"I am not confident that we serve those we research well. . . . With skepticism we should continue to question our rationale for studying the disenfranchised. . .we serve ourselves too by taking up their cause."
This is one of the more insightful things I've read in the last few months. It comes from a book I've referenced before in a previous post. The author is a qualitative researcher and, like many of his methodological peers, he spends a great deal of time researching populations who society views as "in need" in some way or another. However, unlike many of his peers, he is astute (and probably humble) enough to realize that his work may not always be as helpful as he thinks. And, it made me question the motives I have in my work and whether I am as "helpful" as I think I am.
I would consider myself to be one who is involved in what has come to be known as "the first-year experience movement." I am an administrator in a program designed to serve first-year students, I have in the past been heavily involved in new student orientation programming on my campus, and the research I do is either focused directly on first-year issues or involves data gathered from either first-year students or the peer mentors who work with them. I would like to think that my work serves this population in some way and that what I do each day when I come to work makes some kind of difference. On the whole, I would like to think that my motives are pure and see myself as one who "serves" the students on my campus. However, it would be unfair to claim that I am completely selfless in all of this. Not only do I do this work for a salary and benefits (pretty good benefits compared to most of higher ed), but I travel to conferences 2 - 3 times a year (usually in warm places that are nice to visit anyway), am beginning to publish research on my work, and occasionally get invited to make presentations relating to my work and research. So, the first-year experience movement has been good to me.
All of this has me wondering if, despite our good intentions and noble purposes, those of us who do this work might occasionally (and probably unintentionally) be guilty of exploiting the very population we claim to be serving. We claim to do work that helps or serves these students as they make the transition into higher education and our scholarship is intended to advocate for these students and somehow improve the experience they have on college campuses. But, what if the article I publish is only read by a handful of people? And, what if after reading it, they don’t approach their work any differently than before? Have I then used the first-year student population on our campus and elsewhere to further my career, without making any real contribution to the experiences of the real people experiencing the first year of college? Or worse, when write a conference proposal am I ever more interested in visiting a new city and taking my wife with me, than in moving forward an argument or idea with real merit? What about that article that will be published this month? Do I really think it will add to the dialogue and help other practitioners, or did I just want a line on the vitae I'm trying to build?
It seems like those of us purporting to serve first-year students (and this may be true for any researcher or practitioner, especially those in the social sciences) should take care to avoid becoming a player in the scholarship game where we do research, publish studies, and present at conferences, simply for the sake of those activities. Ultimately, we probably can’t ever really know if our work or scholarship is a benefit to others and if we spend too much time worrying about any of this, we'll go crazy. All of us will at some point sincerely try to conduct a study and write a report that will “serve” someone somewhere and still miss the target. Maybe the important thing is to be vigilant, honest, and ethical by holding ourselves to high standards and continually committing to doing the highest quality work we can. . .a helpful thing for me to remember next week when I'm enjoying warm weather and the San Antonio Riverwalk at the Annual Conference on the First-Year Experience.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
What if admissions offices cooperated rather than competed?
Earlier this week, Inside Higher Ed reported on initial results of the Predictive Analytics Reporting Framework and the potential for this data to connect students to those online institutions to which they are best suited (the title of this particular section of the article is "Match.com for Higher Ed"). The senior statistician for the project, Sebastian Diaz, comments that his data set positions admissions and recruitment officials more effectively find, recruit, and enroll those students who are most likely to be successful on their campuses. But, the article points out that this sort of academic matching service would require a level of collaboration and sharing among institutions that doesn't seem very feasible at present.
On the surface, viewing admissions as a purely competitive process makes sense. After all, for any given institution there is a limited number of students who are, first, at all interested in enrolling at that campus and, second, who are good candidates for the experience provided, whether that is an intimate liberal arts experience, a distance ed experience, or the traditional state school experience (if there is even such a thing any longer). What's more, for a group of institutions who share much in common, this pool of students is largely the same. So, at some level, it is perfectly understandable that institutions compete for students.
However, this standard view of the admissions process, while acknowledging the competitive dynamic among peer institutions, fails to acknowledge two things. First, among institutions who are very different, there is no real need to compete for students. Second, many of the students who apply to a particular school aren't students that school is competing for and, in fact, may be better candidates for another institution. And, despite the best efforts of campus recruiters and sometimes very expensive marketing campaigns, campuses don't always get the students they want. So, if you and I are both in admissions on our respective campuses (and lets assume we aren't at "peer institutions" but that our campuses differ in some meaningful ways) I will, inevitably, receive applications from students that my institution doesn't want, but that yours does (and the reverse is also likely to be true--you'll receive applications from students that I want). The trouble is that we aren't ever likely to realize this or talk to one another about it. Instead, we'll each send our diplomatically written "thanks but no thanks" letters to our respective applicants, they will hit the trail again hoping to find a school that does want them, and we will hope that the next application we receive is from a student we do want. Ironically, we both have pieces of information that would be helpful to each other, but we'll never share it.
