I don't want a perfect president

Last Tuesday, President Henry B. Eyring, first vice chairman of the BYU Board of Trustees announced the Kevin J. Worthen as the next president of BYU.  It was an exciting day and people seem excited and optimistic about the future here on campus.
appointment of

I was in the meeting when the announcement was made, and happened to be sitting next to a neighbour and friend who knows President Worthen quite well.  As soon as the meeting was over, and again as we were walking back to our offices on campus, my friend said:  "I've never seen him take a misstep."  

Typically, when something like that is said about a person, it is meant to be laudatory.  The message is "Here is a person who doesn't screw things up (or at least not publicly)."  Usually, we say things like this about people who we like, who we trust, and who we want others to see as competent.  So, in that sense, it was a perfectly reasonable thing for my friend to say about someone who he looks up to and sees as a great leader.

But, to be honest, I would have been much more impressed had I heard something like:  "Once I saw him take a misstep (and it was pretty bad), but then this is what he did to acknowledge it and try and fix it."  The reality is that every leader makes mistakes.  Most are behind the scenes and minor enough that they don't impact the organization on a general level, and no one ever knows about them.  But, occasionally (and I would argue at least once in every leader's tenure), they will take a major misstep.  They'll say something stupid, make a prediction that isn't just way off but that leads to losses, or make some other kind of decision that is highly public and, in hindsight, highly inadvisable.

When that happens, I'm much more interested in being led by someone who has learned to respond well in those situations (as I've argued before here).  As helpful as it is for the media and others to perpetuate the narrative of how skilled, competent and seemingly perfect President Worthen is, I'm waiting to hear stories of missteps, mistakes, and what he has done in the past when that has happened.  That narrative is much more telling and, I think, can build more confidence than sanitized stories of how everything a leader touches turns to gold.

We're not all Paul Ryan or Aaron Osmond: An argument for supporting all parents and all children

Last Thursday, in his remarks at the Conservative Political Action Conference, Republican Senator +Paul Ryan (Wisconsin) took aim at free school lunch programs, using them as an example of the way in which the left offers "a full stomach, and an empty soul."  His remarks seem to imply that children who eat school lunches (whether they're subsidized or not) have parents who love them a little less than their best friend who brings her sandwich and apple in a nice brown paper sack (In a deliciously ironic move, he finished the speech by relating a story that was originally told by Laura Schroff, who I heard speak two weeks ago and who is actually an advocate for the programs Ryan seems to despise).

Ryan's remarks fit the pattern I've observed a number of times, from various politicians, over the last year or so.  The narrative goes something like this:    "The [opposition party] is morally wrong for providing free [fill in the blank].  Parents who take advantage of this [fill in the blank with federally subsidized program of your choice] are bad parents.  Good parents do [fill in the blank with what your "good parents" did to make you into the moral role model you are today].

A supporting case (or two) -- last summer, Utah State Senator +Aaron Osmond proposed that mandatory school attendance be abolished because it encourages parents to shirk their responsibility to educate their children (a view I've critiqued here).  He softened his stance somewhat later in 2013 and offered up a modified proposal that would require parents to opt-in to the public education system.  In Osmond's modified plan, those parents who avail themselves of public education's services would also be required to enter into a "Public Education Parent Participation Contract," that among other things would require them to attend all parent-teacher conferences, ensure all homework is completed, and cover the costs of any remediation received by their child.

Underlying arguments like those made by Osmond and Ryan seems to be the belief that every parent of every child is equally capable of providing the very same support.  Ryan believes every parent can and should make his child's lunch in the mornings.  Similarly, Osmond seems to believe that parents come in a two discreet types:  (a) those skilled and competent enough to educate their own children or (b) financially secure enough to cover the costs of their children's "remediation" (not sure what that means, but apparently Osmond has a nice tight definition for it that will avoid all controversy ).

Osmond, Ryan, and others making these kinds of arguments seem to have forgotten that parents come in a wide variety of "flavors."  While the brown bag lunch crusaders and laissez faire education advocates would like to believe that every parent has an equal (and, it seems, inexhaustible) supply of educational acumen, time, and money, the reality is that today's parents look a lot different than those that raised Osmond and Ryan.  There are parents who, despite their desire to be as helpful to their children as possible, don't have the intellectual, social, and financial capital as do others in their communities.

Osmond's proposal is presented as a way of "liberating" parents from the mandates of an oppressive government, however, this liberation only extends to a certain class of parent.  Osmond seems to have forgotten the parent who works 2 - 3 jobs, speaks limited English, or who can't afford to pay for remediation.  Ultimately, for a growing segment of the population, these plans masquerade as virtuous ways of supporting and liberating families, when in reality they are veiled forms of oppression for those without the privileges enjoyed by the naive lawmakers making the proposals.  Utah Senator Luz Robles, in responding to Osmond's original plan for ending mandatory education, said it best:

Not everyone might have a highly educated, Ph.D. mom or dad, what might happen to that child [who does not]?"

