Community basketball courts as a model for schools

About two months ago, Provo City opened it's new Community Recreation Center.  It is a fantastic facility.  It's well designed, has state of the art equipment, is located in the heart of the city, and is a great value (a 12 month pass for my family was just under $400).  On average, I visit the rec center about once a week, mostly to use the fitness center.  To get to the fitness center, I have to walk by the four basketball courts located on the main level of the facility.

For me, they are one of the most interesting features of center, because in some sense, they have given rise to their own mini-community.  I realized this last week when it occurred to me that nearly every time I walk by the basketball courts, I see a young man from my neighborhood there playing basketball.  Sometimes he is there alone, other times he is playing one-on-one with a friend, and on other days he is in the middle of a pick-up game with a little larger group.

But, the biggest thing I've noticed about him is how much his game has improved in the last six months.  I know this because last winter, I saw him playing basketball in our church one night and, to put it bluntly, he was awful.  He couldn't make anything further than four feet from the basket, he missed half the lay-ups he took, and it was painful to watch his jumpshot.

When I saw him last week, he was by no means ready for the Timpview HS basketball team, but he was holding his own against a group of average guys his same age.  He even "looked" like a basketball player--he wore the basketball shoes you'd expect from a relatively serious player, had on the long basketball shorts that you see when you watch an NBA game, and even had the same type of socks I know HS basketball players wear.  It was like he had been enrolled in some kind of basketball school where they taught him how to shoot a jumpshot, how to play defense in the low post (he's a pretty tall kid for his age), and even how to dress.  In fact, he has been in "school," just a different type of school than what we typically think of.

While, I highly doubt that Provo City designed the basketball complex to facilitate learning, it has a number of features that make it a great place where learning (basketball-specific learning) can take place.  It's a lot like the neighborhood boxing gym or skateboard park in that it brings together a mini-community of people who are all interested in and engaged in the same activity, but who all possess varying degrees of skill and experience.  And, any organization who cares about how its members learn could take a few cues:

1.  A focus on authentic learning.  The kids and adults who play basketball at the rec center aren't participating in artificial drills, practice sessions, or contrived activities.  For the most part, they are engaged in real basketball games that allow them to participate in all of the aspects of the game of basketball from conditioning, to shooting, to defense, to rebounding.  So, each time they play, they're developing the full range of their game.  In addition, real games are much more motivating than artificial activities, which impacts learning and development more than nearly any other factor in the learning environment.

2.  Openness and opportunities to watch other learners in practice.  The three full-size courts in the complex are located next to one another in a large open space, without any dividing walls.  Additionally, there is an elevated track above the courts, and glass windows looking into the three-court complex.  Although the fourth court (a smaller one) is separated from the other three by a thin wall, it is next door, and also surrounded by glass windows.  This all means, that regardless of what court I'm playing on, I can see what's going on in the games next to me.  This is particularly critical for novice players because it means they have the potential to watch more advanced players in the game next to them.  So, a young player can see what good defense looks like, watch a reverse lay-up, or stand in awe at a smooth jumper.  In essence, it provides a novice with access to a wide range of practices within the community.  That access and the observational opportunities that come with it are invaluable for novice learners.

3.  Learners of various skill level together in the same space.  Because of the open design of the basketball complex and that fact that anyone can use it, there is a wide range of basketball ability represented on the courts at any one time.  Just last week when I was there, I saw one game being played by middle-aged men, another game made up of kids from the age of 10 - 15, and a Dad and his three kids playing on another court.  Again, this mix of ability levels means that new basketball players are likely to be playing right next to advanced players, which provides great opportunities for learning.  And, in addition to providing benefit to novices, it may even provide mentoring opportunities for veterans or "experts" looking to give back.

The take home message here is that learning is inherently a social enterprise that occurs most effectively when it becomes a community activity.  However, much of the formal learning that takes place in schools looks very different than the kind of learning I've described above.  Instead of being based in community, where learners from varying skill levels come together and watch, learn, and participate together, it is terribly fragmented.  It happens in isolated classrooms, where everyone has the same relative degree of knowledge or skill, and is rarely authentic in the ways we hope it would.

So, what would a school look like if it were patterned after a boxing gym, a basketball complex, or a skate park?  Could it work?  And, how would it be administered?











 

Learning is Messy (and risky)

Last week I attended the 26th International Conference on the First-Year Experience in Waikoloa, Hawaii.  The conference is sponsored by the National Resource Center for the First-Year Experience and Students in Transition (housed at the University of South Carolina) and is one of the best conferences I attend each year.