So, what if an institution worked to develop collaborative partnerships with a diverse group of institutions, whose missions, enrollments, geographic locations, were different from its own . This might be something akin to the "bridging capital" Bob Putnam describes in his book Bowling Alone, that connects us loosely to people quite different from ourselves and that facilitates access to community assets and promotes information dissemination. If these partnerships were formalized in some way, institutions could "compete" with their peers, by collaborating with their "distant relatives. These partnerships might give member institutions access to students they may never have found and help students by connecting them with institutions better suited for their needs, interests, goals, etc.
Typically, college athletics is not a good place to look when trying to solve broader institutional challenges; however, in the case of admissions, we might be wise to make an exception. Like admissions, the college sports landscape is highly competitive. Each year there are a small number of blue-chip recruits that every Div I coach wants to sign and bring to campus in the fall. But, once you get through those 100 or so athletes for the particular sport in question, things are a lot less competitive--athletes are trying to find coaches who want them and coaches are trying to find athletes who would be a good fit for their team and campus. What's more, the NCAA's practice of classifying athletic programs into divisions (Division I, Division II, and Division III), there is a clear and simple way of knowing if another coach's program is a "peer" or a "distant cousin." Consequently, it isn't uncommon for a Division I coach to court a recruit and then, after realizing that she probably won't be recruited by top Div. I programs, to make a phone call to a fellow coach at the Div. II level to let the coach know that they ought to "take a look at her." I saw this happen fairly regularly as a student athlete. As an example, one of my teammates at Mars Hill College in the late 90s was initially recruited by a handful of good Div. I soccer programs; however, his standardized test scores were not high enough to qualify him to compete at the Div. I level (due to NCAA regulations). At that point, the coach from one of these programs contacted his friend who was the head coach at Mars Hill and let him know that this player may be a good fit for the program. In this situation, both my friend and Mars Hill benefited. We got a great player who was a four year starter and all-region player, and he got a nice scholarship and a great experience at a small liberal arts college. The Div. I coach didn't benefit directly from this exchange; however, in coaching, reputation is everything, so he likely benefited indirectly. The difference, then, between athletics and admissions is that when an athlete isn't a good fit for a team, there is at least some chance that the coach who has turned him down might be able to help him find another home.
While it would take some coordination and there would definitely be complexities to work out, is there any reason why this sort of sharing and collaboration among distantly related institutions couldn't happen at the level of general admissions and even be formalized in some way? If it were to happen, it would seem to require a few things:
1) The right kind of groupings or consortiums: As mentioned, if everyone in the partnership is competing for the same students, it isn't likely that much sharing will take place. So, member institutions would need to be different enough that they aren't drawing from the same applicant pools. At the same time, if the institutions are too different, they aren't likely to have applicants that, although not a good fit for one institution, would fit somewhere else.
2) Very clear understanding of one another's missions: If the members of the group don't know each other well (their missions, their geographic locales, their academic offerings, etc.), they won't be positioned to make good referrals.
3) Lots and lots of trust and good will: As with any social contract, the success of an arrangement like this would require a collection of campuses that are willing to commit to act in the interest of one another and of the students they serve. At the point that one member starts to hold onto students who would be better served by another member of the group, just to bump enrollments and increase tuition, things will fall apart. Similarly, if back-room alliances between selected members result, the whole enterprise is in trouble.
I'm not overly familiar with the admissions landscape, so it's possible that this proposal has grown from a gross naivete on my part. But, as an occasional idealist and advocate for the power of community, I want to think that it has promise (or, better yet, that it is already happening in some corner of higher ed and I don't know it).
On the surface, viewing admissions as a purely competitive process makes sense. After all, for any given institution there is a limited number of students who are, first, at all interested in enrolling at that campus and, second, who are good candidates for the experience provided, whether that is an intimate liberal arts experience, a distance ed experience, or the traditional state school experience (if there is even such a thing any longer). What's more, for a group of institutions who share much in common, this pool of students is largely the same. So, at some level, it is perfectly understandable that institutions compete for students.
However, this standard view of the admissions process, while acknowledging the competitive dynamic among peer institutions, fails to acknowledge two things. First, among institutions who are very different, there is no real need to compete for students. Second, many of the students who apply to a particular school aren't students that school is competing for and, in fact, may be better candidates for another institution. And, despite the best efforts of campus recruiters and sometimes very expensive marketing campaigns, campuses don't always get the students they want. So, if you and I are both in admissions on our respective campuses (and lets assume we aren't at "peer institutions" but that our campuses differ in some meaningful ways) I will, inevitably, receive applications from students that my institution doesn't want, but that yours does (and the reverse is also likely to be true--you'll receive applications from students that I want). The trouble is that we aren't ever likely to realize this or talk to one another about it. Instead, we'll each send our diplomatically written "thanks but no thanks" letters to our respective applicants, they will hit the trail again hoping to find a school that does want them, and we will hope that the next application we receive is from a student we do want. Ironically, we both have pieces of information that would be helpful to each other, but we'll never share it.
