Something no educator should ever say

A few weeks ago I ran into one of my favorite professors from my undergraduate years.  He was (and still is) engaging, fun, concerned about students, and a great teacher.  The two classes I took from him were two of my favorites.  But, I have a bone to pick with him.

It has to do with something he said to me at the point in our conversation when we were discussing the newly re-designed Physical Education Teacher Education program at BYU (the program from which I graduated). Commenting on the utility of the teacher education coursework included in the program he remarked "you've either got it or you don't and we're not going to make much of a difference."  That was a surprising (and rather ironic) thing for a former faculty member and department chair to say and it unsettled me.  And, it isn't the first time I've heard this kind of thing from an educator (for the most recent example, see this interview with a faculty member from the media arts department at BYU where, in reference to the skill of film editing, he states "students either have it or not").

How many of us secretly harbor these kinds of thoughts, whether it is about students' ability to learn to write, learn to conduct research, learn to communicate skillfully in formal presentations, or anything else we might claim to be "teaching?"  And, in what ways might these often hidden assumptions influence the way we go about teaching or mentoring students?

Clearly, learners come to us with a variety of abilities and aptitudes and will achieve "success" in varying degrees due, in large part, to the skills and knowledge they bring with them.  However, to believe that someone "either has it or they don't" is an implicit acknowledgement that either (a) we are poor educators and not competent enough to facilitate learning for learners across the spectrum of ability or (b) that, regardless of our skill as educators, it ultimately makes no meaningful difference in the lives of our students.  I'm not comfortable with either of those conditions.

At a bare minimum, those who hold the view I've critiqued here should do a better job of identifying those students who "don't have it" and advising them out of programs like film and teacher education early on so they can find that field where they "do have it."  Additionally, Carol Dweck's book Mindset, should be required reading for all educators so that we can extinguish the false notions of talent and ability that get in the way of good teaching and learning.  If what we do doesn't make a difference, then what are we wasting our time for?

On the Power of Reflection

Although I am a blogger (of sorts), I limit myself to following a very short list of other blogs (generally no more than five).  Rather than emerging from some kind of elitist view that there are only five blogs worth following, it is a rule I've put in place for myself to (a) avoid being overwhelmed with information and (b) to make sure I don't spend inordinate amounts of time reading posts.  So, I was a bit surprised this week when two of the blogs I follow, both addressed a theme that has been on my mind a great deal as of late--the value of reflection.

I have long been a reflector and appreciated the benefits of taking time to step back from the busyness of life and spend time with my thoughts.  My earliest memories of reflecting are as a teenager, delivering papers to my neighbors in the early morning hours.  It was dark, quiet, and I was generally the only person out on the street.  Even as a dense teenage boy, I realized how much good thinking I could get done as I rollerbladed from house to house with a bag of that day's Salt Lake Tribune on my back.  Although my problems and concerns were relatively minor then, I appreciated having time to work things through each morning.  I always felt settled and grounded by the time I delivered the last paper to Paul and Helen Hansen and headed for home.

It was in high school that I came to appreciate the value of written reflection when Mr. Gates (who we all called "Master Gates" for some reason), my senior English teacher, asked us to keep a daily journal and write for at least 10 minutes each day.  It was Mr. Gates who I credit with helping me establish my habit of writing in a journal each evening before I go to bed.  This act of writing each night has, maybe more than anything else I do, impacted my development as a learner and a person.  It is a time where I can grapple with questions, articulate insights and ideas I've had, and reflect on my experiences and how they are shaping me.

This blog has become another reflective tool.  And, my sentiments about blogging and how it has changed me were echoed in a post I read on John Gardner's blog just this morning:

Since I became a blogger, albeit an occasional one at that, that status has affected the way I "look" literally at whatever I am seeing. . . .  Being a blogger has turned me into a reporter of sorts.  I find I am constantly vigilant to things I might want to report on.

I think it would be a good idea if more of my fellow higher ed change agents were bloggers.  It might make them more observant of their higher ed settings, force them to try to be more objective and somewhat more detached from what they are observing.