Two of the very best sessions I attended were presented by +Delsworth Harnish and his colleagues in the Faculty of Health Sciences at McMaster University.  The focus of the sessions was the "Inquiry 1" (1E106) course that is taught in the first year.  The course is a great example of the type of class experience that should be more prominent in the first-year experience, one that essentially "flips" the undergraduate experience by providing an experience that in most cases isn't provided to students until their third or fourth year.

Essentially, the course embraces a philosophy of "messiness" and "riskiness" (issues I've frequently commented on in past posts) by engaging students in an unstructured problem identification and problem solving process that, rather than focusing on content, emphasizes a set of six foundational skills (known as the 6 Ps at McMaster:  personal awareness, problem identification, problem solving, professional communication, peer collaboration, peer/personal evaluation).  It's a brilliant approach because it equips first-year students with the skills they'll need for the rest of their experience in the Faculty of Health Sciences, and it is the best orientation to academic life at a university that a students can get and extends across their entire first year.  

While the course is specific to a particular discipline (health science), it features a number of curricular best practices that could (and should) be applied across a diversity of courses, particularly in the first-year:

1.  Small Classes:  The sections of the 1E106 (Inquiry 1) course are capped at 20 students, which allows for the creation of a learning community where students know one another well, have plenty of interaction with the faculty "facilitator," and can easily access additional help or support if necessary.  Contrast this with the large lecture courses that first-year students are typically packed into on large campuses (and yes, McMaster is large -- about 25,000 students in total).

2.  Minimal Structure:  There is no formal "syllabus" when students walk into Inquiry 1 on the first day.  There are broad outcomes and a set of pedagogies that facilitators plan to draw upon to facilitate learning; however, the experience is driven by questions and wonderings of students.  This is effective for at least two reasons:  (1) students can take responsibility for their own learning and participate in self-directed process and (2) facilitators can be more responsive to individual and class needs without feeling anchored to a rigid syllabus that was developed years ago by a faculty committee, most of whom have since left the department. Additionally, the "messiness" of this course structure is what drives learning around the 6 Ps and allows students to acquire skill in problem identification/solving.

3.  Active, Collaborative, & Authentic Learning:  Students spend much of their experience in problem-based learning in small collaborative groups.  This structure increases engagement in the learning process, mirrors the type of working/learning they're likely to encounter once they leave the university, and builds inquiry skills much more effectively than independent work.  

4.  High amounts of support, balanced by high expectations.  Del and his colleagues expect a great deal of students.  The type of inquiry experience they are facilitating comes as a bit of a shock to first-year students and they struggle to navigate the ambiguity that comes with the course and to engage in the inquiry process.  But, McMaster can ask a lot of students because they have been very intentional about creating an inquiry space that makes it safe to fail by providing lots of support.  Each section of Inquiry 1 has 3 - 4 peer tutors who support and scaffold students' experience, there is no "high stakes" assessment to dissuade students from taking risks and being innovative, faculty facilitators meet with students individually to provide mentoring and support.

5.  Multiple opportunities for reflection.  Students are frequently provided with opportunities to reflect on their growth and learning.  This is important for any course, but particularly one like Inquiry 1, where the focus is on the development of broad skills, as opposed to content.  And, the reflection takes multiple forms, from written journals, to interviews with facilitators, to self and peer evaluations.

6.  A prolonged, authentic, and integrative capstone experience.  Too often courses are experienced by students as a fragmented journey through disconnected topics on a syllabus, only to end with a poorly designed final that surveys course content.  At McMaster, students have their sights set early on a final project in which they will need to demonstrate their learning across the broad course objectives.  However, the focus of the project (e.g. the question it addresses or explores) and the way students demonstrate their learning is left entirely up to them.  This brings a relevance and urgency to course activities and increases the likelihood that students will walk away being able to tell a coherent story about what they learned in the course.

Clearly, this is a great course.  Here's the rub--it's messy, risky, and students are likely to complain (at least early on).  Facilitators in the Faculty of Health Sciences never know how students will respond, what their projects will look like, or where they'll end up at the end of the experience.  That kind of thing makes most of us cringe because it feels like walking down a blind alley.  And, there's a chance things won't go well and we'll look bad.  What's more, because McMaster is asking students to do hard things, there is resistance and students don't always love the experience or have good things to say about it.  

But, if we're serious about learning, we'll have to be a lot messier, take a lot more risks, and be willing to put up with unhappy students.  The good news is that for institutions like McMaster who are willing to head down this path, the rewards are great.