If Osmond, Ryan, and others are really interested in supporting parents, they can make good by considering how educational policy and legislation might be crafted to support all parents.  In a recent post on his excellent blog, my good friend +Greg Williams argues that any comprehensive attempt to improve educational systems has to acknowledge the critical role that parents play in their child's education.  He concludes his post with this provocative question:  "Why aren't we having more discussion about helping parents be great parents (emphasis is mine)?"

It's a tremendously important question and one I would posit to those who only seem interested in penalizing those parents who, despite their best efforts, can't support their children by offering home school, packing a brown-sack lunch, or doing the things Ryan and Osmond would have us believe are the hallmarks of a "good" parent.

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.  

Is Higher Education Rehabilitative? (Read: Should inmates receive a college education?)

This morning, Inside Higher Ed reported on New York Governor +Andrew Cuomo's plan to provide the option of a college education to inmates in about 10 of New York's state prisons.  Not surprisingly, it's become a hot topic.  Opponents of the plan are raising questions about the fairness of providing a free college education to "crooks," while New York's law-abiding citizens are struggling to find ways to finance higher education.  And, in one of the more bone-headed things I've read recently, State Assemblyman +Jim Tedisco claimed that the program would just produce "smarter criminals."  Advocates for Cuomo's proposal argue that investing in higher education for inmates will reduce costs in the long run by lowering recidivism rates (a claim backed up by loads of research, as well as the state of Indiana's long-running case study).

At the core of this particular issue are two questions that academia has grappled with for decades.  First, is the question of whether or not a college education is transformative (or, in this case, rehabilitative).  The assumption made by Cuomo and the backers of his proposal is that the college experience, whether that's delivered in a traditional university setting or behind bars, changes learners in fundamental ways.  Not only do they acquire new knowledge and skill, but they come to see and interact with the world in new (and, we assume, more productive) ways.

This belief in the transformative nature of education is at the foundation of the second question embedded in the current debate, which is whether a society benefits when its individual citizens are educated.  For the most part, the United States and virtually every other democratic society have, to one degree or another, agreed that an educated citizenry is a better citizenry.  So, we do things like subsidize the entire cost of public education for young children, and a percentage of the cost for those pursuing higher education at particular institutions (hence, the State College).

In sum, the vast majority of Americans believe at some level that higher education is both transformative and democratically beneficial.  So, it's a bit ironic that some of those same folks are now questioning a proposal based on those very assumptions.  While the current economic state of higher education funding, and the student debt crisis, make the thought of paying for an inmates college education a bit uncomfortable, my argument is that it is clearly in line with the underlying purposes of our correctional system.  By definition, prisons are meant to "correct" and rehabilitate.  And, experience has clearly demonstrated that education is one of the best ways for this to happen.

The reality is that the majority of inmates will not choose to take advantage of a college education if it is provided, so it's a fairly safe assumption that those who do participate will be relatively engaged and committed (which is critical if the experience is to have the transformative effect we hope for).  Consequently, it's inaccurate for anyone to assume that "every crook" will get to go to college for free.  What's more, it may not be unreasonable to expect those who benefit from the program to re-pay a portion of their educational costs.  This would add another administrative layer to the program, because it would require someone to manage and enforce re-payments, but it may not be a bad approach.

For any New Yorker who really believes

(a) Education is a shared good
(b) Education makes better citizens, and
(c) Prisons are meant to rehabilitate,

I don't know how they can simultaneously oppose Cuomo's plan on philosophical grounds.  The challenge will be for Cuomo and the SUNY system to make it work from a practical standpoint.

Why are the computer programmers making the policy decisions?

Like government, higher education is administered (or mis-administered, depending on who you talk to) by teams of bureaucrats.  This post isn't really about criticizing this aspect of the higher education landscape in general, though a decent argument could be made that the growth of our administrative ranks hasn't really led to an overall improvement in learning.  Rather, I want to comment on a particular segment of that bureaucracy that has become increasingly powerful over the last two decades.  No, I'm not talking about the President, her cabinet, the chancellor's office, or any of the other groups we typically see as "high-powered."  The group with the real power are those slightly socially inept, dress-code flaunting teams tucked away in some basement of your campus--the computer programmers.

At BYU, we are fortunate to not have to deal with many of the enrollment challenges faced by many other institutions.  Because of our unique mission, and the fact that we have a very well-defined target population, we typically don't have any problem hitting enrollment targets for our two major semesters (Sept - Dec. & Jan. - April).  And, because of the generous tuition subsidies provided by our sponsor, tuition has not risen nearly as fast or as much as the state schools in our area.