Like John, I find that I am always looking for something interesting, frustrating, or inspiring to write about on this blog.  And, I also second his call for more of us to blog, not necessarily because of how what we write might impact others, but because of what happens to us as we write.  Writing is a process of thinking and rethinking.  Meaningful patterns of words, sentences, and paragraphs do not exist until they are constructed by a human mind.  And, the process of writing creates a space in which the writer can reflect upon and clarify her own ideas.  That is one powerful benefit of reflection--it makes us better thinkers and positions us to make meaning from our sometimes disparate and fragmented experiences.  In some sense, reflection can bring wholeness and integration to our lives.

It is this wholeness, integration, and sense of purpose that is often missing from our professional lives.  In his most recent blog post, my friend Gary Daynes makes this connection and cites a failure to be reflective as one of the things which can erode one's sense of vocation in their work.  This has been my experience as well.  It is at those times when I become wrapped up in the busyness of my everyday/everyweek/everymonth cycles that I begin to lose my sense of purpose.

So, how can one stay reflective and, in turn, maintain a sense of wholeness?

1.  Find a regular time to reflect.  Frequency might be less important than consistency here.  The key, I have found, is to schedule this time and protect it.  When I'm doing my reflective writing, I close my office door, drop the blinds, and close down my email account.  I've found that if I don't, I'll be interrupted (usually by myself and my own distractions).

2.  Read often and read broadly.  This is something I learned from good mentors.  I am much more thoughtful, creative, and reflective when I am exposing myself to new ideas, particularly those that challenge my current thinking.  My reflections are much deeper and more meaningful when I am trying to connect ideas from my reading or asking new questions that my reading has raised.

3.  Find a place that inspires you.  Although much of my reflection takes place in my office, occasionally it is helpful for me to leave and go somewhere that helps me reconnect with my purpose.  For me this place is the Education in Zion gallery on my campus.  It is quiet, the seating is comfortable, and the gallery tells a story that has always been inspiring to me.

4.  Write.  This is painful for most of us.  Typically, we would just rather "think," but as I argued earlier in this post, something happens to our thinking when we try and articulate those thoughts in clear ways.  I have even adopted a reflection model to guide me in my writing because it helps me remember to look for connections to things I'm reading, reflect on meaningful experiences I have had, and ask new questions that help drive new learning.

5.  Review past reflections.  There is something very meaningful and uplifting about looking back at past reflections, be it blog posts, journal entries, or whatever format reflections might take.  In fact, I often learn as much by re-reading my journal entries as I do in writing them.  In looking back at where I've been, I notice growth that I hadn't before, themes that weren't apparent to me at the time of my writing, and experiences which seemed insignificant at the time, but which have proved to be incredibly important and impactful.  It some sense, looking to past reflections might be a form of "meta-reflection" in which we take an even deeper look at our experiences.

So, at the beginning of another busy academic year.  Don't forget to step back and do a bit of reflecting.  Even better, look for ways to start new habits of regular reflection.  You'll be grateful you did.

The Stanford Resilience Project

I recently returned from International Conference on the First-Year Experience, sponsored by the National Resource Center for the First-Year Experience & Students in Transition.  Of all the conferences I attend each year, it is slowly becoming my favorite because of the sense of collegiality I feel there and the diverse range of perspectives represented by the international delegates who attend.

One of the very best sessions I attended at the conference was a presentation by Adina Glickman, from Stanford University's Center for Teaching and Learning, on the Stanford Resilience Project.  In a nutshell, Glickman and her colleagues have started an initiative to collect, share, and celebrate stories of resilience from faculty, administrators, and students at Stanford.  Glickman explained in her presentation that they felt something like this was particularly useful at an institution like Stanford where many first-year students may arrive having never experienced significant disappointments, rejections, or failures.  The project was conceived as a way to (a) introduce new students to the concept of resilience and its importance in our lives and (b) to provide a resource that students can turn to when they encounter experiences where a dose of resilience would be helpful (e.g. that first term paper, rejection letter from a limited enrollment program, etc.).