If you're interested in learning more about McMaster's Inquiry 1 course, this 15 minute video is fun.

Creating Shared Value in For-Profit Higher Education

The for-profit sector of higher education is frequently criticized for a variety of reasons.  Some argue that it neglects the real needs of students and provides a subpar education, while saddling students with exorbitant debt.  Others (particularly educational traditionalists) point to its heavy emphasis on career and technical training as another apocalyptic sign of the demise of "pure" education, where students learn for the pure satisfaction of learning and receive a "well-rounded" (I've never really been sure what that means, but am guilty of using the term quite often in conversations with others where I'm defending the value of a liberal arts education) and "holistic" education.  

I'll admit that I'm still skeptical of the value that is provided by the for-profit sector to students.  However, I'm willing to admit that this value likely varies tremendously across various for-profit institutions.  Additionally, it isn't lost on me that those of us in the more traditional academy ought to be asking the same question of our work:  What value am I (or my institution) adding to the life of students?"

Notwithstanding my personal hesitancy and skepticism toward for-profit higher ed, I want to argue in this post for some ways that the University of Phoenix and Strayer's of the world could increase both profits and positive perception by reconceiving the intersection between their corporate goals and a broader set of societal needs.

In a January 2011 Harvard Business Review article, Michael Porter wrote about the need for corporations to consider the principle of shared value, by developing policies and practices that both add value to the company itself (in terms of profits), while simultaneously addressing broader societal concerns in the communities where they operate.  He asserts that profits do not have to come at the expense of adding value to society (as opposed to individual clients or customers) and that addressing societal needs should move from the periphery of an organizations mission to the core of a business model.  

Brick and mortar academic research institutions have, for some time, bought into this notion of shared value by attending to both the needs of individual students (by, for example, teaching courses and awarding degrees), as well as more general community issues (through conducting research that contributes understanding which can improve society).  Although the question of whether academia does this well, is open to debate, research institutions believe and attempt to create shared value.  For-profit institutions, however, have failed to consider how they might adopt a similar approach.   

The vast majority of for-profit higher educational institutions are stuck in an outdated model of value creation that narrowly views "value" as consisting of only two factors:  (1) profits for the company and shareholders and (2) value for students in terms of improved education, stronger job prospects, etc..  In essence, these organizations have fallen victim to the same mistake Porter points out in his article.  Like other corporations, they have not leveraged the opportunity to link their educational and economic missions with pressing issues or challenges in the broader community.  And, this is one of the potential explanations for why for-profit institutions are looked down upon by so many.  By focusing exclusively on profits and the needs of individual students, these institutions have developed a reputation of being selfish and concerned with the narrow interests of the "one."  Whether it is the corporation trying to get ahead or the working professional trying to advance her career by completing a degree, the ultimate focus is on advancing individual interests.  Although there is nothing wrong with a company wanting to turn a profit or an individual wanting to advance their education, these two images do little to engender support from the broader community.  

Clearly, a for-profit institution has no explicit obligation to add value to a community or address societal needs.  Unlike a public research institution, they do not receive state funding or other resources that come with an expectation to give back.  However, as Porter argues in his article, creating shared value isn't just about being charitable or sacrificing profits for the common good.  Rather, institutions that find ways to link their economic and educational missions with societal concerns, will be more innovative and productive and ultimately increase profits.

There are at least two reasons why this will be hard to do for the for-profit sector.  First, the lack of a research mission takes away what for most other institutions is a relatively easy and visible way to contribute.  Second, because for-profit institutions are often large and distributed across a variety of locales (both physical and electronic), they have no real sense of place and likely have a difficult time connecting their work to local needs and concerns.  

But, my hunch is that the for-profits that can identify broad societal issues that people care about, and then thoughtfully consider how their work of educating students can contribute, will be far more successful than those continue to cling to an outdated model focused only on providing convenient and accessible education for those who can't access it elsewhere, without adding value to society at large.  Finally, if any institutions take on the challenge of blurring the boundary between for and non-profit education by addressing social needs, it will be equally important for government to regulate the for-profit higher education industry in ways that don't obstruct their efforts to be both profitable and useful to society.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                               

Why did the academy lose when Adam Smith won? (How efficiency gets in the way of meaningful work)

In one of the best TED Talks I've heard in a while, +Dan Ariely  addresses the question of what makes us feel good about our work. The core of his argument is that we naively assume that traditional incentives like money are the best way to motivate, increase productivity, and produce happiness in work settings (in this way, it is quite similar to the main argument of Dan Pink's book, Drive). Ariely spends most of the talk addressing the issue of incentives and what his research suggests about what really motivates us.