So, what if an institution worked to develop collaborative partnerships with a diverse group of institutions, whose missions, enrollments, geographic locations, were different from its own . This might be something akin to the "bridging capital" Bob Putnam describes in his book Bowling Alone, that connects us loosely to people quite different from ourselves and that facilitates access to community assets and promotes information dissemination. If these partnerships were formalized in some way, institutions could "compete" with their peers, by collaborating with their "distant relatives. These partnerships might give member institutions access to students they may never have found and help students by connecting them with institutions better suited for their needs, interests, goals, etc.
Typically, college athletics is not a good place to look when trying to solve broader institutional challenges; however, in the case of admissions, we might be wise to make an exception. Like admissions, the college sports landscape is highly competitive. Each year there are a small number of blue-chip recruits that every Div I coach wants to sign and bring to campus in the fall. But, once you get through those 100 or so athletes for the particular sport in question, things are a lot less competitive--athletes are trying to find coaches who want them and coaches are trying to find athletes who would be a good fit for their team and campus. What's more, the NCAA's practice of classifying athletic programs into divisions (Division I, Division II, and Division III), there is a clear and simple way of knowing if another coach's program is a "peer" or a "distant cousin." Consequently, it isn't uncommon for a Division I coach to court a recruit and then, after realizing that she probably won't be recruited by top Div. I programs, to make a phone call to a fellow coach at the Div. II level to let the coach know that they ought to "take a look at her." I saw this happen fairly regularly as a student athlete. As an example, one of my teammates at Mars Hill College in the late 90s was initially recruited by a handful of good Div. I soccer programs; however, his standardized test scores were not high enough to qualify him to compete at the Div. I level (due to NCAA regulations). At that point, the coach from one of these programs contacted his friend who was the head coach at Mars Hill and let him know that this player may be a good fit for the program. In this situation, both my friend and Mars Hill benefited. We got a great player who was a four year starter and all-region player, and he got a nice scholarship and a great experience at a small liberal arts college. The Div. I coach didn't benefit directly from this exchange; however, in coaching, reputation is everything, so he likely benefited indirectly. The difference, then, between athletics and admissions is that when an athlete isn't a good fit for a team, there is at least some chance that the coach who has turned him down might be able to help him find another home.
While it would take some coordination and there would definitely be complexities to work out, is there any reason why this sort of sharing and collaboration among distantly related institutions couldn't happen at the level of general admissions and even be formalized in some way? If it were to happen, it would seem to require a few things:
1) The right kind of groupings or consortiums: As mentioned, if everyone in the partnership is competing for the same students, it isn't likely that much sharing will take place. So, member institutions would need to be different enough that they aren't drawing from the same applicant pools. At the same time, if the institutions are too different, they aren't likely to have applicants that, although not a good fit for one institution, would fit somewhere else.
2) Very clear understanding of one another's missions: If the members of the group don't know each other well (their missions, their geographic locales, their academic offerings, etc.), they won't be positioned to make good referrals.
3) Lots and lots of trust and good will: As with any social contract, the success of an arrangement like this would require a collection of campuses that are willing to commit to act in the interest of one another and of the students they serve. At the point that one member starts to hold onto students who would be better served by another member of the group, just to bump enrollments and increase tuition, things will fall apart. Similarly, if back-room alliances between selected members result, the whole enterprise is in trouble.
I'm not overly familiar with the admissions landscape, so it's possible that this proposal has grown from a gross naivete on my part. But, as an occasional idealist and advocate for the power of community, I want to think that it has promise (or, better yet, that it is already happening in some corner of higher ed and I don't know it).
Friday, January 27, 2012
Getting lost in learning: A confession and a glimmer of hope
It's slightly embarrassing to admit this, but for someone who blogs and talks about deep learning as much as I do, I'm still a bit superficial when it comes to my own formal learning (in my defense, I'll argue that is true of most of us). I'll use my current qualitative inquiry graduate course as an example. Last week I was in class when another student commented that she had read ahead in one of the texts for the class. My immediate thought was--"Don't you have anything better to do?" and I cast a glance at a friend in the class much like what I did as a high school student when one of the "nerds" made a comment in class (apparently, I have matured very little since my days at Skyline High School). More evidence of my failure to consistently be a deep learner: I almost always set a timer for myself when I'm working on research or other scholarly projects and quit as soon as it goes off, I can't think of a time when I have ever read ahead in a class, and I once opted to turn in an entire paper for a political science class because I knew it would make no difference in my final grade. However, I occasionally have moments of brilliance when I become, if only for a moment, the kind of learner I expect students on my campus to be. It happened last night and after it was all over, I wondered what had happened and why, for those 60 minutes or so, I "went deep."
I was reading Bob Stake's very excellent commentary on qualitative research (Qualitative research: Studying how things work)--not because I chose to, but because it was assigned for class--and came across a statement Stake makes about the usefulness of intuition when making judgments about quality (the statement and commentary are too long to discuss here, but on pp. 162 - 163 Stake makes a fascinating comparison between professional judgments about quality and God's statement in Genesis about the "goodness" of the Creation). Before I knew it, I had jotted down a question this raised for me in the margin's of the book, pulled my copy of Blink (Malcolm Gladwell) off my bookshelf, and read about the psychology of impressions for close to an hour. It's worth noting that this happened at about 7:00 p.m., after a 10 hour workday with no lunch, and at the end of a particularly long week.
