(and no, the change isn’t just that I’m posting to this blog again!)
I’m delighted to report that, beginning next month, I will be the Director of Educational Technology at Trinity College. This is an exciting opportunity to work closely with faculty, librarians, IT staff, and others to support Trinity’s liberal arts mission. (And of course I’m extra-pleased to know that there are already folks who have some downright ProfHackerish ideas!)
It turns out that I will apparently go anywhere that prominently features a steampunk representation of its mascot.
This decision was a difficult one: I have enjoyed my ten years at Central, and will miss my students, colleagues, and friends, although since Aimee continues in the English department, hopefully I won’t be a stranger. (And we will still live in the neighborhood!)
There’s no denying that this is a big shift: I was asked “Why would you want to give up being a tenured full professor?” in literally every meeting I had about this job. And it’s a little unsettling to move directly into an administrative position immediately after my term as union president ended. Aimee said, “this is a great job for you, and I definitely think you should take it. But I wouldn’t want it for myself.” (To be fair, the bit she particularly didn’t want is the part about “starting in June.”) In thinking about such a move, it turns out that it’s good to have smart friends who are good writers: Kathleen Fitzpatrick has recently written a great post about doubts, so I don’t have to reprise it here. The same week, Anne Trubek’s article on “Giving Up Tenure: Who Does That?” ran in the Chronicle, and explained that it’s really not so unthinkable a move.
And it’s not just that I’m giving up being a professor, or giving up tenure. I’ve said some tart things about the educational technology industry in the past, which I still stand by. And I still count Audrey Watters as my chief guiding light on a lot of this. But I think that this particular job, and the way that it’s been framed by the CIO, will give me a chance to do some good things.
To some extent, the scope of the change actually makes it easier: it would be even weirder to move into conventional academic administration, or to take any sort of similar role in the state system. All of that said, I had not been looking for a new job when this all started, and so there is still a wee bit of adjustment to get through . . . after grades are submitted for the spring.
I am excited at the opportunity to learn new things, and to work with the Information Technology Services group at Trinity!]]>
Sorry it’s been a while: It turns out that simultaneously launching ProfHacker and getting elected union president had deleterious effects on my private blogging. But no more!)
On New Year’s Eve, the 7-year-old spent about 45 minutes putting together a board game version of Life. (Yes, that’s a homemade version of an actual board game, which he’s never played. But his grammy tried to sell him on the iOS version, and so he made up his own. Win!)
My favorite* part of the game is his representation of college (pictured), in which a degree costs $200, but the job you ultimately get only pays you $100. (Yes, he misspells “college”–it’s because he was drunk on sparkling cider for the holiday.) In the course of gameplay, it turns out that that $100 really is all college nets you, so it’s basically worth negative-$100 to have a fun drinking educational experience in your 20s. Welcome to the twenty-teens in America: Where the returns on higher education tuition are diminishing rapidly in the face of stagnant wages and morally shocking unemployment. This picture will only get worse as state & federal disinvestment in higher education leads to higher tuition, a sort of hidden tax on future generations.
*Ok, my secret favorite part of the game is his representation of the legal system, where free speech costs $20 and being robbed gets you $200, but getting married *costs* you money. I’ve always said he’s a smart kid.]]>
5.0 — Learned Funny
Humorless people who learn how to be adequately sports-funny in the right situations by mimicking the behavior of others, whether it’s by developing an overboard fake laugh, yelling “Daaaaaaammmmmn!” after someone else makes a joke, repeating funny jokes that other people said first, or making virtual videos of ideas that other people wrote. They can fool you on the right day. Example: Kobe Bryant (for every non-Lakers fan).
This reminds me of a distinction I’ve often talked about with various people–the difference between a professor who’s funny, and one who’s professor-funny. (I know I’ve written about this before, but I can’t find it.) Unfortunately, the former are wildly outnumbered by the latter.
People who are professor-funny are typically only good at two kinds of jokes: wordplay, and mercilessly unpacking the stupidity of others. Their humor always has the same message: “Look at how smart I am.” (A subcategory of ‘professor-funny’ is the panderer–the person who trots out broad comedy simply because “that’s what the kids these days understand.” That’s just the inverse of the professor who mocks the stupidity of others.) And, look, who doesn’t love a pun? And sometimes, well, sometimes people really do stupid stuff, and it’s fun to take it apart. Colleagues who are professor-funny can almost always make laugh. But I find an exclusive diet of this humor sickening. It’s like Drake’s apple pie. I love ’em–but, if I had ’em every meal?
I think students recognize this humor for what it is, and generally aren’t particularly fond it. To put it slightly differently, while they might laugh at a particular joke, it’s always tempered by the possibility that the prof’ll turn on them next.
Professors who are genuinely funny are harder to sum up–after all, many of them also enjoy puns, or occasionally mocking the ignorant. But the most salient characteristic of this group is a willingness to tolerate self-mockery, or having the class occasionally laugh *at* them, rather than just *with* them. It signals humanity, because, as Scott Adams once said, “everybody is an idiot.” I actually believe that at least *some* heirarchy in the classroom is important, but owning your own idiocy shows the truth: that such heirarchy is temporary and local, rather than, like, ontological. You’re not claiming to be a better person, just to know more about topic X.
Lord knows there’s no need to be funny. And if you’re not funny, you shouldn’t try. (There are lots of ways to signal humanity.) And this is, obviously, a touchy subject. But if humor is part of your pedagogical toolkit, I do think that there’s something to be said for occasionally letting the students have a laugh at you. Not all the time, and sometimes the rapport with a particular class just isn’t right–but every now and again.]]>
Right now, one of the best resources is Remaking the University (via Barbara Hui on Twitter), which aggregates news and analysis, with smart commentary on the implications of the various proposals.
