A
while back I was reading letters of support for an award, and in one of the
letters there was a demeaning characterization of the home academic department
of the candidate. While the letter writer praised the candidate to the skies,
the writer portrayed the candidate’s department—a department of great prestige
outside of the candidate’s university—as being of marginal status in the eyes
of those in other academic disciplines within the university. The letter writer
wanted to assure anonymous evaluators like me that the candidate was of much
higher intellectual quality than the candidate’s discipline would suggest.
Boy,
am I sick of this academic snobbery.
What
I read is not without its irony, however—worthy of the most trenchant
portrayals of academic life (think David Lodge’s Small World or Richard
Russo’s Straight Man). The discipline of the snooty letter writer is one
that I heard routinely ridiculed when I was studying and then teaching in an
English Department.
And
so it goes in the academic status games.
Applied
disciplines (e.g., journalism, nursing, management) have less status than
“pure” ones: philosophy, biology, mathematics. And within disciplines there is
typically a status hierarchy, with “theoretical” pursuits having more dazzle
than applied work. Art history and musicology trump the making of art or music.
The theoretical mathematician has the status edge on the applied statistician.
The literary theorist sits on a higher rung—much higher—than those who teach
writing.
Of
course, these status dynamics are not absolute, are ignored, even subverted by
some faculty, and an institution’s history and current reality come into play
as well. And in our era of the “entrepreneurial university” and economic
accountability, traditional academic status markers might lessen in importance;
what will count will be enrollment numbers and the employability prospects of a
given major.
Still,
as someone who has spent decades at a research university running a tutorial center
and a freshman composition program and then residing in a school of
education—all quite low in that disciplinary hierarchy—I can tell you that judgments
of intellectual virtue based on disciplinary affiliation are alive and well and
factor into all sorts of behaviors and decisions, from departmental funding ,
to faculty promotion, to the letters written for honors and awards—like the one
I read.
We
have not even considered the more pronounced status differentials among various
units at the college or university: for example student services versus
academic departments. And then there are the loaded status distinctions made
among the different kinds of institutions that comprise higher education in the
United States: the community college versus the state college or university
versus the research university—with research universities scrambling to climb
to the top of their own heap.
All
professions generate status distinctions, so why should the field of higher
education be any different? Fair enough; I take the point. But the thing that
gets to me in all this is that the distinctions are made through narrow and
self-interested attributions of intelligence that hardly reflect the variety of
ways people use their minds to apply knowledge, solve problems, reason and make
decisions, and so on. Furthermore, intelligence doesn’t reside inert in a
discipline or a kind of work or in one segment of a system rather than another;
intelligence emerges in activity and in context. The attributions of intelligence
I’m concerned with have much more to do with the preservation of power and
prestige and turf rather than helping us all—faculty, staff, and
students—improve on what we do. Faculty don’t get better at teaching by
luxuriating in their bona fides or looking down on the department across the
quad.
This
last point about getting better at educating is at the center of a new book by
my UCLA colleague, Alexander Astin, an expert on higher education in the United
States. In Are You Smart Enough?, Astin argues that colleges—especially
“elite” colleges—are more concerned with acquiring status markers of
intelligence (high entering student gpas and test scores, faculty publication
numbers, and so on) rather than creating the conditions for students to become more intelligent during their
time in college. Instead of the scramble to attract students already identified
as smart, Astin wonders, what if colleges put increased effort into helping
students become smarter through more attention to teaching, mentoring, and
enrichment activities? It’s a provocative and important question.
Back,
now, to that letter. Over the years, I’ve spent time in many sectors of higher
education, from a medical school to a community college tutoring center, and
one of the things that has most struck me is the distribution of intelligence
across the domains of the enterprise. To be sure, I’ve observed the routine
pursuit of trivial research, uninspired teaching and unimaginative management,
tireless self-promotion. A whole host of sins spread across areas of study and
levels of the system. But I’ve also witnessed insight and inspiration, deeply
humane problem solving, moments of brilliance in both a writing and a
mathematics classroom, in a counseling session and in a meeting of tutorial
center coordinators, in a laboratory and in a library. No little domain has a
lock on being smart.
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