So, what happened? What triggered or facilitated this episode? Here are some guesses:
1. Interest in the subject matter. I am actually fairly interested in qualitative methodologies. They seem far more human and useful to me than p values, degrees of freedom, and ANOVAs. So, while my excitement about fighting off hunger to read Chapter 9 of Stake's book at the end of a long day may not have been high, I did have a latent interest in the general subject matter. So, the potential for coming across an idea or concept that was interesting was better than if I had been reading Research Methods and Statistics (also on my shelf, but not likely to be pulled down anytime soon).
2. Connections to current concerns or experiences. I am currently working on a paper, which will be presented in April at AERA's Annnual Meeting, that uses qualitative methodologies to explore how learners integrate theoretic and experiential knowledge by sharing narratives with one another. So, qualitative issues are on my mind a lot (in large part because I don't want to look stupid at the conference).
3. Potential for learning/thinking to be made public. One of the requirements for the class is that we post our thoughts to a class google document where the professor and (in theory) classmates read one another's thoughts. So, when I came across the passage I mentioned above, I immediately thought about what I might say about it in my posting to the Google Doc. I also knew that at some point in our next class meeting, I would be asked to comment on the reading. Rather than regurgitating ideas from the reading, but using different words (which sometimes happens), I wanted to raise the question I had while I was reading (which was whether articulating a rationale for intuitive judgments is dangerous) and then have some kind of relatively cogent response to give. I also thought it might be interesting to bring in an "outside" book to the discussion. Hence, my willingness to spend an hour reading something that I didn't have to.
4. Time and space. Had I read the same chapter from Stake's book on another evening when I needed or wanted to get home early, or if I had been reading at home with my daughter's Disney movie playing in the next room or the allure of what might currently be on tv, things wouldn't have turned out like they did. However, last night was a night when I didn't need to rush home and had a quiet office to study in. Context and environment played a role in my deep learning experience.
5. A relatively broad base to draw from and connect to. This will seem overly simplistic and slightly obvious, but it is probably worth stating. I could connect Stake's ideas to Gladwell's, because I had read Gladwell. Part of deep learning is making connections to related concepts. So, in theory, the more one knows, the more connections they can make. However, "connections" don't always have to be to things we've read previously. All learners have a set of life experiences to draw from and connect to, whether that is books read, classes taken, memories from childhood, the trip to the grocery store yesterday, or anything else. If we can bring this set of experiences to mind for learners and then invite them to make connections, deep learning is a lot more likely to occur. However, it's worth reminding ourselves that novice learners are more likely to struggle with this, so we have to scaffold, nudge, encourage, and model it a lot when learners aren't accustomed to "going deep."
I've tried with this list to illustrate that deep learning is dependent on a number of factors--the learner, the instructor, and the environment. Those factors aren't always (maybe "very rarely" would be more accurate) under our control. At the end of the day, deep learning is an organic, spontaneous thing that may or may not happen. But, as learners and instructors we can increase the likelihood of deep learning occurring by being aware of what can lead to episodes like the one I had, and trying to do our best to throw the right things into the pot. So, I guess in some ways it is an act of faith, but one worth taking.
I was reading Bob Stake's very excellent commentary on qualitative research (Qualitative research: Studying how things work)--not because I chose to, but because it was assigned for class--and came across a statement Stake makes about the usefulness of intuition when making judgments about quality (the statement and commentary are too long to discuss here, but on pp. 162 - 163 Stake makes a fascinating comparison between professional judgments about quality and God's statement in Genesis about the "goodness" of the Creation). Before I knew it, I had jotted down a question this raised for me in the margin's of the book, pulled my copy of Blink (Malcolm Gladwell) off my bookshelf, and read about the psychology of impressions for close to an hour. It's worth noting that this happened at about 7:00 p.m., after a 10 hour workday with no lunch, and at the end of a particularly long week.
So, what happened? What triggered or facilitated this episode? Here are some guesses:
1. Interest in the subject matter. I am actually fairly interested in qualitative methodologies. They seem far more human and useful to me than p values, degrees of freedom, and ANOVAs. So, while my excitement about fighting off hunger to read Chapter 9 of Stake's book at the end of a long day may not have been high, I did have a latent interest in the general subject matter. So, the potential for coming across an idea or concept that was interesting was better than if I had been reading Research Methods and Statistics (also on my shelf, but not likely to be pulled down anytime soon).
2. Connections to current concerns or experiences. I am currently working on a paper, which will be presented in April at AERA's Annnual Meeting, that uses qualitative methodologies to explore how learners integrate theoretic and experiential knowledge by sharing narratives with one another. So, qualitative issues are on my mind a lot (in large part because I don't want to look stupid at the conference).
