The trouble with inspiration

Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, Carl Bloch

I'm a bit of a curmudgeon.  People that only know me casually might be surprised to hear that, but those who know me well know that I am easily frustrated with "inspirational" stories, raw-raw presentations intended to "motivate," and short "inspirational" quotes (I've tried for years to be a "quote" person, but in all but one case the quotes I write down on a sticky note and stick on my wall seem disappointingly mundane a day or two after I am "inspired" by them--the single quote I have kept and still refer to comes from artist Carl Bloch in describing his struggles to create:  "God helps me--that's what I think, and then I am calm.").

I was reminded of this when I read an email this morning (which is actually a blog post that is sent out to a listserv) in which the author described being asked by a student to "define in one sentence what it means to be a 'true teacher.'"  The rest of the post went on to describe how he came to his "one sentence" that he eventually shared with her (you can read the post to find out what he told her).  Because I've read posts by this author before, I wasn't surprised at being underwhelmed by what he told this student.  It was a statement that sounds nice, but for me, has no real meaning because it is so abstruse and esoteric to provide no real guidance for someone who wants to be a good teacher.  So, while it may be initially inspirational to this student, it isn't likely to change anything about her teaching practice.

The reason I have appreciated and benefited so much from the Bloch quote above, I think, is that it has a concreteness that is helpful to me when I am feeling overwhelmed with a writing project, a troublesome situation with a student, or some other challenge that I don't know how to face.  At the same time, it isn't so explicit that it seems mechanical or restrictive.  Additionally, it has a narrative quality to it in that it calls up an image in my mind of a real person (Carl Bloch) struggling with a task and then thinking about the divine help that he is entitled to as an artist.  So, in that way it is both inspiring and instructive because it seems tied to someone's actual experience.

It occurs to me that we might often look in the wrong places for inspiration.  My experience suggests that it isn't found in philosophical statements or high-energy Joel Osteen-esque speeches.  Rather, inspiration comes when we have a window into the experiences of another.  What I might be arguing here (and which I've argued multiple times on this blog) is that rather than searching for one-sentence inspiration that is easily posted on the corner of our computer monitor, we should be searching for, telling, and listening to stories that have meaning because of their embeddedness in our actual experiences.  This takes time.  And, it also means entering into relationships with others in order to gain access to one another's stories.  It also means being vulnerable because anytime we tell a story about ourselves, we expose some part of our being that can then be evaluated, judged, or critiqued.  Telling a story is much more risky than giving an impersonal one-liner divorced from any of our actual experiences.

So, while the blog author whose post I referenced above (along with everyone else who has ever tried to say something inspirational) surely means well, his student would have been better served by a rich and personal story, as opposed to the sticky-note-ready quote that was likely forgotten as soon as the sticky on the note dried up.

Incentives & Risk-Taking in Admissions

One of the most interesting phenomena in higher education is the admissions process.  Students develop ulcers over it; parents shell out cash to hire professional admissions consultants to give their child the best shot at getting into their top-choice school, and those hearty souls who work in enrollment management stay up nights trying to figure the whole process out.  I have never worked in admissions and probably won't at any point in my career, so I realize the danger in commenting on something that I probably don't know enough about as I should.  That said, it seems that the ultimate objective of an admissions office or department is to admit those students who (a) will persist to graduation and (b) provide a good "value" for the institution in terms of the cost of providing an education to that particular student.  Consequently, the "golden egg" for a particular school is , so to speak, a highly academically qualified student who can pay the full sticker tuition price, whatever that might be.  Of course, this is an oversimplification and doesn't generalize to every type of school (e.g. an open admissions institution whose mission is to provide educational opportunity to populations that have, historically, been underrepresented in higher education.

But, for the sake of argument (and so that I have something to write about today), let's assume that the above situation holds for at least a hefty percentage of the mildly selective institutions in the U.S.  In this case,  there is an incentive for an institution to minimize risk by only admitting those students that (a) seem nearly certain to succeed or (b) are relatively likely to persist to graduation and won't cost the university too much money if they aren't retained.  Clearly, a system like this decreases the likelihood that certain students will be admitted.  And, it raises questions about these institutions' commitment to educating more than just a very narrow segment of the prospective student population.

