplomatically written "thanks but no thanks" letters to our respective applicants, they will hit the trail again hoping to find a school that does want them, and we will hope that the next application we receive is from a student we do want.  Ironically, we both have pieces of information that would be helpful to each other, but we'll never share it.

So, what if an institution worked to develop collaborative partnerships with a diverse group of institutions, whose missions, enrollments, geographic locations, were different from its own .  This might be something akin to the "bridging capital" Bob Putnam describes in his book Bowling Alone, that connects us loosely to people quite different from ourselves and that facilitates access to community assets and promotes information dissemination.  If these partnerships were formalized in some way, institutions could "compete" with their peers, by collaborating with their "distant relatives.  These partnerships might give member institutions access to students they may never have found and help students by connecting them with institutions better suited for their needs, interests, goals, etc.

Typically, college athletics is not a good place to look when trying to solve broader institutional challenges; however, in the case of admissions, we might be wise to make an exception.  Like admissions, the college sports landscape is highly competitive.  Each year there are a small number of blue-chip recruits that every Div I coach wants to sign and bring to campus in the fall.  But, once you get through those 100 or so athletes for the particular sport in question, things are a lot less competitive--athletes are trying to find coaches who want them and coaches are trying to find athletes who would be a good fit for their team and campus.  What's more, the NCAA's practice of classifying athletic programs into divisions (Division I, Division II, and Division III), there is a clear and simple way of knowing if another coach's program is a "peer" or a "distant cousin."  Consequently, it isn't uncommon for a Division I coach to court a recruit and then, after realizing   that she probably won't be recruited by top Div. I programs, to make a phone call to a fellow coach at the Div. II level to let the coach know that they ought to "take a look at her."  I saw this happen fairly regularly as a student athlete.  As an example, one of my teammates at Mars Hill College in the late 90s was initially recruited by a handful of good Div. I soccer programs; however, his standardized test scores were not high enough to qualify him to compete at the Div. I level (due to NCAA regulations).  At that point, the coach from one of these programs contacted his friend who was the head coach at Mars Hill and let him know that this player may be a good fit for the program.  In this situation, both my friend and Mars Hill benefited.  We got a great player who was a four year starter and all-region player, and he got a nice scholarship and a great experience at a small liberal arts college.  The Div. I coach didn't benefit directly from this exchange; however, in coaching, reputation is everything, so he likely benefited indirectly.  The difference, then, between athletics and admissions is that when an athlete isn't a good fit for a team, there is at least some chance that the coach who has turned him down might be able to help him find another home.

While it would take some coordination and there would definitely be complexities to work out, is there any reason why this sort of sharing and collaboration among distantly related institutions couldn't happen at the level of general admissions and even be formalized in some way?  If it were to happen, it would seem to require a few things:

1)  The right kind of groupings or consortiums:  As mentioned, if everyone in the partnership is competing for the same students, it isn't likely that much sharing will take place.  So, member institutions would need to be different enough that they aren't drawing from the same applicant pools.  At the same time, if the institutions are too different, they aren't likely to have applicants that, although not a good fit for one institution, would fit somewhere else.

2)  Very clear understanding of one another's missions:  If the members of the group don't know each other well (their missions, their geographic locales, their academic offerings, etc.), they won't be positioned to make good referrals.

3)  Lots and lots of trust and good will:  As with any social contract, the success of an arrangement like this would require a collection of campuses that are willing to commit to act in the interest of one another and of the students they serve.  At the point that one member starts to hold onto students who would be better served by another member of the group, just to bump enrollments and increase tuition, things will fall apart.  Similarly, if back-room alliances between selected members result, the whole enterprise is in trouble.

I'm not overly familiar with the admissions landscape, so it's possible that this proposal has grown from a gross naivete on my part.  But, as an occasional idealist and advocate for the power of community, I want to think that it has promise (or, better yet, that it is already happening in some corner of higher ed and I don't know it).

What are committees really good for?

If you work on a college campus (or in almost any large organization) you've probably had some experience with committees.  At BYU I sit on a handful, one of which is a new student orientation committee charged with developing and evaluating programming for new students.  Our most significant responsibility is to develop a multi-day orientation program that is held on the weekend just prior to the beginning of a new semester.  This means that, although we are a standing committee that theoretical operates all year long, most of our "real work" is done in the summer months leading up to September when a large class of freshmen arrives on campus.  What's more, the attitude of the committee chair has been that if there aren't pressing agenda items, we really won't benefit from an hour long meeting.  I'll confess that, up until quite recently, I liked things this way.  From where I sat, it meant fewer meetings, fewer assignments, and more time to work on other projects I have going.  I tended to look forward to the "meeting cancelled" email that arrives the morning of the scheduled meeting.  