3. Potential for learning/thinking to be made public. One of the requirements for the class is that we post our thoughts to a class google document where the professor and (in theory) classmates read one another's thoughts. So, when I came across the passage I mentioned above, I immediately thought about what I might say about it in my posting to the Google Doc. I also knew that at some point in our next class meeting, I would be asked to comment on the reading. Rather than regurgitating ideas from the reading, but using different words (which sometimes happens), I wanted to raise the question I had while I was reading (which was whether articulating a rationale for intuitive judgments is dangerous) and then have some kind of relatively cogent response to give. I also thought it might be interesting to bring in an "outside" book to the discussion. Hence, my willingness to spend an hour reading something that I didn't have to.
4. Time and space. Had I read the same chapter from Stake's book on another evening when I needed or wanted to get home early, or if I had been reading at home with my daughter's Disney movie playing in the next room or the allure of what might currently be on tv, things wouldn't have turned out like they did. However, last night was a night when I didn't need to rush home and had a quiet office to study in. Context and environment played a role in my deep learning experience.
5. A relatively broad base to draw from and connect to. This will seem overly simplistic and slightly obvious, but it is probably worth stating. I could connect Stake's ideas to Gladwell's, because I had read Gladwell. Part of deep learning is making connections to related concepts. So, in theory, the more one knows, the more connections they can make. However, "connections" don't always have to be to things we've read previously. All learners have a set of life experiences to draw from and connect to, whether that is books read, classes taken, memories from childhood, the trip to the grocery store yesterday, or anything else. If we can bring this set of experiences to mind for learners and then invite them to make connections, deep learning is a lot more likely to occur. However, it's worth reminding ourselves that novice learners are more likely to struggle with this, so we have to scaffold, nudge, encourage, and model it a lot when learners aren't accustomed to "going deep."
I've tried with this list to illustrate that deep learning is dependent on a number of factors--the learner, the instructor, and the environment. Those factors aren't always (maybe "very rarely" would be more accurate) under our control. At the end of the day, deep learning is an organic, spontaneous thing that may or may not happen. But, as learners and instructors we can increase the likelihood of deep learning occurring by being aware of what can lead to episodes like the one I had, and trying to do our best to throw the right things into the pot. So, I guess in some ways it is an act of faith, but one worth taking.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Small programs with big impacts
Yesterday morning I attended a monthly meeting that, typically, is painfully boring and disengaging (part of that may be my fault and the attitude I bring with me to the meeting). To avoid becoming completely cynical and disengaged, I have committed myself to approaching the first 15 minutes as a "probationary period" of sorts where I genuinely try to listen and give the meeting a fair shot. Yesterday, after an uninspiring presentation from a representative from financial services and figuring that the next item on the agenda wasn't likely to peak my interest much, I was settling into the article I brought to read. I knew that BYU has a Women's Services office on campus, but never really understood what they did or how they did it (which, I'm now quite embarrassed about). The next 20 minutes of the meeting were eye opening for me.
BYU Women's Services and Resources is a small program within the Dean of Student's Office on campus. They have one full-time employee, a small office in the Student Center, and (I'm guessing) not much of a budget. In many ways, it is the kind of place that is easy to overlook and which would be an easy target when budgets are being tightened. To be honest, if it weren't associated with a fairly politicized issue (the experience of women on campus), I'm not sure that it would survive on a campus as big as BYU.
Despite all of that, LaNae Valentine and her team of undergraduate students and graduate interns, are doing more good on our campus than many realize. They offer a wide range of ongoing programming and special events for women on campus; however, to their credit their larger interest is in providing good educational resources and experiences than they are with putting on events (that isn't always true of student life areas on campuses). Consequently, their programming is closely aligned with their mission. The combination of their large target population and diverse, yet focused programming means they reach a fair amount of people. What's more they are positioned to make a tremendous difference in the experience for a relatively small number of students (although not as small a number of students as their budget, square footage, and one line on the campus directory would lead many to believe) who are often in desperate need of the support provided through the center.
This is an interesting phenomenon on campuses where big, expensive programs get a lot of attention. And, we like to believe that these programs, centers, and initiatives are what make the biggest difference for students (after all, if they didn't, why would we spend so much money on them?). Although their size, resources, and very broad missions (broad sometimes means ambiguous and unarticulated) make them highly visible and allow them to "touch" a large number of students, these same characteristics may simultaneously keep them from engaging with students in deeper and more personal ways--the ways in which Women's Services and Resources and other units can.
I'm not calling for the dissolution of SGA's, large student service organizations, or other "big" programs. But, just hoping that more people on college campuses will discover, appreciate, and advocate for the small programs that offer a very different, more personal, and often impactful experience for particular segments of the student population. They don't cost much money, don't need much office space, and are usually quite self-sustaining (if they aren't, they don't survive); however, they touch student's lives and bring a much-needed diversity to our campuses.
A closing word of caution for these programs. Often the success of places like Women's Services comes about largely through the efforts of a single charismatic and tireless leader (this is almost surely the case for Women's Services). In fact, I don't know how else small and resource-starved programs ever survive. The problem is that when there is only one leader, who almost single-handedly keeps the place afloat, long-term survival becomes questionable. What happens when that dynamo leaves? It's important that those who care about these small programs (especially the heroes I've described above) be strategic about looking for, mentoring, and grooming someone to take over, otherwise the impact of these programs will only last as long as the career of their champions.