What if, however, institutions were rewarded for taking risks in the admissions process?  What if there was some kind of incentive for an institution to admit a slightly underprepared student, provide a high-quality experience to that student, and achieve some measurable level of success with that student (e.g. graduation, job placement, etc.)?  Not only would a system like this one change the admissions game dramatically and provide more students with access to institutions where, previously, they would never have been accepted.  It would also encourage institutions to be more thoughtful about the resources and initiatives they have in place to support students that may not be as academically prepared as others.

As it stands, there really isn't much incentive at all for institutions to take risks in the admissions process (outside of situations involving student-athletes).  And, often, the institutions that are viewed as most "prestigious" are those that rather than taking risks and seeking out students to whom they can add value, admit those who are a "good investment" and who are likely to make the institution look good.

Designing to preserve risk & ambiguity

Typically, risk and ambiguity are things that we try to eliminate from our lives.  We make our kids wear helmets when they ride their bikes to decrease the risk of head injury.  We're given detailed instructions for how to put together complex appliances or pieces of furniture.  And, we make sure plastic storage tubs come with explicit warnings like this, to make sure there isn't any question about the inappropriateness of storing children in such containers.  Clearly, I'm being a bit facetious here, but the point is that most of us operate from the assumption that the more we can get rid of risk and ambiguity, the better things will go.

While this is true in some parts of our lives, there are some aspects of our experience where moderate degrees of risk and ambiguity actually improve our behavior and performance.  Take the design of roads as an example, as reported here and in much more depth in Tom Vanderbilt's interesting book, Traffic: Why we drive the way we do (and what it says about us).  The essence of the argument is that drivers are more cautious, more aware, more considerate, and ultimately more safe when roads are stripped of the features we've long believed make them safer (e.g. signs, dividing lines, large distances between roads and sidewalks, and width to name a few).  Road designers (largely in Europe, those West Palm Beach, Florida has seemed to catch on) have realized this and started to design roads that are just risky enough that drivers have to slow down and drive skillfully (which most of us can do when we are actually thinking about it--the problems occur when we are lulled into autopilot by the "safety" of the road).  It is an incredibly interesting approach and one that will likely revolutionize urban planning and road design in the future (it is a philosophy first pioneered by a Dutch traffic engineer--Hans Monderman)

Risk is a theme I've taken on in this blog a number of times.  I think it has tremendous implications for learning.  My current wondering has to do with what it might mean for higher education institutions to embrace risk and ambiguity in calculated ways.  College campuses are full of the equivalent of road signs and safety features, meant to "protect" students and get them where they're going in a metaphorical sense (be it a job, graduation, or just becoming an engaged citizen).  We have advisement centers and student support services that notify students that they are on academic warning, reminders about graduation deadlines, policies preventing students from enrolling in more than a specified number of credit hours, and course catalogs that attempt to remove ambiguity by clarifying and outlining hundreds of policies and processes relevant to a particular campus.  I'm not ready to say that we should think about getting rid of any or all of those things.  However, I wonder if in our effort to protect students through our various policies, support services, and "clarifications" we might actually be causing more problems than we're solving.  And, are there "risks" that we might allow to become more visible and instructive so students approach their experience with a bit more caution and concern than they might otherwise?

A quick example--the course syllabus.  This great column from Inside Higher Ed (you really should read it, if nothing else, you'll laugh) illuminates the tension instructors face between including so much information that the document becomes laughably long and painfully detailed, and failing to outline the course w/ enough clarity so as to avoid "scandals" that arise when students question policies or procedures.  There is an inherent risk in a faculty member having a thin syllabus.  If the expectations for the course, course policies, and schedule aren't made unambiguous, students may not learn what they need to, we may have an argument with them about absences, or they may not know what to do in the event there is a Tsunami and they aren't able to get to campus for class.  But, when a course is so structured that the syllabus comes to be viewed as a recipe, that if followed leads to learning, we're in trouble.  From my own experience, I can say that when the syllabus outlined exactly what I had to do to earn my "A," I did that and nothing more.  Typically, the course became a hoop jumping exercise.  It was clear and safe, but I didn't learn much.  In contrast, I have had a few classes where ambiguity reigned supreme.  Initially, it was very frustrating for me as a learner because I wanted to know what to do, when to do it, and how to report back that I had done it.  But, the ironic thing is that the ambiguity increased risk and often nudged me to do much more and better work than I would have otherwise.  I don't know that this type of course design is a universal solution; however, designing for learner autonomy can lead to great motivation for some populations of students, particularly high-achieving or self-directed students (see Dan Pink's book Drive for a great discussion of this idea).