But, at the end of his talk (about the 18:25 mark), he changes gears a bit and shifts to something of an historical commentary regarding how the industrial revolution has influenced the nature of the work we do. To make his point he starts by contrasting Adam Smith and his emphasis on efficiency, with Karl Marx and the importance he attached to meaning.  The fact that, with regard to the work we do, Smith won and Marx lost is apparent almost everywhere one looks. Factory workers assemble cars and computers, the food I'll eat at dinner tonight likely went through five or six pairs of hands from the time it was grown to the time I took it through the grocery store checkout line, and large organizations are divided into departments and divisions where everyone plays a unique and specialized role. Gone are the days of the artisan or craftsman who saw a project through from start to finish.While the implications of this shift from meaning and wholeness, to efficiency and fragmentation are clear for industrial settings, it's also important that higher education consider its own "industrialization" and what this means for those of us who spend our time on college campuses.

In our ever quickening attempt to model ourselves after industry and corporate America, we have come to worship efficiency. This is particularly true of large campuses like mine where division of labor and specialization have become increasingly prevalent. Admissions officers decide who gets in, student affairs staff welcome students to campus and help them feel comfortable, academic advisors make sure they have classes on their schedule, financial aid counselors make sure students can pay for everything, and faculty members teach classes (we've even divided the faculty role into "teaching faculty" and "research faculty," signalling our view that teaching is no longer an inherent aspect of being a college professor). Not only does this fragmentation take its toll on the student experience, there are hidden costs in terms of the meaning and purpose faculty, staff, and administrators attach to their work.

In his talk, Ariely asserts that we find meaning when our work involves us in creating, developing, or producing things or ideas, particularly when we can see those things through to some kind of meaningful closure or conclusion.  The problem with the current division of labor in higher education is that the structure of most campuses means faculty and staff are only involved in a narrow segment of the student experience. Few of us have the kind of prolonged engagement with students that positions us to see them develop across time. There are at least two problems with this fragmentation. First, it creates an environment where meaning is hard to find. Students drop in for an advising session during their second semester and we don't see them again. We admit them with high hopes that they'll be the first in their family to graduate, but we never see them again after their campus visit. They take our intro to psych class and we never find out if they decided to take the next course in the sequence. Fragmentation in structure, leads to fragmentation in relationships and interactions. And, without relationships, meaning is tough to come by.

Second, a fragmented structure makes it difficult for members of a learning community, whether it is faculty, staff, or students, to keep sight of the overarching purposes that unite them. If all I ever do is admit students, take them on tours, or teach the same history course, I forget that these independent activities are intended to contribute to a much broader and more meaningful set of objectives.

So, what to do? I'm not so naive as to suggest that institutions should dissolve all departments, divisions, colleges, etc. Or, that any one of us should be able to perform every function on a college campus. However, campus leaders would do well to examine their structures and identify potential points of integration where fragmentation could be reduced. For example, how might faculty members play more of a role in academic advisement?  How could admissions officials be involved in meaningful interactions with students during orientation? What would it mean for a college president to teach intro level courses?

By giving up some efficiency, we stand to gain a great deal of meaning. And, ultimately, that increased meaning could have far-reaching effects on quality (and maybe even be more efficient than we think).

Should leaders be a little less like George Washington?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Intentionality: An argument against hoping good things will happen

"Unless the students' experience of classes is connected, it is trivialized. Any course that isn't part of a larger journey is a dead end."

This comes from one of the best books on higher education that I have read in the last decade, The Learning Paradigm College, by John Tagg. It represents what I believe to be the biggest failing of higher education, which is our consistent inability to provide a cohesive, holistic experience that, taken together, actually means something for students. If you haven't read Tagg's book, you should.  And, if you think you don't have time or that the $9.69 it will cost you to buy it used on Amazon is too steep a price, at least read the seminal article upon which the book is based.

Given my frustrations with the problem of fragmentation that pervades higher education, I was ecstatic to hear about my own institutions efforts to provide our students with an alternative approach to their general education.  As I listened to our Associate Dean for General Education describe this new "mosaic" approach to general education, I had to pinch myself a few times. What she was describing seemed nearly identical to what I had dreamed about for some time. General education courses would be grouped thematically. Students would be invited to select a mosaic that provided a series of linked courses, all exploring a larger theme or issue. There were options that aligned with particular courses of study, as well as more general mosaics that could complement nearly any degree program. And, most importantly, it seemed aimed at providing students with an integrated experience that could connect with their interests and future goals. But, the longer I listened, the more I started hearing what became a very troubling phrase: "We hope. . . ."