BYU Women's Services and Resources is a small program within the Dean of Student's Office on campus. They have one full-time employee, a small office in the Student Center, and (I'm guessing) not much of a budget. In many ways, it is the kind of place that is easy to overlook and which would be an easy target when budgets are being tightened. To be honest, if it weren't associated with a fairly politicized issue (the experience of women on campus), I'm not sure that it would survive on a campus as big as BYU.
Despite all of that, LaNae Valentine and her team of undergraduate students and graduate interns, are doing more good on our campus than many realize. They offer a wide range of ongoing programming and special events for women on campus; however, to their credit their larger interest is in providing good educational resources and experiences than they are with putting on events (that isn't always true of student life areas on campuses). Consequently, their programming is closely aligned with their mission. The combination of their large target population and diverse, yet focused programming means they reach a fair amount of people. What's more they are positioned to make a tremendous difference in the experience for a relatively small number of students (although not as small a number of students as their budget, square footage, and one line on the campus directory would lead many to believe) who are often in desperate need of the support provided through the center.
This is an interesting phenomenon on campuses where big, expensive programs get a lot of attention. And, we like to believe that these programs, centers, and initiatives are what make the biggest difference for students (after all, if they didn't, why would we spend so much money on them?). Although their size, resources, and very broad missions (broad sometimes means ambiguous and unarticulated) make them highly visible and allow them to "touch" a large number of students, these same characteristics may simultaneously keep them from engaging with students in deeper and more personal ways--the ways in which Women's Services and Resources and other units can.
I'm not calling for the dissolution of SGA's, large student service organizations, or other "big" programs. But, just hoping that more people on college campuses will discover, appreciate, and advocate for the small programs that offer a very different, more personal, and often impactful experience for particular segments of the student population. They don't cost much money, don't need much office space, and are usually quite self-sustaining (if they aren't, they don't survive); however, they touch student's lives and bring a much-needed diversity to our campuses.
A closing word of caution for these programs. Often the success of places like Women's Services comes about largely through the efforts of a single charismatic and tireless leader (this is almost surely the case for Women's Services). In fact, I don't know how else small and resource-starved programs ever survive. The problem is that when there is only one leader, who almost single-handedly keeps the place afloat, long-term survival becomes questionable. What happens when that dynamo leaves? It's important that those who care about these small programs (especially the heroes I've described above) be strategic about looking for, mentoring, and grooming someone to take over, otherwise the impact of these programs will only last as long as the career of their champions.
Friday, January 13, 2012
A tribute to good mentors
In December, I graduated with a master's degree in Instructional Design from Brigham Young University. In many ways it was anticlimactic--I immediately started a doctoral program, I still have years of school ahead of me, and my thesis was approved nearly a month before I was actually awarded the degree. Still, it was a long road and it feels good to be a little closer to being "finished" (if we ever really are). By nature, I am a fairly reflective person, but especially at transitional times like beginnings and endings. So, not surprisingly, I have spent a fair amount of time thinking back over the last few years and my experiences. In doing so, I have been reminded of how much I owe to good mentors. It is always risky to thank individual people because of the chance that someone is left off the list; however, I'll do it here for two reasons. First, without the support of those I'll list here, I would never have finished, let alone started a graduate program. Second, because there is a good chance that no one will ever read this, the chances of anyone being offended by being left off the list are small.
First, I am grateful to mentors from my undergraduate experience who nurtured my passion for teaching and learning, and who never quit encouraging me to consider a career in higher education. My experience with Pat, Gary, and Stefinee in the now defunct Freshman Academy program was the single most influential thing that happened to me as an undergraduate student. I learned more sitting in their offices listening to and observing their meetings, than any course could have ever taught me. I learned what good thinkers read, what kinds of questions they ask, and how they interact with others in ways that open the door for change and innovation. It was during those afternoon meetings and early morning chats that the scholarship seed was planted for me. And, without my experience in the Freshman Academy program, I would probably never have been hired to come back and work full-time at BYU (which then opened the door to graduate school much wider for me).
Once I began graduate studies my path was somewhat unique in that I was still working full-time. This would not have been possible without a supportive work supervisor. Pat (yes, the same one as above) was not only accommodating in allowing me to adjust my work schedule to fit around classes and research meetings, but has served in many ways as a 4th member of my graduate committee, engaging me in conversations about my ideas, pointing me in the direction of scholarship relevant to my interests, and providing much-needed and well-timed feedback. This last summer when I was conceptualizing and implementing my master's project, she not only gave me generous amounts of time to do my work, but nudged and encouraged me to do more than I thought I could. As a result, my finished project was much better than it ever would have been otherwise.
If you had asked me, ten years ago, what I would be doing when I turned 30, working in higher education wouldn't have been on the list of my 50 best guesses. Often, we need others to help us identify our latent passions, broker opportunities for us to grow, and encourage us when we don't believe in ourselves. My friend Stefinee has been that person for me. I distinctly remember the first time I met her as an undergraduate student. For some reason I had been invited to attend a meeting to discuss a research project she was working on with Pat. She must have sensed that I felt incredibly out of place and out of my league because she made it a point of sitting next to me in the conference room (interestingly enough, the very same conference room that she and I were in when I defended my master's thesis about seven years later), asking me questions about myself, and including me in the conversation throughout the meeting. Since then, on more occasions than I can count, she has played that same role--helping me feel comfortable when I wanted to run, nudging me to stretch myself, and giving me access to conversations I wouldn't have been a part of otherwise.
