Tag: matter

  • WEEKEND READING: Matt Goodwin’s ‘Bad Education’ isn’t good scholarship, but does that matter?

    WEEKEND READING: Matt Goodwin’s ‘Bad Education’ isn’t good scholarship, but does that matter?

    • Steven Jones is Professor of Higher Education at the University of Manchester and his latest book is Universities Under Fire (2022). This review of Bad Education by Matt Goodwin has been written in a personal capacity.
    • HEPI’s other review of the Matt Goodwin’s book can be accessed here.

    In Bad Education, Matt Goodwin makes the argument that Western universities have moved ‘sharply and radically to the left’ (p.51) over the last six decades, to the extent that diversity is now deemed more important than merit. According to Goodwin, a woke orthodoxy has gripped the sector: free speech is stifled; non-authorised viewpoints are unwanted; and social justice trumps the pursuit of truth. Some minorities flourish within this culture, but other ‘political’ minorities – like the one to which Goodwin claims membership – are structurally disadvantaged. 

    To stand this argument up, Goodwin needs the reader to accept two fundamental premises. The first is that the author’s sense of victimhood is real, while others are imaginary or exaggerated. Goodwin achieves this by attributing his every professional setback – from having journal articles and funding bids declined to being overlooked for invited talks (p.47) – to his whiteness, his maleness, or his political positions, such as his refusal to participate in ‘cult-like worship of the EU on campus’ (p.44). No other explanation is countenanced. 

    The second premise is that the real power in universities is cultural, not economic, and therefore held by diversity champions and other woke activists. The evidence Goodwin offers here is underwhelming. Where academic scholarship is cited, the sources are mostly US-based, and the author shows no curiosity about the think-tanks and lobby groups that funded the surveys in which he places his faith. Critical higher educational research is studiously avoided, though Goodwin does turn to Elon Musk for a quote about the ‘woke mind virus’ (p.104). In places, Bad Education reads as a checklist of debunked myths and personal memoirs (‘as I’ve seen first-hand’ is a familiar clause). Yet in the final chapter, Goodwin addresses the reader directly to assert: ‘I’ve bombarded you at times with statistics and research because I wanted you to read it for yourself and make up your own mind’ (p.198). 

    I tried hard to make up my own mind, but it’s difficult to be persuaded by Goodwin’s case against universities when the bulk of empirical data point in an opposite direction. If recruitment practices are so diversity conscious, why were there only 25 Black British female professors in the UK as recently as 2019? If ‘reverse racism’ is such a problem, why did the awarding gap between White and Black students achieving high degrees stand at 18.4% in 2021? In my experience, and according to my research, minority groups are far from over-represented in senior levels of university management and governance, and board cultures tend to be driven by corporate principles, not woke ideologies. As for no-platforming, fewer than 0.8 per cent of university events or speaker invitations were cancelled in 2021-22. In other words, the truths that Goodwin is so boldly willing to speak may be his truths, but they are not universal.

    Among the fellow marginalised white men willing to support Goodwin is the University of Buckingham’s Eric Kaufmann, who is quoted extensively, and whose back-cover endorsement describes Bad Education as ‘deeply personal and impeccably researched.’ It’s certainly deeply personal. Take Goodwin’s indignation towards a lecturer who unfriended some Conservative voters on Facebook after the 2015 UK general election (p.89). The reader is not told what this incident is supposed to signify, let alone why Goodwin’s cherished free speech principles appear not to extend to academics’ private social media accounts.

    That’s not to say that the sector is always operating to the highest ethical standards. Goodwin is on firmest ground when highlighting human rights violations in China (p.90), and calling out universities for turning a blind eye. But rather than take this argument to its logical conclusion – by critiquing a fee model that leaves sectors reliant on income from overseas students – Goodwin pivots back into anger and anecdote, rebuking universities for being defensive about their historic links with the slave trade (p.91) and sharing stories about junior colleagues too scared to disclose their pro-Brexit leanings (p.94).

    Despite Goodwin’s stated aim to ‘push back against authoritarianism’ (p.208), there are echoes of Donald Trump’s playbook throughout Bad Education. The author’s anti-diversity bombast recalls the President’s recent claim that a fatal air crash near Washington DC was connected to DEI programmes in federal government. It’s not entirely clear to which level of institutional bureaucracy Goodwin is referring when he imagines a ‘hyper-political and highly activist managerial blob’ (p.157), but the language is redolent of that being deployed in the US to justify a purge of federal bureaucrats. According to Goodwin, this ‘managerial blob’ is defined by an insistence on rainbow lanyards and flags on campus, among other things. This is not a characterisation of senior leaders that most university staff would recognise. Could it be that the author is so distracted by empty performative gestures that he fails to see where power is really located?

    Goodwin has now left academia, a story he tells in most chapters, steadily elevating it to the level of Shakespearean tragedy: ‘my professorship – everything I had ever wanted, everything I had worked for – was over’ (p.195). At a time when 10,000 jobs are on the line at UK universities, such self-indulgence is unfortunate. Goodwin’s contrast between the ‘luxury beliefs’ of academics and the ‘real world’ he claims to inhabit (p.78) encapsulates what makes Bad Education read like a ‘prolonged gripe,’ as another reviewer put it. Paradoxically, Goodwin now enjoys a range of high-profile platforms from which to air his grievances about being no-platformed, regularly appearing on television to blame wokeism for various social ills. Why is it that only ‘cancelled’ academics seem to have media agents?