I’m not confident at all that current models of state funding are sustainable. I remember faculty members at William & Mary talking about withdrawing from state funding when I was an undergraduate in the late 1980s/early 1990s–and now things are worse.
Update: Also via Twitter (this time, Bill Wolff): “NJ state college & uni employees will have 7 unpaid furlough days & ’09-’10 3.5% salary increase deferred till ’11.”]]>
A few thoughts:
There is also a public wireless network available in any building on campus for those with laptops. Please remember to bring your cables. [emphasis added]
Either there’s been a breach of the known-new contract here, or someone doesn’t understand the concept of a “wireless” network. (Because when contractors are ripping apart your house, nothing soothes quite like grammatical snark.)
Snark aside, I am looking forward to this institute! Apparently I will emerge with the collective bargaining agreement tattooed, in its entirety, on my skin–which isn’t bad, conference-swag-wise.]]>
Graff focuses on the end point, that is, how it comes off to students. They get “curricular mixed messages,” he says, “clashing stories . . . from the faculty.” In the episode above, the student received from Graff and the other teacher contrary assignments, and he was confused. One teacher seemed to “undercut” the other, forcing the student into what may have seemed senseless adjustments from morning to afternoon (“relativists at 10 o’clock and universalists after lunch”).
I tend to agree with Graff and Bauerlein that this is a real problem–not because there should be One True Approach to literary/cultural studies, but because conflicts between approaches are too often buried or unacknowledged.
We can probably turn the screw a notch tighter here: Part of the difficulty is that we often claim to be teaching the same skill, when in fact the methods involved are worlds apart.
For example: It absolutely kills me anytime I hear or read people say things like, “well, no matter what, we all value close reading.” That’s either untrue, or what is meant by “close reading” is something so general that it can only mean something like “being prepared for class.” Most of the time this isn’t that big a deal–if you’re sufficiently upfront about how you’re using a term in your assignments, then students will catch on pretty quickly. (I will say that this is one of the reasons I call one of my regular assignments an “explication paper,” rather than a “response paper.”) Sometimes, though, it’s more frustrating: I believe at least some graduate students have had their prospectuses held up partly because of differing assumptions about what “close reading” would mean, or about what it means to apply a theoretical model to a literary text.
This isn’t a point about theory/non-theory approaches. (Remember, although I play a sane person on my blog, I’m secretly a card-carrying [well, button-sporting] Lacanian . . . ! ) I’d say, instead, that it’s simply worth remembering that the fact that “everyone knows” a term or skill doesn’t mean that everyone knows the same thing about it, or deploys it in the same way. Ask any 5 psychoanalysts about the death drive, say, or about the interpretation of dreams, if you want an example from another field.
In lieu of an ending, a couple of disconnected points:
It is not that compassion and flexibility are bad; it is that in violating rules and deadlines, other people might be injured or disadvantaged. A veteran provost I know is fond of saying that a good administrator must be a rule monger, otherwise you invite chaos and injustice. She tells stories of faculty senates or administrative officers creating a rule, and then promptly violating it when that proved convenient. “I would constantly have to remind them that they themselves created the rule, and usually for a good purpose, but they couldn’t simply disregard it,” she told me. “It is as if some people believe that ‘academic freedom’ somehow means that they are free from the constraints of rules and deadlines or that rules are for others, not them.”
What I particularly enjoy–and by “enjoy,” mean, “want to drive a spike through my eye when it happens”–is that all too frequently the rule-breaking isn’t just tolerated, but *celebrated* as an example of good service to students, faculty, or staff. It’s a particularly nice rhetorical maneuver, because if you point out that, not only was the rule enacted for a reason, and not only did the affected person have plenty of time and notice to comply with the rule, but that breaking the rule potentially screws those people who *did* comply with the rule—then all of a sudden *you’re* the jerk who doesn’t care about student success. Recently someone on my campus singled out for praise an act of routine rule-breaking–or, I guess, exception-granting, even though it directly contributes to system crashes during registration.
While it’s true that not all academic deadlines are mission-critical, outright contempt for the rules, or the belief that they don’t apply to us, is toxic.]]>
Here’s Philipp’s deck of slides from the opening seminar; as you’ll see, the course will take up a fascinating array of topics.]]>
The parent survey is labeled “Holmes Brand Survey,” and, after a demographic question about grade-level, the first two questions are . . . wait for it . . . these:
Holmes School focuses on
- Higher Order Thinking Skills
- Science and technology
- Global Community
Holmes School’s (motto/slogan/tagline) is:
- Raising Readers!
- A formula for success!
- Launching Leaders!
- Scholars at Work!
(The answers, for the curious, are “Science and technology” and “A formula for success,” respectively. And, yes, the fact that the correct answers have lower-case words is reproduced faithfully from the handout, as if it’s a tell.)
After these critical questions come more usual questions about whether the child’s being challenged, etc.
I hear the Connecticut State University system is redesigning and standardizing our student evaluations–I think we should look to the public schools! Start all student evaluations (sorry, student opinion surveys [!]) by asking them to correctly identify the motto of the system and of their particular university.* Because that’s what matters in education: maintaining your brand.
*Every single day it amuses me a little that my school’s slogan/motto/tagline (“Start with a dream. Finish with a future.”) is basically indistinguishable from my father’s community college’s (“From here, go anywhere.”). I’m *very* easily amused.]]>