The genius in the project is that the initial objective has been to record a number of these stories and make them available to students.  Fifteen of these stories are available for anyone to view at the project's homepage and more will become available in the coming months.  If you have a few minutes, watch a few of them and consider how hearing these types of stories might benefit students on your own campus.  Particularly noteworthy is the fact that 14 of the 15 stories featured by Stanford come from well-respected faculty members, administrators, and a wildly successful alumnus (Tim Westergren, founder of Pandora). These are individuals who students may mistakenly believe have never struggled.  Imagine the impact upon a struggling student who, in the midst of their "Woe is me, I'll never make it here, I'm the only one who doesn't get it" line of thinking, views one of these videos.  Glickman shared stories in her presentation of students whose experience at Stanford has been transformed as a result of their interaction with the site and involvement with the project.  Future plans include the ability for students to submit their own stories to the project site as well as a database of stories which can be searched using key words.

There are four core values or messages which the project is founded upon

• Get perspective
• Learn about learning
• Seek Advice
• Connect w/ Community

I can't think of any other set of messages that might be more important for a campus to convey to their new students.  Those of us who work with this population would do well to consider how we might use Stanford's work, or better yet, collect and share stories on our own campuses.  I can think of at least two times during the first year when these sorts of stories would have power.

First, at New Student Convocation university administrators and other campus leaders could share stories of resilience as a form of role induction.  Embedded in these stories would be messages about what students should expect from their experience, including challenges, support resources, and the potential for transformative growth.  The concept of role induction comes from the field of psychotherapy and refers to the idea that clients should be prepared for what will happen in therapy.  Typically, this occurs in the first session with a therapist or in some sort of pretherapy preparation.  While a very simple concept and requiring very little time on the part of therapists, it has been shown to significantly decrease attrition and drop-out from within therapeutic alliances.  This same sort of thing should be happening in new student orientation programming and convocation seems like a great venue.  

Second, as much as a campus may try to be proactive in conveying messages of resilience to students on the front-end of their experience, there will inevitably be times when students will need to hear these sorts of stories again.  While that time will vary across each individual student, campuses could be strategic by coordinating some kind of second semester programming where students are brought together to reflect on their first semester experiences and consider how resilience might apply.  This timing would ensure that students have received their first semester grades and have an opportunity to be part of a campus-wide dialogue regarding lessons learned, obstacles overcome, and positive changes that can be made in the coming months.  

Thanks to Adina Glickman and Stanford's Center for Teaching and Learning for doing such great work.

Do we really need honors programs?

Promulgating hearsay is never a great idea, but I am going to do it here at the risk of regretting it later.  In a meeting this morning, where attendees discussed the future of the BYU Honors program, it was related that the President of BYU asked a provocative question:  "Do we really need an honors program at BYU?"  I was as surprised as I can remember feeling in recent memory when the story was related.  Not because I have any real affinity to the Honors program on my campus or couldn't imagine it going away, but because I've long been asking myself that question, but feared raising it publicly because of how others might respond.

The Honors experience at my institution is, no doubt, built upon good intentions.  And, for a student who fully engages in the program, they are likely to have a tremendous undergraduate experience.  This is largely because of the requirements laid out to graduate with University Honors.  In addition to more rigorous course requirements, Honors students are engaged in the arts (and write about these experiences), participate in meaningful service, submit a portfolio demonstrating their academic achievement, and write a thesis in conjunction with a research or creative project conducted in their specific area of study.  In short, because Honors students are required to engage in activities which promote deep learning, they (in theory) learn a great deal more than they would have otherwise and have a more transformative experience.  Most Honors programs also boast of small class sizes and courses taught by the very best faculty on campus.

This all begs the question, why wouldn't a campus want an Honors program?  Aside from the frequent reports that actual experience of an Honors student is likely to be far different than what is advertised in the glossy brochure (for example, on my campus many of the honors courses are actually taught by adjunct faculty, which isn't inherently negative, but far different than what is advertised to students), I can think of at least two often overlooked reasons, as to why any campus should think twice about sponsoring an Honors Program.

