Why we should teach them to be wrong: Embracing amateurism in the first year of college

. . . the rewards and refreshments of thought and the arts come from the courage to try something, all sorts of things, for the first time.  These first-time adventures are the spice of life. An enamored amateur need not be a genius to stay out of ruts he has never been trained in."    -Daniel Boorstin, "The Amateur Spirit"

At the advice of a recent TED Talk speaker, I have toyed around with the practice of comparative reading, which is just an academic's term for reading two books in tandem and then drawing connections and comparisons across the two of them.  It's not an earth-shattering idea and most good readers (particularly those who read a lot) do this naturally across the books they read.  That said, my recent efforts to consciously consider  the interconnectedness of two books I have been reading (Spark: How creativity works and Being Wrong: Adventures in the margin of error) has been really useful.  

In the foreward to Spark, +Kurt Andersen  (the host of Studio 360) describes how embracing an "amateur spirit" has enabled him to take on projects he wasn't "qualified" for, reject the fear of failure, and take the risks necessary to be a truly creative person. In the remainder of the book, +Julie Burstein shares a series of stories from the lives of various creative artists and thinkers that illustrate how important this "amateurism" is for creative people.  In Being Wrong, Kathryn Schulz argues for the value of the experience of "being wrong" in our lives in terms of both learning and aesthetics.  Essentially, her message is that we are wrong about being wrong.  Rather than being a sign of inferiority, evidence of ineptitude, or something to be ashamed of, being wrong is tied to our ability to feel empathy, think creatively, and be optimistic.  Ultimately, being wrong is what positions us to learn and change.

Andersen's ideas about being an amateur and Schulz' thoughts about error seem intricately linked.  What's more, the interweaving of these two ideas has huge implications for the way institutions engage first-year students.  New college students display the cardinal signs of error aversion:  when mistakes happen they ignore them, deny them, pretend they don't care, or most commonly blame someone else (particularly roommates and faculty members. I even heard a story last week in which a student had blamed missing an exam on his bed--and he was deadly serious when he offered up this explanation.  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I heard it).  While this resistance to admitting error or the need for improvement can be frustrating for those of us who work with students, of more importance is the impact this attitude has on learning.  A student who can't be wrong, can't try new things, accept feedback, change plans, or break bad study habits.  So, as much as we would like for students to "be right," we would be wise to shelf that desire in exchange for an effort to help students embrace the curious, excited, and even reckless spirit that comes from the feeling that one is an amateur, which means being wrong early, often, and in spectacular ways.  Students who adopt this mindset will approach their experience on our campuses in wholly new ways.   

Fully acknowledging the reality that any or all of the thoughts in this post are likely to be wrong, here are a few concrete ways institutions can structure the first-year experience to help students fully embrace amateurism:

1.  Ask for stories of being wrong in the admissions process. Whether it is in application essays or on-campus interviews, applicants should be asked to tell and make meaning of their own stories of being wrong.  These stories are likely to be helpful in both evaluating emotional maturity, humility, and openness to learning, the mere act of asking for these stories implies to applicants that "at State U. we value and learn from our mistakes."  Students aren't likely to pick up on this message initially, but it will be one of the threads that will eventually come together to help them understand that the very best learners are those who have been wrong, a lot.

2.  Make stories of risk, error, and uncertainty a prominent part of New Student Orientation.  Orientation speakers could tell stories (particularly from their own first year of college) that highlight the inevitability, value, and even joy of being wrong.  Similarly, peer orientation leaders are positioned to make a tremendous impression upon new students by sharing similar narratives of how taking appropriate risks and seeking challenges have enhanced their college experience.  

3.  Make risk and failure inevitable by building challenging courses into a required first-year curriculum.  Occasionally, students avoid the danger of being wrong by making strategic registration decisions (e.g. a full schedule of PE, art, and pass/fail student leadership courses).  In these cases, students do not become accustomed the rigors of challenging academic work and are eventually blindsided by difficult courses they put off until their second, third, or fourth semester.  By requiring, for instance, a challenging first-year writing course that involves heavy doses of feedback, institutions can quickly acclimate students to a culture of learning from mistakes and embracing vulnerability.

4.  Provide highly visible and accessible support through campus resources, particularly peer leaders.  Challenging students and having high expectations is fine, so long as support systems are in place for students who struggle (which is hopefully all of them to some extent or another).  Help labs, counseling centers, library support, writing centers, etc. should not only be available, but be integrated into first-year coursework so that they become a natural and inevitable part of the student experience.  Peer leaders (e.g. peer mentors in first-year seminars, peer advisors, resident assistants, etc.) can serve a valuable role by connecting students with these resources as well as engaging them in dialogue about their "failures" and "mistakes."  These conversations might be more powerful than anything else that might happen during a student's experience.  While faculty members and professional advisors can serve a similar role, there is a power in peer conversations for promoting reflection and change.