Of course, campuses must still be physically safe spaces and be structured in ways that allow students to feel comfortable enough that they aren't perpetually thinking about leaving; however, a little risk might go a long way in improving overall outcomes.

What is the equivalent of the opening hymn for a campus community?

Recently, I've spent a fair amount of time exploring this website, dedicated to phenomenology.  Yesterday I stumbled across an essay with the intriguing title "The Experience of Singing Together in Christian Worship."  One aspect of the "singing together" experience that is explored in the essay is the potential for the act of singing to bring together the members of a worship community.  This vignette captures it well:

"When I enter the chruch, I see that most people in the pews are sitting and talking to their friends, probably getting caught up on the news of each other's lives.  It is an interesting sight and sound; a sort of gian living room with people relating plitely to each other, their voices creating a gentle rumble.  At 11:00, the worship leader announces, 'Let's stand and sing our praises to God,' and the musical introduction begins.  It's amazing the change in atmosphere as the chatter stops and we begin to focus.  One kind of sound stops and another begins as we start to sing.  The individual conversations stop and we sing the opening hymn as one great, united proclamation."

As I read that description of one worshiper's experience, I immediately thought of a similar thing I have witnessed on my own campus.  We are a faith-based institution and, as is common among institutions of this type, we have a weekly devotional service (Tuesdays @ 11:05 a.m.) where the campus community comes together to hear a speaker or view some kind of cultural performance.  One thing that has always fascinated me is the way these meetings begin.  Just like a church bustles with conversation and action before the beginning of a service, the large building where BYU's devotionals are held is alive with students pouring in the doors and lively conversations.  However, when the clock hits five after the hour and it is time to formally start the meeting, there is no formal pronouncement from anyone (e.g. "Let us begin," etc.).  Rather, the organist begins playing, the text to that morning's hymn appears on a video screen in the center of the assembly hall, and we begin to sing.  It's a remarkably simple and effective way of focusing the attention of a fairly large group (I would guess somewhere in the neighborhood of 3,000 - 4,000 students & faculty most Tuesday mornings).

There is something selfless about hymn singing in a congregation of worshipers.  We shift attention from our individual concerns, and join together in singing a hymn we haven't chosen (unless you happen to be the person who has that assignment).  We each contribute in our own unique way, but our voices come together to form a unified chorus.  And, at times, it can be an incredibly sublime and uplifting experience for individuals as well as the collective group.  Perhaps the selfless nature of the act has something to do with this.

As I read the essay I found myself wondering whether their is anything that happens on a college campus (aside from faith-based institutions who sponsor devotionals or "chapel hour" as it was referred to at my first alma mater).  Academic institutions have an inherently selfish tone in many respects.  Students pursue their own academic majors, faculty members conduct their own research, and each department generally has its own set of concerns and challenges.  At times, there is very little drawing us together as a campus community.

Part of me wonders whether this is much of a concern for academia.  Is it even true that one of the purposes of an academic institution is or should be to draw its members together?  That's a question that can only be answered by individual institutions.  But, if unifying students, faculty members, and others on a campus is one of our aims, we should take care to find ways of doing so on a regular basis.  And, whatever we come up with should be something that invites us to give up a bit of our selves and join with others in working towards a common goal.

A Human Response to Bullying

Last week I wrote about institutional efforts to promote character development and argued that to successfully do so requires both technical and human responses.  This week the SL Tribune ran a story that, for me, perfectly illustrates the power of human responses and the ways in which they can be used to support more technical and formal responses to the challenges faced in schools.

The story reports on an incident of bullying at Sunset Ridge Middle School in West Jordan, Utah and how an entire school community came together to take a stand against bullying in their school.  You can read more about the story here, but here are the highlights:  a new 7th grade student was the victim of bullying, the heartbroken student went to a school counselor for comfort, and the counselor responded.  Up to this point, this story is nearly identical to the other stories about bullying we've heard.  But what makes this particular story unique is the way the counselor responded.  Rather than taking the issue to a faculty meeting where new policies or programs could be discussed, she initiated a very human response.  She sent text messages to 24 "student ambassadors" who then organized a grassroots campaign against bullying for the next day of school.  In response, 1,000 students showed up to school the next day sporting post-it notes bearing anti-bullying messages (e.g. "Stop the hate").  A few days later, friends of the bully turned him in based largely on the response of the school to this incident.  Consider how different this story would have been had the counselor responded with the typical technical response we often see in these situations (e.g. faculty meeting conversations, formal school programming, etc.).