Let me be clear, there are lots of things for which I hope. I hope my March Madness bracket doesn't get any worse than it did last night. I hope it will stop snowing outside my office so I can walk across campus to the Education in Zion Gallery. I hope my daughters will fall asleep early tonight, so I can spend quiet time with my wife. And, I hope that both of those daughters will become more and more excited about learning as they grow and eventually want a college education.  Hope is great.  But, only if it moves someone to action and becomes an incentive for making intentional decisions that increase the likelihood that the hope will be fulfilled. Without intentionality and action, hope is empty.  What's more, empty hope inevitably leads to the discouragement and frustration that come with unfulfilled hopes. And, as I sat listening to the presentation on BYU's new general education mosaics, I saw us headed down that path.

Theoretically, the notion of mosaics seems sound. After all, if the problem is that students aren't connecting their learning across courses, the solution is to connect the courses for them, right? If we map out those connections and then tell students to take, for example, "Environmental Biology," "Introduction to Human Geography," "Theories of Human Freedom," and "Current Social Problems," they will have completed the "Human Dignity" mosaic and have had a connected experience. Right?  Well, what I found out during part two of the meeting was that we hope this happens. While the mosaic initiative sounded great on the surface, it turns out the proposal is to do nothing more than provide students with a webpage that shows how various courses are connected around loose themes. No culminating or integrative academic experience. No collaboration among faculty members. No invitations to students to demonstrate that they have had the type of integrative experience we hope for.  The moment in the meeting that was, simultaneously, laughable and unbearingly frustrating was when the presenter was asked how many students she thought might take advantage of this opportunity (My guess is next to none because central administration has, in an incredibly curious move, barred the sending of any formal communication to students about this new initiative. Instead, the hope is that students will find their way to the obscure website I linked to above, be fortunate enough to take the initiative to meet with an academic advisor who happens to be aware of and endorse the mosaics, or be told about mosaics by one of the 13 students who meet the previous two criteria).  The response to the question: "We're really not sure how many students will take this route.  But, we hope that even for those who don't, just thinking about the possibility of making these connections will make GE more meaningful for them." Cue unicorns, money descending from the sky, and raucous laughter at our foolishness.

This assumption that grouping courses thematically and attaching a hip name to these categories will fundamentally change the experience of students flows from what Tagg has described as the Instruction Paradigm.  From this perspective, the business of colleges is to offer instruction and "learning" is then operationally defined as teaching classes. You see this at the core of my campus's mosaics: "If we offer the right courses (hopefully the same courses, so it doesn't disrupt things too much) and then point out that they are "connected," students will the make the connections and have an integrative experience.  Lots of empty hope, without any intentionality or strategic thought about the process of learning.

In contrast, Tagg's Learning Paradigm defines a "curriculum" as being about what students learn, not what teachers teach or what courses are offered:

The curriculum should be the institution's systematic plan for what and how students learn (emphasis added). The guiding principle in restructuring curriculum should be that the whole is more important than the parts. Individual courses are of trivial importance. What matters in terms of the students' whole experience is how courses--or other learning experiences--fit together. Colleges should seek to create a curriculum that leads somewhere rather than spinning in an infinite variety of nonintersecting circles. A curriculum should not be a list of classes; it should be a description of learning outcomes. (The Learning Paradigm College, Tagg, p. 326).

The problem with BYU's mosaics is that they are still built around individual courses.  We're still operating from the Instructional Paradigm. Until there is a fundamental change in perspective away from trying to recycle worn out tiles (i.e. courses) to cobble together a poorly looking mosaic (general education), we'll still be providing a fragmented experience for students. Instead, what BYU (and a lot of other institutions) needs is to stop thinking about courses and start thinking about learning. There are at least two fatal flaws in BYU's current mosaic program. First, there has been no attempt to show students where we want them to end up, which is to say that we haven't developed any clear and understandable descriptions of the outcomes for the mosaics (rubrics, video recorded interviews with students who have achieved these aims, and other multi-media descriptions of this type of learning would be a great start). Second, we haven't designed any learning experiences or environmental features that encourage integration across the courses that make up a mosaic (e.g. capstone experiences, assignments or projects that span across courses, faculty collaborations, reflective or integrative writing assignments).

To hope is not enough. Institutions have a responsibility to design and structure both experiences and environments that move beyond hope and into the realm of intentionality and action.