5.  Make institutional mistakes public and model how to be wrong in graceful, growth-promoting ways.  This final point isn't just relevant for first-year students, but for an institution's messaging for any member of the campus community.  When mistakes are made, institutions are presented with a priceless opportunity to demonstrate the value of this kind of experience by being transparent, learning from the miscue, and celebrating those who fully engage in this process and the improvements that result.  This doesn't mean being reckless and apathetic, but honestly recognizing shortcomings and then working (very publicly) to change.  Additionally, taking on a spirit of amateurism by experimenting with innovations and piloting new initiatives, even when it means risking "failure" and critique, shows students that being in a learning community means going out on a limb at times.

It's a bit ironic that much of what we do on college campuses is aimed at developing expertise (thereby extinguishing amateurism) and eliminating error (think of the last study from the hard sciences you read, particularly the methods section).  If we're really about learning and growing, we might be better off if we were wrong a little more often and allowed ourselves to be amateurs again.

                               

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).

Should leaders be a little less like George Washington?

One of the things I enjoy most about working on a college campus is the frequent opportunities I have to attend lectures where I can listen to really good thinkers share their thoughts. A few weeks ago, Ron Chernow was on BYU's campus discussing his Pulitzer Prize-winning book, Washington: A Life. In the book, Chernow attempts to reveal Washington as a much more dynamic, passionate, and human (even flawed) leader than we typically assume. In his remarks at BYU, Chernow began by dispelling a number of myths about Washington (e.g. the cherry tree legend, his wooden teeth, his supposed wig, his overestimated height) to invite the audience to reconsider their image of Washington as a flawless, perfectly disciplined, almost god-like character from history. He then went about sharing insights from his research that suggest that Washington was, in fact, a fiery man with a temper, a son with a strained relationship with his mother, and a conflicted slave owner who struggled to know how to own slaves and believe in the inherent worth of human beings. At first glance, it seems that Chernow's book is meant to destroy Americans' image of Washington as a spotless hero, worthy of adulation. And, while the book is intended to paint a more realistic portrait of the complexity of Washington's character, it is anything but derogatory. Rather, by understanding Washington as a real man with real struggles, his successes and abilities are magnified and he seems that much worthier of respect.

As I listened to Chernow that morning, I couldn't help but wonder what the implications of his book are for leaders, particularly leaders who feel pressure to maintain a public image of perfect poise, unflappability, and effortless success. Chernow notes that one reason Washington has long been held as this type of character was that he was incredibly emotionally guarded and intensely private. While this meant that Washington was a well-respected leader, Americans had very little affection for him. It might be fair to wonder whether Washington's contemporaries liked him, or just merely respected his abilities as a leader.

For me, Chernow's book makes a good argument for the importance of appropriate self-disclosure for a leader. That doesn't mean airing all of our dirty laundry for all to see, but it does mean being human and allowing others to see us in this way. Our fear, of course, in letting those we lead see our flaws is that they will somehow consider us unworthy or incapable to teach the class, lead the department, or make the tough decisions that face those at the top. However, there are a number of reasons why being open is a good thing for leaders.

1. It humanizes us. When we let others really see who we are, we become real and accessible. Hearing our stories of failure, horrendous mistakes, stupid oversights, fears, and anxieties positions others to see themselves in us. That's important because a distant, untouchable, flawless leader isn't just hard to like, he's hard to follow because he charts a course that we can't possibly travel.

2. It connects us. When a leader is open, transparent, and willing to self-disclose, she creates a space where others in the organization feel comfortable doing the same. That openness leads to better communication across all levels of the organization and facilitates a free-flow of information that is vital for decision-making.

3. It provides a model of growth and becoming that lifts the entire organization. One of my favorite parts of Chernow's lecture was when he described the experience he has of being asked the rather naive question, "What was George Washington like?"  His response is both witty and astute: "At what point in his life?" One thing that Chernow has done very well in his research is to shed light on how Washington changed across time.  Yes, at the end of his life, Washington was a tremendous statesman, politician, general, and leader.  But, the man he was in 1797 when he retired from the presidency, was much different than the precocious young military major who led troops in the French and Indian war. Washington became a great leader over time, but few people know that he went through growing pains. Leaders who are open and transparent about their experiences, particularly those that have shaped them, provide a vision for others of how they can grow and become over time.  And, that might be one of the most important things a leader can do for those in her organization. 

In short, we want and long for leaders who are like us--imperfect, occasionally stupid, and muddling along. But, too often, we don't see that side of them (and they/we all have it) because they won't show it, or we won't allow them to because of our expectation for heroes who never fail and legends who "never tell a lie."

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.