Nonetheless, BYU's Registrars Office has been quite aggressive as of late in boosting what we refer to as "spring-summer" enrollments (i.e. enrollment in courses during the "off-season" of May - August).  During these warm weather months, most students take time off to participate in internships, travel and study abroad, or just return home to be with family.  So, from May to August, campus is quieter, slower, and emptier.  While I rather enjoy these months and the extra time and space they give me to read, research, and get to the things I've been putting off the rest of the year, from a resource management perspective they are a drain.  We have empty classrooms, under-utilized academic advisement centers, and a lonesome looking library.  So, it only makes sense to take a strategic approach to boosting enrollments during these months to offset the overhead operating expenses associated with staying open all year.

Up until very recently, students who wished to enroll during spring-summer, were limited to 8 week courses that ran during either spring or summer "term."  While some students and faculty enjoyed this model because a course was over and done with in less time (can you say superficial learning?), it was not a great fit for some students or some courses.  So, the Registrar's office has wisely expanded the spring-summer catalog to include more traditional 15 week courses that span both terms.  Not only does this new policy provide more options for students wishing to take courses during spring and summer, it should improve learning in those courses that opt for the 15 week model.  But, as with any new policy, there have been some unintended and unanticipated challenges.  And, this is where the programmers come in.

To ensure that students do not overwhelm themselves with an unrealistic academic load, BYU limits students to an enrollment of 18 credit hours during a traditional 15-week semester.  A student who wants to exceed this limit can do so, but only after approval from his or her academic advisor.  In the past, this policy was also implemented during 8-week terms and limited students to the 8-week equivalent of 9 credit hours for these enrollment periods (because the courses are twice as fast, the credit limit is half as large).

But, this all got pretty messy when the Registrar's office decided to offer both 15-week courses that span both terms, as well as the 8-week courses that are limited to either spring or summer term.  Now that 15-week courses are on the table for the May - August period, the credit limit has been raised to 18 credits to mirror the policy for the rest of the academic year.  But, what the bureaucracy didn't anticipate was that the online registration system (what we call MyMAP) would not be able to distinguish between credit hours belonging to 15-week courses, and those belonging to the shorter 8-week courses.  Essentially, this means that a student can now, in theory, register for up to 18 credit hours to be completed in an original 8 week term.  For those of you keeping score at home (and who are familiar with the Carnegie credit hour system), this would mean 36 hours a week of in-seat class time, plus 72 hours of study time outside of class.  I'm a PE major, so proceed at your own caution when trusting my math, but that's over 15 hours a day, 7 days of week participating in some kind of academic activity.  Even if we take a more conservative schedule of 12 credit hours in an 8-week term, that's 24 hours of class and 48 hours of study each week (better than 10 hours a day, 7 days a week).  

An administrative assistant in our office discovered all of this about two weeks ago when she was reviewing first-year students' schedules.  Since then, we've discovered upwards of 100 first-year students (for whom we have primary responsibility in our department) who are registered for 9+ credit hours during our upcoming summer term.  Because first-year students have no real idea of the accelerated pace and increased workload associated with an 8-week course, we were concerned that these students were setting themselves up for failure.  So, somewhat naively we called the Registrar's Office to inquire about the situation.  It was rather clear that no one had really thought through the implications of the new spring-summer policy and the fact that it would allow situations like this to arise.  After a "we'll get back to you," and about 30 minutes, we got a return phone call notifying us that the registration system would not allow any further restrictions in terms of credit hour limits and that was the end of the conversation.  

The reality is that the "system" can be structured to do just about anything the institution would like it to.  But, only if the programmers agree to make the changes.  So, what ends up happening is that computer programmers become one of the strongest voices in the room when it comes to issues of policy (particularly registration and enrollment policies, because technology is so enmeshed in all of those processes).  Forget about what's best for learning, student well-being, or even common sense.  If a change to the registration system is viewed as too much work or not as important as another project, the policy will reflect the wishes of the technologists.  

While policy has to be feasible and responsive to technological capabilities, the policy that I've described in this post represents negligence on the part of our institution, particularly in the case of first-year students who are unfamiliar with the demands of college-level work.  While institutional policy serves a variety of functions from ensuring economic viability, to managing the allocation of resources, to protecting the quality of the work-life of faculty and administrators, ultimately policy should support and enhance learning.  And, this most recent policy decision doesn't.  

I have no problem with the fact that the Registrar's office didn't anticipate the fact that this change in policy would create this problematic loophole--it's impossible to anticipate everything that will come with these kinds of transitions.  What is frustrating is the way they've responded--no admission that this is a problematic path for us to be heading down and no urgency in terms of modifying the registration system to close the loop.  Our repeated unwillingness to admit mistakes and failure to strategically use policy to support learning is discouraging.  And, half-hearted "recommendations" like the one below, aren't enough to make up for it (from the Registrar's Office FAQ page):

Though it is possible to take more than 9 credits in a Spring or Summer term, it is not recommended since classes taken in a term cover the same amount of content in only about half the time.

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.