The first has to do with resources.  Honors programs, because of all of the opportunities they often afford students (e.g. small courses, subsidized participation in campus arts events, research opportunities), are expensive.  But, a lot of the things we do in higher education are expensive, so this alone shouldn't be overly concerning.  The problem I see has to do with the distribution of resources among students.  On my campus just under 100 students per year graduate with University Honors.  So, not only is the BYU Honors program expensive, but it devotes a large number of resources to a very small percentage of the overall student body (the incoming class hovers somewhere around 6,000 each year).  It may be naive to think that taking the resources devoted to Honors and redistributing them across the entire student body would make a difference (and, I'm willing to admit this); however, these resources could be reallocated to one or more other programs which do have an impact on a much larger group of students.  If nothing else, spending inordinate amounts of money on 100 students a year feels wrong to me in principle.

The second and more important reason I feel the way I do has to do with the implicit message that the mere existence of an honors program sends about the rest of campus (the non-honors portion of campus), which is that everything else we do here is "average," which the larger society (the various Lake Wobegons where we each live) has really taught us to see as sub-par.  As an example, I took the following text from the website of an honors program from another institution just this afternoon.  Consider what it seems to imply about the quality of the courses and learning experiences outside of this particular honors program:

What if your classes were designed around the concept of helping you practice the habit of thinking? Of helping you develop an authentic writer's voice, so that your words have "the feel of you about them," as Irish poet Seamus Heaney once remarked? Of helping you challenge yourself to such a degree that you learn things about yourself that you didn't know existed? If these questions appeal to you, then you've come to the right place.


I can't help but chuckle at the thought of a student reading this and thinking "Do I not practice thinking in my other classes? Maybe I'm at the wrong school."  What I'm getting at here is that when a campus creates an  honors program and then boasts of the great experience it provides, it sends an implicit message to the rest of campus (students and faculty alike) that it is okay for everything else to be less than great.  In the worst cases it provides an excuse for a campus to provide an educational experience to the rest of the student body (which in the case of my campus is a large group) which is lacking in some way.

So, to be more clear, I have no problem with the things that go on in an honors program.  They are educationally purposeful and potentially transformative experiences that we would want for any and all students.  And, it is this point that is at the core of my argument--we should be providing an honors experience for all students on a campus.  Of course, on a large campus like mine that may mean scaling back the honors experience to scale it up to the entire student body.  However, we owe the very best experience possible to every one of the students on our campuses.  Why couldn't every student be required to submit a portfolio, participate in service, write a thesis, and participate in the arts (even if we couldn't make all of their classes small)?  I'm not saying that this is an easy experience to craft or provide, but the institutions that figure out how to do it (or, which already are) will be providing a service to students which the rest of us can only pretend to be offering.

A clever solution for disengaged communities

‘The idea for Play Me, I’m Yours came from visiting my local launderette. I saw the same people there each weekend and yet no one talked to one another. I suddenly realised that within a city, there must be hundreds of these invisible communities, regularly spending time with one another in silence. Placing a piano into the space was my solution to this problem, acting as a catalyst for conversation and changing the dynamics of a space.’


This is a statement from Luke Jerram, an international artist and the brainchild of an art installation called "Play Me, I'm Yours."  Quite simply, Jerram's idea was to place pianos all over a city and then provide the public with free and open access to them (see the picture on the right).  The project has been well received and has already made an appearance in 25 cities across the globe, with Paris, Geneva, London, and Toronto slated for this summer.  And, as this Salt Lake Tribune article reports (there is currently an installation in downtown Salt Lake City), there are some amazing stories that have come out of the project.


When I read about what inspired Jerram with this idea (i.e. the laundromat story above) I immediately thought of college campuses (at least the one where I work) and the "invisible communities" that seem to exist there.  On large campuses especially there often seems to be a sense of loneliness and isolation. Students attend classes with one another, without ever speaking; or sit next to the same students in the library day after day, never reaching out.  There seem to be lessons in Jerram's artwork  for those of us interested in building community on college campuses and engaging students with one another in meaningful ways.  While most campuses have clubs, intramurals, and Greek Life, and these initiatives play some role in campus life, I'm not sure that they do much at all (if anything) to address the "invisible communities" of students who study, attend class, and eat together, but who never connect.