It's important to note that Sunset Ridge Middle School has formal anti-bullying programs (the student ambassadors are a part of the initiative) in place; however, it was a combination of a human and technical response that made the difference.  The lesson here seems to be that the best technical responses are those that create a space for human responses to thrive.  It was the organization of an ambassador program--a somewhat technical response (although it might be a sort of hybrid response straddling the border between technical and human responses) that provided the necessary infrastructure to carry out the very human response that, in the end, made the biggest difference.  Additionally, the formal anti-bullying programming the school had been sponsoring on a regular basis likely made anti-bullying values public and accepted, smoothing the path for a group of student leaders to speak out against a very specific act of bullying in their school.

So, I stand by my argument in last week's post that for schools to make meaningful changes, both technical and human responses are necessary.

Character as an aim of higher education

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scaleable "Solutions" vs. Local Responses

Yesterday, I participated in a forum with educators, administrators, and business leaders who are all interested in the use of technology in learning settings (Accelerating Innovation:  Personalizing the learning environment--thanks to k12, BYU's Center for Teaching and Learning, and TD Ameritrade Investools for making it free to attend).  It was clear that everyone there was passionate about learning and excited about what learning might look like in the future, particularly in schools.  In that way, I felt like I was with kindred spirits and appreciated having the opportunity to connect with and dialogue around important issues.  However, I always feel a bit like a fraud in these settings because I tend to be skeptical whenever I hear people talking about technology "revolutionizing" or "transforming" learning.  Further, the conversations at gatherings like the one I attended yesterday often focus on finding "innovative solutions" that can be "scaled up" and adopted on a massive scale (this seemed to be the only thing the representatives from the USDOE wanted to talk about yesterday).

Clearly, there are technological advances that have this impact upon learners and the learning process, but I think the list is much shorter than many technologists would believe.  More typical is the new "tool" that is developed in a particular setting, touted as "transformational," and then adopted only in the setting where it was developed and a few others where the challenges are similar.  That isn't a criticism of these "tools" as much as it is a criticism of the rhetoric of many educational technologists which is, in short, "we're going to change the world with this new idea."

At the core of these issues is an interesting tension that I saw playing out in yesterday's forum.  And, the tension is framed by two fundamental perspectives on educational reform.  The first is what I'll call the grand solution paradigm which seems to be concerned with finding universal solutions to big problems.  Consequently, their focus is on identifying problems that manifest themselves in virtually every educational setting and sector and then developing "solutions" that can be "scaled up" and adopted on a widespread basis.  

The second perspective operates from a local response paradigm.  Those who align with this approach are very concerned with context in that they approach problems by, first, understanding the complexities and nuances of particular settings (e.g. local cultures, historical influences, individual personalities, and available resources).  Then, they work alongside local stakeholders to respond to the challenges presented by these unique educational landscapes.

There are stark difference across these perspectives.  The first seems to be concerned with "answers" to questions and believes that finding these answers will solve problems for all educators.  They seem concerned with what has sometimes been termed in research as the "grand narrative" and aim to provide new ideas and tools that everyone can use, in nearly the same way.  These are the folks that are much more likely to see themselves as "revolutionaries" and "reformers."  In contrast, localists aren't likely to make any claims at developing "solutions" or "answers," rather they approach educational policy and practice as a dynamic dance wherein teachers and administrators are in a continual state of responding to the challenges and opportunities that present themselves.  Because this is slow and more "tribal" work, they may not see themselves as "revolutionizing" education, although their collective efforts may have that impact over the long-term.

Like most complex problems, the challenges we face in education aren't likely to be overcome if they are approached exclusively from one of these perspectives or the other.  Any sustainable changes are likely to come about in response to a coordinated effort that involves both a search for "scaleable" solutions and an openness to local innovation and responsiveness.  But, when I sit back and listen to the dialogue of the "reformers" I hear too much of the former and not enough of the latter.  Rather than spending inordinate amounts of time "innovating" in search of the holy grail of education (yesterday it was Open Educational Resources), we should be spending just as much time helping local practitioners and stakeholders join the grand dialogue, and then consider what "works" in their own place.  Innovation, while focused on outcomes, products, and ideas, should be just as concerned with processes that allow local innovation to thrive.