Although our committee's sporadic meetings this summer have given me extra time, I think we've gotten into a bad habit, a habit that will hurt us in the long run.  I've seen evidence of this in the last few weeks as I've tried to work through a challenge with another committee member.  The details aren't important, but what I've realized is that because he and I have not been seeing one another each week and discussing our joint work, two things have happened.  First, we have not been exchanging simple information that would be useful to us in our work.  Second, and more importantly, our professional relationship has suffered.  We don't have the social capital that we need in order to discuss sensitive matters, tactfully raise opposing ideas, or work through problems that are arising in our orientation planning.  

This has all caused me to reconsider the purpose of committees, how they function, and how we build them.  So, if I were asked to create a new committee next week, these are some things I would keep in mind to help me in my design:

1.  Committee work isn't just about being productive or efficient, it is about establishing relationships among stakeholders.  While action items, key decisions, and reports on past assignments are all worthy items on a committee's meeting agenda, just being together and engaging in dialogue might be just as important.  And, these conversations don't always need to be focused on our work.  Although hearing about a colleague's vacation or how their son is doing on his study abroad in Europe probably won't have any real impact on your campus, having those conversations on a consistent basis will build social capital.  That capital will be important during those times when your committee faces difficult decisions, disagrees with one another, or has to address an unexpected problem or crisis that has emerged. 

2.  Meetings should include plenty of open dialogue and collaboration.  Too often meetings become nothing more than reporting sessions where last week's minutes are reviewed, information is disseminated, or decisions are announced.  As much as we complain about these sorts of things, I think that occasionally we like report-back meetings because they don't require anything of us.  Like a student sitting in an unengaging lecture, we can sit back and zone out, but still convince ourselves that we're doing our duty by being in attendance at the meeting.  But, this sort of meeting is a waste of everyone's time because technology has provided much more efficient ways of reporting and disseminating.  Committee meetings are about working collaboratively and that means dialogue, brainstorming, rapid prototyping, and those things that can only happen when a group of people is together in the same room.  Again, this sort of meeting, one that requires engagement and thoughtful participation, can take some getting used to.  But, I would like to believe that it pays dividends in the end.

3.  Committees should facilitate useful connections where none existed before.  Good committee chairs use committees to establish relationships between stakeholders that (1) misunderstand one another or (2) don't even realize they have a stake in one another's work.  While committees should not cease to play a coordination, governance, and project management role, we need to reframe our thinking and view them as a tool for building social capital among stakeholders.  It seems odd to put two people on a committee who don't like each other or who haven't worked well together in the past.  But, under the right circumstances, useful bonds can be formed and future problems can be avoided.  This takes a skilled chair and an already well-functioning committee.  But, I've seen it lead to tremendous benefit when it is handled well.

Here's a radical thought in closing.  Books like Robert Putnam's Bowling Alone lament the  general decline of community and social capital we see almost everywhere.  Can good committees make a difference?  On a siloed, fragmented campus where departments don't get along and very little meaningful collaboration is happening, could something like what I've described make a difference?  

How is community really built?

In a number of recent conversations with colleagues on my campus we have been discussing the implications of structural changes to the Freshman Mentoring program at BYU and, specifically, what it means for our work of building academic communities among our incoming students.  For the last six years or so, students participating in the program not only had access to an upperclassmen peer mentor, but were also enrolled in a cluster of linked courses.  This learning community model--shared academic interests, common enrollments, close proximity in housing, and a peer mentor who served as a connector of sorts-- meant that over the course of the semester students were more likely to become part of an academic community.  Essentially, they spent enough time together and had enough common experiences that a community began to emerge quite organically (although the peer mentors and faculty members did plenty of intentional things to try to nudge that development).

For the coming year, the mentoring program looks much different.  For instance, students will enroll in only a two course cluster where at least one of the courses is likely to be quite large (200+ students and in some cases as many as 800).  Additionally, these are general education courses, rather than major specific courses or thematically linked courses.  Finally, there is only a loose housing connection within clusters such that there is only a slight chance that any of a particular student's classmates in one of these linked courses will even live in the same residence hall (although they will be in the same complex of halls).  

This has left me and others wondering what role community building should play in our work.  Is it realistic to expect community to form around these linked courses, and if so, what can program administrators and individual peer mentors do to help it to happen?  

In Better Together, Robert Putnam and Lewis Feldstein lay out a set of principles of community-building gleaned from 11 case studies (one of the best books I've read in the last 10 years).  One of the themes that emerges from the cases is that most successful communities get that way through face-to-face interactions, small groups (although they may be nested within a larger organization), and shared interests.  That worries me a bit because of what I've just described about our new Freshman Mentoring program at BYU.  Peer mentors will have fewer opportunities for the sorts of informal face-time they had in the past, they'll be expected to mentor upwards of 60 students, and the students in their "community" are not likely to share academic interests like they may have in the past.  

So, are we better off treating this as a program based in isolated relationships between mentors and students.  Or, are there ways to build community within these constraints?  

One idea that I need to explore a bit more is the relationship between individual relationships and community.  Is community just a collection of one-on-one relationships or is it more than that?  

Thoughts?