Maybe I'm particularly sensitive to this because of an experience I had this week that helped me clearly see that I am a part of one of these invisible communities.  I typically arrive at my office around 7:00 a.m., long before most others get to campus (this is intentional, I can get more done between 7:00 & 9:00 than I do the rest of the day).  And, almost daily I pass one or more student custodians as I walk into my building.  They are usually just finishing their shift that begins at 4:00 a.m.  Occasionally I will smile or nod at them as I walk by, but rarely do I make any real effort to acknowledge or converse with them.  Last Friday morning, one of these surely sleep-deprived students, who I'm sure I have seen and walked by countless times without ever saying hello, knocked on my door and asked "Are you related to any of the Buntings in Kanab, Utah?"  Well, I am, and it turns out that we are second cousins.  We talked for about 10 minutes about her family, my family, and the little town where our parents grew up.  I've seen her just about every day since then and we've smiled, said hello, and chatted briefly a few more times.


I've thought about this experience a lot over the last week and (a) been embarrassed that I don't reach out more often to those around me and (b) what a difference it made for this student to reach out to connect with me.  And, I now wonder how much more often these kinds of interactions might occur if our campuses were designed to in ways that might catalyze conversations between strangers.  In the case of my experience, it was my nameplate that started the conversation (the student saw my name, realized it was also her mother's maiden name, and then started a conversation).  What other kinds of things (like Jerram's randomly placed pianos) could an institution strategically place in the physical spaces of its campus--especially those places where people anonymously congregate--to bring people together?  


Here's one example from a blog post I wrote a few years ago.  I think we would be surprised how little effort it might take and how positively students might respond.

Pathways to graduation: The need for both control and coherence

In a column in this morning's Inside Higher Ed, professor Vincent Tinto makes an argument for attending to student "momentum" when it comes to issues of college completion.  The take-home message is that gaining and maintaining momentum is a key factor in determining whether or not students complete college.  The logic is that the faster students move through their experience, the more likely they are to persist and finish.  Tinto also points to the work of The Washington State Board for Community and Technical Colleges as an example of how institutions and policy makers can use student completion data to identify "momentum points" or milestones that, when reached by students, significantly increase the likelihood of completion.  In many states (Florida, North Carolina, and Texas, to name a few), this work has led to an increased focus on increasing curricular structure and developing "pathways" that are associated with successful college completion.

While completion isn't a tremendous problem on my campus, time-to-degree is and we see increasing numbers of students taking 12 or more semesters to graduate.  Additionally, because of my work with new students, I see the problems that come in the absence of well organized curricula and clear pathways that can guide student decision-making as it relates to course selection (I recently commented on this issue here).  So, I have always been a proponent for increased curricular structure, constraint, and coherence, particularly with regard to the general education aspect of the student experience.

However, there is also a need to balance structure and constraint with the equally important need for students to be able to exercise some degree of control over their educational experiences.  I was reminded of this recently as I began reading Daniel Gilbert's book, Stumbling on Happiness.  Although I'm only a few chapters in, I've read enough to know that Gilbert's premise (backed by plenty of research that he cites in the book) is that we are pretty bad at predicting what will make us happy.  Gilbert opens the book with the argument that, while we believe we know what will make us happy and chart courses we believe will lead us there (e.g. I'll be happy when I have lots of money and am a partner in a law firm, so I'll go to law school now so that one day I can be happy), happiness is more dependent upon a much simpler factor--the degree to which we feel we have control over our experiences.  Of course, there are countless aspects of our lives we cannot control; however, if we perceive the inability to exercise control in too many instances, we become depressed, reactive, and unhappy.