Tears, disappointment, and feelings of success: Revisiting the power of reflection

A significant portion of my time each week is spent in conversations with undergraduate peer mentors who work in the Freshman Mentoring program at BYU. I've found that one of the best things I can do in these conversations is to ask peer mentors to tell me stories about their mentoring work. For me, this is a beneficial exercise because hearing these stories gives me remarkably raw and authentic insight into the experiences of the mentors I'm supposed to support and develop.  Some are stories of success (e.g. a student who finally agrees to visit the counseling center for help in dealing with a mental health challenge); some are stories of failure (e.g. I met with the student three times before the exam and he still failed).  But, the most interesting stories I hear are those that are a bit of both.  Earlier this week I heard one of these "hybrid" stories. And, as I listened, I was reminded of how powerful reflection on experience can be in driving learning and facilitating personal transformation.

Topher is everything a person like me would want in a peer mentor.  He is a great student, not just because he is successful in terms of things like GPA, but because he understands learning in the deepest sense.  He reads, writes papers, and prepares for exams because he enjoys learning and knows that he's preparing himself to be more useful as a citizen, an employee, and a human being. He    is a southerner and endears others to him with his easygoing nature, big North Carolina Smile, and social versatility (in a single conversation he can talk intelligently about philosophy, transtition to Chinese culture, and then finish with his thoughts on why the Duke Blue Devils are the most overrated team in the upcoming NCAA tournament. When you meet him, you don't have any reason to believe he wouldn't be successful in just about anything he does. What's more, he fully expects himself to be successful. This isn't to say he's arrogant--it's just that a lifetime of experience has taught him that if he works hard, he'll achieve.

Last fall when he first began working for us, that narrative of traditional success continued. His students loved him, they lined up out the door to meet with him, and he felt incredibly useful and successful.  After all, he was helping lots of students and they appreciated him for it.  However, when he returned from Christmas break and inherited a new group of second semester freshmen  to mentor, things were a lot different.

It's important, at this point, to understand the nature of the work of peer mentors at BYU. During fall semester, they provide mentoring support to a group of students who have just arrived on our campus.  They don't know where the library is, they have never lived away from home, and they are generally fairly receptive to help from someone who has been down the college road before. What's more, my experience has been that new students have a way of imprinting upon their peer mentor(s) because they are one of the first people they meet when they come to campus for New Student Orientation. So, during this first semester, peer mentors are positioned to be both needed and wanted by the students to whom they have been assigned.

Winter semester is different.  Because mentor assignment is determined by course registration, mentors inherit a group of completely new students and students are handed off to a new mentor, with whom they have no relationship. And, there is no imprinting period to facilitate the development of this new relationship.  On top of that, students have been at the institution for a semester and (for the most part) have been successful in passing their classes. This all means a rough slog for an invested, interested peer mentor like Topher who ideally wants to build a relationship with all of his students.

The story of Topher's mentoring so far this semester has been sporadic meetings with somewhat apathetic students who come to him mostly because they feel guilty if they don't respond to the guy who has been emailing them since January. And, a good portion of the time, a student will make an appointment, but then never show up.

This all sets the backdrop for the story Topher told me last Tuesday in our meeting. He had finally made a breakthrough with a student who has been struggling all semester.  The student is failing most of his classes, rejecting the help offered by professors, teaching assistants, and others, and up until recently, had never responded to Topher's emails. But, late last week, he came out of the woodwork and scheduled a meeting.  So, naturally, when I met with Topher earlier this week, I was expecting to hear a story about how successful he had felt.  I did hear a story, and it was about success, but it didn't really fit the typical "script" of peer mentor success (or at least the script Topher had held about what it means to be successful up to this point).  In Topher's own words:

"Today I had a meeting with Brad [Topher's student supervisor] and we talked about my meeting with Caitlin. She came to our meeting peppy but when we started talking she broke down in tears about her feelings of self-disappointment and failure. She hasn’t been performing up to her standard in organic chemistry and it’s had a negative emotional impact on her. Brad turned that into a discussion about the nature of success and how it should be measured. Since I’ve encountered a great deal of difficulty in setting up student meetings and have any form of consistency in my meetings with students, like Caitlin I haven’t felt like I’ve earned an A in mentoring this semester. I feel that my impact has been minimal or at best superficial. But I want the depth, and I want to really be an agent for change or growth in the lives of these students. That’s the attitude that I’ve brought with me to my meetings, and it’s the attitude that I took with me into my preparation for my meeting with George. I spent an hour  and a half extensively planning a reflective meeting to help adjust his perception of American Heritage [a challenging general education course required of all BYU students]. From the last meeting we had he disclosed that he didn’t care much for the class and didn’t see much of a point in it. What I saw in him as we talked was a deeper apathy about his BYU experience in general, so that’s where I was going to begin, but he cancelled; and I felt especially disappointed. I really wanted that meeting to happen, not because I needed employment or because it was obligatory for me to insert myself into the life of this student, but because I really wanted to. He didn’t show, and I felt a disappointment I haven’t felt since my mission. I realized in the moment that I felt such significant disappointment that I was being successful as a mentor; that I was doing things right."