    Bad Education builds towards what Goodwin calls a ‘manifesto’ for universities (pp.217-19) that want to have ‘good, not bad, education’ (p.217). It’s a simplistic way to wrap up any book, comprising a bullet-pointed list of the same few complaints expressed in slightly different terms. Those of us in higher education will quickly recognise Bad Education’s distortions: universities haven’t lurched radically left and there’s no woke coup. But does that matter? Are we the target readership? Or is the book speaking to external audiences? What if a review like this merely confirms what Goodwin and his fellow academic outcasts have been saying all along?

    Since accepting the terms of the market, English universities have struggled to articulate their role in society. Academic expertise has been devalued and the status of higher education as a public good compromised, with universities increasingly embroiled in unwinnable culture wars. These are perfect conditions for someone like Goodwin to ‘blow up’ his own career (p.4), break the ‘secret code of silence’ (p.3) and position himself as the fearless ‘rogue professor’ (p.16). In such ways, important debates become framed by individuals with the shallowest insights but the deepest grudges. Bad Education does a passable job of confirming suspicions about what really goes on inside a secretive and often aloof sector, guiding its readers further down an anti-university, anti-expert rabbit hole. If we continue to leave vacuums in the discourse, then diversity-blaming narratives like Goodwin’s will continue to fill them.

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  • Job titles matter for inclusive and meaningful work

    Job titles matter for inclusive and meaningful work

    Job titles, and the names given to organisational roles, are important for the meaning that individuals derive from their work and their engagement with their work.

    Yet within many UK universities, and especially the post-92s, the trend is towards new job titles with potentially negative connotations for the job holders in terms of the meaning of their work and their commitment to it and to their institution.

    Such universities have been moving away from the conventional “lecturer” titles, adopting the US system of titles. US institutions typically designate their junior (un-tenured) academics as Assistant Professors, with an intermediate grade of Associate Professor and then a full Professor grade. Within the US system, most long serving and effective staff can expect to progress to full Professor by mid-career.

    Yet, in this new UK system, only around 15-20 per cent of academics are (and likely ever to be) full Professors and many academics will spend their entire careers as Assistant Professors or Associate Professors, retiring with one of these diminutive job titles.

    The previous, additive, job titles of Lecturer to Senior Lecturer and then to Principal Lecturer or Reader had meaning outside the university and, crucially, had meaning for the post-holders, giving a sense of achievement and pride as they progressed. Retiring as a Senior or Principal Lecturer was deemed more than acceptable.

    Status and self-esteem

    It is not hard to imagine the impact that the changes in job titles is having upon mid and late-career academics who may have little chance of gaining promotion to full professor, perhaps because quite simply they draw the line at working “just” 60 hours a week, 50 weeks a year. The impact on status and self-esteem is immense. Imagine explaining to your grandkids that you are, in essence, an assistant to a professor. As an Associate Professor, and particularly in a vocational discipline, one of the authors is often asked, “I can understand you wanting to work part-time for a university, but what’s your main job?” Associate, affiliate, adjunct – these names are pretty much the same thing to outsiders.

    Managerially, though, the change from designating academics as Senior Lecturer to Assistant Professors and from Principal Lecturers to Associate Professors is genius. These diminutive job titles confer inferiority – but with the promise that if you keep your nose to the grindstone and keep up the 60+ hour weeks, 50 weeks a year, you might be in with a chance of a decent job title, as a professor. What a fantastic, and completely friction-free, way of turning the performative screw.

    The UK university sector is not alone and other public sector organisations have similarly got into a meaning muddle from the naming of their jobs. For example, in the British civil service, a key middle management role is labelled “Grade B2+”, whereas a relatively junior operational role is designated a rather grand sounding “Executive Officer”. And just last autumn, the NHS acknowledged that names do matter, abandoning the designation of “junior” doctor which was used to encompass all medics that sit within the grades below what is known as “consultant”, and which their union described as “misleading and demeaning” – it’s been replaced with “resident” doctor.

    Meaningful work

    A name gives meaning to workers. It gives status, prestige, and identity. While those organisations such as universities who fail to realise the importance of job titles may be able to turn the screw in the short-term, extracting ever more work from their junior-sounding Assistant and Associate Professors, they will in the longer-term, for sure, have an ever more demoralised and demotivated workforce for whom the job has little meaning other than the pay.

    And, since pay for university academics in the UK has been so badly eroded in recent decades, job title conventions are a self-inflicted injury – one that risks academics’ engagement and wellbeing and, ultimately, their institutions’ performance.