So, my question after reading Chapter 1 of Gilbert's book was how institutions can preserve choice and an appropriate degree of control for students (especially with regard to curricular decisions), while still providing enough structure and guidance that students' experiences are both cohesive and efficient in terms of time-to-graduation.  Like Dewey argues in Experience and Education, I'm of the mind that complete freedom for learners is likely to be fragmented and wandering, ultimately resulting in experience which is "miseducative."  Additionally, too much freedom often leads to anxiety, resistance, and extreme frustration for learners wishing for guidance from a more knowledgeable other (I still remember the backlash against the professor who taught my Western Philosophy class when he gave students complete freedom to determine what we would do for our final projects--although they may not admit it, students often want someone to tell them what to do and how to do it, particularly when grades are on the line).  Consequently, there is a need for educators to consider how freedom and constraint can be balanced and integrated in ways that provide an experience that is both personally meaningful and educationally purposeful.

Campuses wishing to preserve control, while attending to completion agendas might consider the following:  :

• Choice architecture:  Campus policies and systems result in choice systems for students.  When these systems are designed in thoughtful ways, they can leave room for students to exercise control while increasing the likelihood that students will make choices that are associated with positive outcomes.  For example, effective general education programs increase the likelihood that students will achieve learning outcomes by limiting the number of courses which fulfill a particular requirement (my institution has yet to learn that lesson), while ensuring that this list is long enough to allow adequate diversity when students make their choice as to which course to take.  
• Decision-making tools:  As much as we complain about the poor choices made by students, we often are to blame because of our failure to provide students with the information they need in order to make informed choices.  And, giving students the information is only half the battle--we also have to be thoughtful about how the information is delivered.  The day of static webpages and poorly written catalogs is over.  Students want and need dynamic tools that can use student-specific data (provided by the student) to suggest customized actions or paths for students, based on their needs and interests--think "Choose your own Adventure" for course registration.
• A Clear institutional mission:  An institution which is clear about its values and goals is well positioned to determine where student choice can be allowed and when institutional imperatives will rule the day.  Once campus leaders have clearly articulated what their uncompromising values are, they have a foundation from which to work and can go about determining how choice can be facilitated around these goals.  Additionally, when campuses work to create a culture on campus that aligns with these values, and then repeatedly and explicitly communicate these values to students, decisions are likely to be better and more in line with the hoped-for outcomes.
• Mandatory and effective advising:  This may be the most important element.  Well-trained and knowledgeable advisors are the human element that can make everything else work.  Advisors can provide students with accurate information regarding campus policies, educate them about learning outcomes and institutional aims, and engage them in dialogue about their own academic goals.  An advisor who both understands (and supports) the institutional mission and values the importance of student self-authorship, can assist students in developing academic plans that allow them to meet both their own as well as institutional goals.  I have yet to see the decision tree, online tutorial, orientation session, or incentive system that can do that as well as a live human being.

Why educators should be experts at apologizing

Earlier this week I finished reading Better by Mistake:  The unexpected benefits of being wrong, by Alina Tugend.  The book explores our fear of making and owning up to mistakes as well as the difference that a bit more honesty and humility can make for individuals and organizations.  It's well-written, engaging, and insightful--probably the best thing I've read on this topic since Carol Dweck's book, Mindset.  In the closing chapter of the book, Tugend discusses the relationship between mistakes and apologies, specifically the role that apology plays in learning from and being changed (in productive ways) by our mistakes. That topic seems very appropriate as a conclusion for Tugend's book, because her overall message seems to be that the very best learners (be it individuals, families, organizations, etc.) recognize they make mistakes, acknowledge them when they occur, and leverage them to facilitate learning.

There is an implication in this line of thinking for those of us who call ourselves "educators," which is that we should be apologizing a lot more than we do.  Apologizing should be a common practice on our campuses, not just because it is the nice or civil thing to do, but also because it is an integral aspect to the learning we experience both individually and collectively.  Like Tugend points out in her book, our problem is that we, typically, perceive apologies as either (a) an admission of weakness or incompetence or (b) a "confession" that will get us in trouble at some point in the future.