As much as I'd like to take credit for facilitating this shift in Topher's thinking about what it means to mentor and what it means to be successful, it didn't have anything to do with me.  In fact, Topher had "told" this story before he ever sat down in my office. His story (as shared above) was actually a reflection he wrote on the day George stood him up. At the moment he was feeling discouraged at not being able to help, one of his first thoughts was "I need to reflect on this." Somehow, he knew there was a lesson embedded in this experience, but that he wouldn't discover unless he started to write.  So, he pulled out his laptop and typed out this story.

For peer mentors (and, I would argue, any learner), telling these sorts of stories isn't just therapeutic. It is a reflective tool that positions them to make meaning from experience and move toward new understanding.  In Taylor's story, we see how his understanding of what it means to be a mentor has shifted from "meeting w/ students" to "being prepared to be a resource who can support student success." Relatedly, he comes to redefine success not as holding meetings, but in genuinely caring about the success of his students and doing all he can to support them. And, this is not insignificant learning for someone in his role. It represents a fundamental shift in his frame of reference towards mentoring and will shape how he approaches and evaluates his work in the future. In this way, it seems closely aligned with what Jack Mezirow has described as transformative learning that is personal, irreversible, and integrative.

This is the type of learning that is possible when we engage learners in meaningful reflection on experience.  Reflection invites learners into a space where they can inquire into their assumptions, derive learning from experience, and articulate new understanding.  Topher wasn't just telling a story or simply putting into writing something he already knew.  He learned as he wrote.  That's the power of reflection.

Why are we so bad at spotting "talent?" And, what does it mean for colleges?

If I were to show you the picture at right (minus the text at the bottom), what would be your guess at the occupation of this man?  Accountant? Used car salesman? Computer engineer? Nope.

This is +Tom Brady, three-time +Super Bowl Champion, two-time Super Bowl MVP, and eight-time Pro Bowl Quarterback. On paper, in person, and on film, Brady would have been a bust for any team looking for a quality quarterback (here's 30 s. of video evidence further reinforcing how utterly unimpressive Brady was as an NFL hopeful). But, +New England Patriots Head Coach +Bill Belichick can do something most of us can't. He can spot talent.

One of my least favorite parts of my job is interviewing and hiring undergraduate students to be peer mentors in the department where I work. Part of this dislike stems from hours of conversations built around the same eight or ten interview questions, which typically yield the same mundane responses from applicants. But, I've also wondered (out loud at times, which gets me in trouble) whether we might have just as much luck throwing the applicants names in a hat, drawing out 50 names, and hiring them. In short, we often care too much about things that don't matter (high GPA, impressive essays, and well-articulated responses to our questions). And, every year we have a "Tom Brady" who we somewhat grudgingly hired, but who then turns out to be one of our best finds.

The same thing happens in various other parts of the academy, but most notably in admissions. This is particularly true when campuses heavily weight more "visible" factors such as standardized test scores, long lists of service and leadership experiences, and HS GPA (though it's a better predictor than standardized test scores).  We're overly impressed with "achievement" and "performance," while undervaluing more subtle and less visible characteristics like resilience, grit, and the ability to receive and use feedback.  This is what Belichick looked for and noticed in Brady and that allowed him to feel comfortable using a sixth round draft pick on someone no one else really wanted. But, Belichick only learned this because he focused on the right piece of data.

Belichick's method is pretty simple, when the Pats find a player at the NFL Combine that they are slightly interested in, they schedule an interview (which is pretty standard).  But, what he does next is where the genius lies.  Belichick has his staff find footage of one of the player's worst performances from their most recent season.  He turns off the lights, plays the clip, and then asks the player "What happened?"  Then, he listens for how the player responds to and explains poor performance.  The conversation that follows helps him identify whether or not the player has the right mindset to play for him in New England. He is only interested in players who want to get better and have the qualities that make that improvement possible.

My colleagues and I need to be more like Belichick and find ways to use our application and interview process to understand the less visible (but more important) qualities of our peer mentor candidates. And, institutions should move, more and more, towards models that allow them to gain insight into the kinds of qualities that Stanford University has come to value and celebrate in recent years and that have been researched by Angela Duckworth and her colleagues. This isn't to say that Tom Brady's speed didn't matter at all, a peer mentor applicant's well-written essays shouldn't be considered, or that a HS GPA shouldn't be considered when deciding whether or not to admit a prospective student. Rather, we should be looking beyond these attributes and find ways to understand whether or not applicants have the qualities that will allow them to thrive and develop once they get into the system and benefit from the training, coaching, and resources provided by the institution or organization. When we do, we'll start to find a lot more Tom Bradys and avoid bringing in any more Ryan Leafs.

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.