Of course, there are others; however, none who have played as significant a role as these good friends, mentors, and colleagues. So, to them (as well as the others)--thank you!
First, I am grateful to mentors from my undergraduate experience who nurtured my passion for teaching and learning, and who never quit encouraging me to consider a career in higher education. My experience with Pat, Gary, and Stefinee in the now defunct Freshman Academy program was the single most influential thing that happened to me as an undergraduate student. I learned more sitting in their offices listening to and observing their meetings, than any course could have ever taught me. I learned what good thinkers read, what kinds of questions they ask, and how they interact with others in ways that open the door for change and innovation. It was during those afternoon meetings and early morning chats that the scholarship seed was planted for me. And, without my experience in the Freshman Academy program, I would probably never have been hired to come back and work full-time at BYU (which then opened the door to graduate school much wider for me).
Once I began graduate studies my path was somewhat unique in that I was still working full-time. This would not have been possible without a supportive work supervisor. Pat (yes, the same one as above) was not only accommodating in allowing me to adjust my work schedule to fit around classes and research meetings, but has served in many ways as a 4th member of my graduate committee, engaging me in conversations about my ideas, pointing me in the direction of scholarship relevant to my interests, and providing much-needed and well-timed feedback. This last summer when I was conceptualizing and implementing my master's project, she not only gave me generous amounts of time to do my work, but nudged and encouraged me to do more than I thought I could. As a result, my finished project was much better than it ever would have been otherwise.
If you had asked me, ten years ago, what I would be doing when I turned 30, working in higher education wouldn't have been on the list of my 50 best guesses. Often, we need others to help us identify our latent passions, broker opportunities for us to grow, and encourage us when we don't believe in ourselves. My friend Stefinee has been that person for me. I distinctly remember the first time I met her as an undergraduate student. For some reason I had been invited to attend a meeting to discuss a research project she was working on with Pat. She must have sensed that I felt incredibly out of place and out of my league because she made it a point of sitting next to me in the conference room (interestingly enough, the very same conference room that she and I were in when I defended my master's thesis about seven years later), asking me questions about myself, and including me in the conversation throughout the meeting. Since then, on more occasions than I can count, she has played that same role--helping me feel comfortable when I wanted to run, nudging me to stretch myself, and giving me access to conversations I wouldn't have been a part of otherwise.
Of course, there are others; however, none who have played as significant a role as these good friends, mentors, and colleagues. So, to them (as well as the others)--thank you!
Friday, January 6, 2012
2011 Utahn of the Year: Chris Burbank
Kudos to the Salt Lake Tribune for choosing SLC Police Chief Chris
Burbank as the 2011 Utahn of the Year. In a year when Utah produced a top
NBA draft pick and a presidential candidate, it would be easy to bow to popular
opinion and select someone who is more well-known nationally. However,
with their choice, the Tribune has reminded us that we are in dire need of more
leaders like Burbank—leaders who engage in thoughtful dialogue with all members
of the community, openly listen to all perspectives, accept responsibility for
their actions, and who consistently adhere to principle. In a year
dominated by spotlight-seeking politicians, deaf to opposing arguments and bent
on pushing forward extremist agendas (and I’m talking about politicians on both
sides of the party line), Burbank’s leadership is both refreshing and
instructive. Even those who disagree with his views would be hard pressed
to offer up any legitimate critiques of the skilled way in which he handles
difficult and sensitive situations. I would much prefer Burbank to just about any of the political candidates in the upcoming local elections. And, it makes me wonder, could someone like Burbank be successful in politics? First, could someone willing to buck popular opinion and the strong arm of Utah republicans get elected? And, once elected, would someone like Burbank hold to his principles? My heart tells me yes, but my head says no (with regard to both questions).
Friday, December 2, 2011
The shortcomings of a utilitarian approach to New Student Orientation programming: A call for aesthetics
Prior to my current work with Brigham Young University's peer mentoring initiative I was heavily involved in the university's new student orientation programming. And, because my work is still focused on first-year students, I associate with colleagues (both here at BYU and on other campuses) who spend a good deal of their time thinking about how to orient students to a college campus. Almost invariably I hear them use terms like "plan," "manage," and "direct" to describe their work. This choice of words highlights a common metaphor guiding the work of orientation professionals, what I'll term here the management metaphor--one which is largely concerned with relatively superficial features of orientation programming, including scheduling, event management, feeding large groups of people, and other associated logistics. Clearly, these are all important considerations for an "orientation director" (something has to happen during orientation and it has to be coordinated, particularly on a large campus where thousands of students and their parents are likely to participate). However, problems arise when this metaphor is adopted as the guiding principle in making decisions about orientation programs because it fails to attend to the aesthetics of the orientation experience (and I use the term experience very intentionally here). As a result, students experience orientation as a collection of disjointed events--for example a convocation, campus tour, advisement session, and dance party--and walk away from the experience without having made any meaning, reflected on key messages (e.g. the institutional mission and other core values of the institution), or resolved to do anything differently during their college experience as a result of new student orientation.