Think of the last big mistake that was made on your campus, particularly one that effected the work of a large number of people and/or left a sizable portion of the campus frustrated.  What was the response?  I'd give you three to one odds in Vegas that it included some kind of vague, impersonal statement (probably sent via email) that included some version of the sentiment "mistakes were made."  No real responsibility for the mistake is taken by the sender of the email (who generally has no name, but is speaking on behalf of a faceless entity like "the university" or "the administration"), no explanation for what led to the mistake is provided, and very little is said about how the mistake is being addressed or what steps will be taken in the future to avoid a similar occurrence, just a "steps are being taken" statement that doesn't leave anyone feeling any better.

This happened on my campus over the last week.  A team of engineers in the Office of Information Technology performed some kind of systems upgrade or maintenance overnight on May 23 and in the midst of those upgrades a number of critical campus servers were impacted in unexpected and disastrous ways.  While I was only impacted in minor ways (I couldn't access a network drive my department uses), our student employees along with more than half of the full-time employees on campus lost all of their saved/sent emails (which I would never have thought would be that big an issue, but is actually tremendously problematic, for all sorts of reasons), our Campus Accommodations department couldn't bill or accept housing payments, and I even heard yesterday that one of our academic colleges lost nearly 150,000 data files associated with ongoing research projects (they were told by OIT representatives that the data is irretrievable--at which point I would have begun throwing shoes at heads).

While I have no doubt that these problems were unforeseen and that OIT is working tremendously hard to fix the problems, the way the mistake has been handled and managed publicly has been poor.  Although updates on "fixes" have been provided on a daily basis since Tuesday morning, no real remorse or regret has been expressed, no explanation for what led to the problems has been provided, and nothing has been said about how OIT will adapt its practices in the future to avoid similar failings.

I'm trying to stay optimistic and hold out hope that this information is coming, after all, it has only been a little over a week; however, my experience has taught me that large organizations (like my university) are unwilling to make mistakes public and open, such that they can be learned from.  Rather, swift decisions are made, people lose their jobs, and we attempt to forget the mistake as quickly as possible so that we can go back to thinking that all is well.  The irony in all of this is that, for a setting where learning, improvement, and growth are so valued among students, we rarely take an approach to institutional or administrative mistakes that yields those outcomes for ourselves and our work.

One more story.  I've seen this same phenomenon at work in a more personal way over the last few months as a close colleague of mine (who has been a tremendous mentor to me, both personally and professionally) has been, from my perspective, treated very poorly by administration and, essentially, forced into retirement.  The situation has been mishandled on a number of levels from her being notified of the decision with the words "the university is not interested in renewing your contract," to miscommunications regarding when the action will be official, to an awkward dance where she is still working in her position while her replacement is invited to committee meetings she attends and included in intra-departmental communications (which she learns of after-the-fact).  Not surprisingly, she feels hurt, betrayed, and unappreciated--she is even considering legal action because she previously signed a contract indicating she would be in her position until Aug. 31, 2012 but her tenure in her current administrative role is set to expire on June 31st, which creates problems in terms of compensation.  I can't help but wonder how different things would be if someone would take the opportunity to talk with her face-to-face, acknowledge mistakes they made (which they were), express regret for the way it has all made her feel, and talk with her about how similar transitions could be handled in the future.  Of course, it wouldn't change the superficial features of the situation--she would still be moving on and still be sad about that; however, my guess is that both my colleague and those administrators involved would feel better about the whole situation and learn something.

Warren Buffet is a good example of how leaders can and should apologize when they make mistakes.  Commenting to his shareholders in February 2009 he said

During 2008 I did some dumb things in investments.  I made at least one major mistake of commission and several lesser ones that also hurt.  Furthermore, I made some errors of omission, sucking my thumb when new facts came in that should have caused me to reexamine my thinking and promptly take action.


Buffet went on to provide detail as to what mistakes he was referring to and taking full responsibility for the errors.  Maybe someone like Buffet can get away with that, while the rest of us don't have the luxury of calling ourselves dumb.  However, there seems to be something endearing about individuals and organizations who can say "I was wrong."  More importantly, that kind of candor and humility can't help but lead to learning for just about everyone involved.