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  • A matter of time: why our universities can’t crack the part-time postgrad code

    A matter of time: why our universities can’t crack the part-time postgrad code

    A preliminary analysis of UK university websites finds gaps in the practical information on how postgraduate part-time study actually works, combined with inconsistent acknowledgement of the challenges faced by these learners. Ewan Fairweather, Postgraduate Student Recruitment Manager at The University of Edinburgh asks: ‘Should we really be surprised that many universities find it challenging to recruit part-time postgraduate students?’

    ‘New Year, New You’. It’s January, the month when ambitions and aspirations take shape. Right now, those of us working in university marketing and recruitment are capitalising on this self-improvement trend, targeting potential postgraduate learners and helping them navigate the labyrinth of course choice, affordability and time commitments.

    With more than 13,000 part-time Master’s options listed on Findamasters.com, learners are spoiled for choice; there’s a strong chance they’ll find something relevant out there.  But can they afford postgraduate study? And crucially, can they find the time to do it?

    Busy lives

    For those fortunate enough to be able to fund a part-time Master’s, it will require the considerable investment of another increasingly scarce commodity: time.  And this is particularly the case among the largest segment of potential domestic postgraduate students, those aged 30+. This mature audience of prospective learners inevitably carries more personal and professional baggage – careers, relationships, families, caring responsibilities, community and volunteering roles, mortgages and loans.

    That is why they are more likely to be considering part-time postgraduate study and so need to work out in very practical terms how to balance learning and living; to picture precisely what it will actually mean.

    Drilling down into the detail

    I know that universities do so much behind the scenes to address the needs of all types of learners, but sadly this does not come across in the following statements, the likes of which I frequently encountered when searching for part-time postgraduate course details online:

    • As the School timetable changes from year to year and is not finalised until August, we are unable to confirm this information in advance.
    • Part-time students are strongly advised to wait until the timetable is available before finalising their other commitments.  
    • Classes can be timetabled Monday-Friday between 9am-6pm. We cannot give timetables in advance of enrolment unfortunately.  

    With such logistical and chronological vagueness, is it realistic to expect busy people to make life-changing decisions? Certainly timetabling is complicated but we need a clearer answer to the question, ‘So I can plan my life, can you give me an idea of what my timetable will look like?’

    Postgraduate part-time learning may not generate the short-term financial boost that the sector needs right now, but we have to plan for today and tomorrow, especially if there is, ‘a need for more people with postgraduate skills in the workforce’. And if the largest segment of domestic students is older, we can assume that many will be looking at part-time in all its glorious forms (online, blended, block, burst, evenings, distance) as their preferred study mode. We have to up our game; timetabling challenges may pose us major headaches, but for prospective students, they are less relevant.

    What I did

    With a view to improving the information and guidance online for prospective part-time postgraduate students considering the University of Edinburgh, I carried out some exploratory analysis. I sought to understand how UK universities articulated the benefits and practicalities of part-time postgraduate study during the traditional core search period of early January. Typing ‘part time masters’ followed by the institution name into Google, I clicked on the most appropriate results, then evaluated these pages according to two categories:

    1. Coverage: Whether part-time study was included, or contextualised, on the page and the extent to which this was done with empathy and understanding.
    2. Specifics: The level of deeper detail provided (the ‘how, where, who and when’ of part-time delivery).

    Pockets of best practice

    I gathered the information to improve the content on my own institution’s website with a focus on these busy learners who are looking to successfully juggle high-level study with busy lives. It’s clear that collectively we must do better to address their requirements but there are nonetheless pockets of best practice I believe we can learn from:

    • Leeds: offers a blueprint for the provision of specific timetable information for each part-time course. It may not look beautiful but when you eventually get there, you find the details you need, combined with a helpful disclaimer
    • Bedfordshire: From a dedicated part-time page, you navigate to a list of what’s available part-time. From here, you find a course schedule and timetable of exactly when and where the units take place presented in a user-friendly format.
    • Birkbeck, RVC and Brighton provide extensive details of when and where teaching takes place so you can better manage your time.
    • Birmingham City University, scores strong on empathy, thinking deeply about the profile and specific needs of their prospective part-time learners
    • The Open University lives and breathes part-time. The ‘how’ section is fabulous, but I was expecting more on the ‘when and  how do I study/attend classes?’
    • Some institutions promise innovative delivery models designed to support part-time learners’ needs, including De Montfort (‘Block Teaching’) and the RCA (‘Burst Mode’)
    • Kent is launching a new curriculum and a progressive approach to timetabling this year, designed to help busy people manage their lives better.

    Universities with high or medium part-time learning coverage and/or specifics on their website

    My recommendations

    In concluding, here are some (relatively) easy-to-implement recommendations that will give postgraduate part-time students a clearer idea of the time they need to commit to their studies:

    1. Publish sample timetables: definitive times and locations may not be possible, but is there a way of providing a sample timetable or sharing last year’s timetables?  
    2. Consolidate information on part-time study: consider bringing together all information on part-time learning into an easily findable resource or section
    3. Provide bespoke part-time course structure details: interrogate the curriculum from a part-time learner’s perspective, then re-write and update
    4. Show that we care: acknowledge that part-time learners have specific needs. Ideally, do this in a warm and welcoming tone.

    It is complicated, but let’s aim to do part-time better – we owe it to our learners!

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