A more useful metaphor for orientation programming is the aesthetic design metaphor (yes, I made that up). Through this lens, the process of developing orientation programming is viewed as a process of designing an aesthetic experience for students, that is to say experiences which are coherent, connected, and infused with meaning. In his book Art as Experience, John Dewey describes aesthetic experiences as those which are immersive, complete, and transformative. In contrast, unaesthetic experiences are routine, dispersed, disengaging, and fragmented. Patrick Parrish has described a set of aesthetic principles which can be applied to the design of instructional experiences in an attempt to avoid the negative outcomes so often associated with educational settings (e.g. boredom, lack of motivation, meaningless and imposed learning activities), which seem useful for orientation programming because of its susceptibility to the the same traps of fragmentation and meaninglessness. These "first principles" are that
When viewed as an aesthetic design process, orientation programming is elevated to an act of weaving together an experience or narrative which attends to Parrish's first principles and which is meaningful and transformative for students. The goals shift from scheduling events, providing meals, and holding "sessions," to providing an experience which moves students towards internalizing institutional values and changes their conception of the college experience. Imagine the impact of an orientation program which not only helps students register for classes and locate campus buildings, but which poses a question or challenge which can provide a purpose or framework for a students entire undergraduate experience (e.g. "How can my learning position me to solve important problems?" or "As a citizen of a global community, what responsibility do I have to improve my community? How can my college experience prepare me to do that?" or for a faith-based institution, "How can I integrate spiritual and secular learning?"). Further, why does every student have to have the same experience as the student next to them? Could students create their own orientation experience by selecting from a number of events and opportunities, those which attend to their needs and concerns. Finally, as I have written about before here, meaningful conclusions do much to further learning--why couldn't orientation culminate with some kind of experience which promotes reflection, unifies the sub-experiences which have occurred across orientation, and invites students to continue to engage with the problem or question posed on the first day?
None of this is to say that these two metaphors for orientation programming are mutually exclusive or wholly incompatible. An orientation experience can be both aesthetic and pragmatic; however, far too often institutions focus exclusively on planning and managing and lose an opportunity to design an experience. An experience which not only welcomes students to campus and answers their questions, but which like a good piece of art, stimulates reflection, action, and (occasionally, when the stars align) promotes personal transformation.
A more useful metaphor for orientation programming is the aesthetic design metaphor (yes, I made that up). Through this lens, the process of developing orientation programming is viewed as a process of designing an aesthetic experience for students, that is to say experiences which are coherent, connected, and infused with meaning. In his book Art as Experience, John Dewey describes aesthetic experiences as those which are immersive, complete, and transformative. In contrast, unaesthetic experiences are routine, dispersed, disengaging, and fragmented. Patrick Parrish has described a set of aesthetic principles which can be applied to the design of instructional experiences in an attempt to avoid the negative outcomes so often associated with educational settings (e.g. boredom, lack of motivation, meaningless and imposed learning activities), which seem useful for orientation programming because of its susceptibility to the the same traps of fragmentation and meaninglessness. These "first principles" are that
- Learning experiences have beginnings, middles, and ends,
- Learners are the protagonists of their own learning experiences,
- Learning activity, not subject matter, establishes the theme of instruction,
- Context contributes to immersion in the instructional situation, and
- Instructors and instructional designers are authors, supporting characters, and model learners
When viewed as an aesthetic design process, orientation programming is elevated to an act of weaving together an experience or narrative which attends to Parrish's first principles and which is meaningful and transformative for students. The goals shift from scheduling events, providing meals, and holding "sessions," to providing an experience which moves students towards internalizing institutional values and changes their conception of the college experience. Imagine the impact of an orientation program which not only helps students register for classes and locate campus buildings, but which poses a question or challenge which can provide a purpose or framework for a students entire undergraduate experience (e.g. "How can my learning position me to solve important problems?" or "As a citizen of a global community, what responsibility do I have to improve my community? How can my college experience prepare me to do that?" or for a faith-based institution, "How can I integrate spiritual and secular learning?"). Further, why does every student have to have the same experience as the student next to them? Could students create their own orientation experience by selecting from a number of events and opportunities, those which attend to their needs and concerns. Finally, as I have written about before here, meaningful conclusions do much to further learning--why couldn't orientation culminate with some kind of experience which promotes reflection, unifies the sub-experiences which have occurred across orientation, and invites students to continue to engage with the problem or question posed on the first day?
None of this is to say that these two metaphors for orientation programming are mutually exclusive or wholly incompatible. An orientation experience can be both aesthetic and pragmatic; however, far too often institutions focus exclusively on planning and managing and lose an opportunity to design an experience. An experience which not only welcomes students to campus and answers their questions, but which like a good piece of art, stimulates reflection, action, and (occasionally, when the stars align) promotes personal transformation.
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