Tag: opinion

  • Being Chair at a Time of Existential Challenge (opinion)

    Being Chair at a Time of Existential Challenge (opinion)

    The past few years have brought a seemingly endless series of existential challenges for colleges and their leaders. Although many of the most recent challenges have been initiated by decision-makers in the nation’s capital, a sense of crisis on college campuses is nothing new. For any number of social, political and economic reasons, leadership in the world of higher education has been hard for some time, and it will probably keep getting harder.

    Navigating external crises is especially challenging for midlevel campus leaders, such as department chairs and center directors. Too few of these individuals receive effective leadership training or support. And in moments of crisis, higher education’s collective failure to invest in developing strong leaders is on full display. Beyond the lack of role preparation, the very ambiguity at the heart of midlevel leadership—sandwiched between senior leaders and front-line faculty and students—makes it an inherently tough place to be.

    On so many college campuses, department chair service carries limited power, authority, time and resources. As we prepare to begin a new academic year, chairs and directors may already feel exhausted or overwhelmed. In the paragraphs that follow, we offer a few general principles that may help department chairs figure out how to use their often overlooked and undercelebrated positions to support the collective well-being of their faculty, staff and students in what will most certainly be a challenging year ahead.

    Accept what you cannot do (legally, morally, procedurally). Serving as a director or chair makes you a campus leader, whether or not you tend to describe yourself in those terms. And as a leader, you bear responsibility for acting in accordance with institutional policies and also for exercising good judgment in your actions and speech.

    Chairs should not offer blanket assurances of safety to individuals or guarantees of legal counsel, for example. Instead, the better move might be to connect faculty and staff with identified resources and to let the experts employ their expertise. In moments of budget austerity, midlevel leaders should exercise caution in pledging financial support or informal guarantees of continued employment.

    Chairs are empowered to use their full rights as private citizens—to protest, author op-eds and contact their elected representatives—but they should take care not to blur the lines between their personal activism and their official duties and position. You chair a department that includes diverse individuals who likely think and vote differently from one another. And right now, all of them need your full support for both routine and more substantive university matters. Anticipate that faculty, staff and students may look to you to set the ground rules so that all feel welcome, valued and safe in a polarized and scary world.

    Exercise creative problem-solving within your domain. In a highly charged moment, chairs should use all the tools in their arsenal, strategically employing action and inaction.

    Act by supporting small moments of connection, such as bringing in some baked goods or inviting a colleague who seems particularly overwhelmed to join you on a walk and talk across campus. If a faculty member in your department has lost the support of a federal grant, keep in mind that their entire research program may be in crisis. And if such a colleague is approaching a review for tenure or promotion, you may want to initiate a timely conversation about recalibrating expectations around scholarly productivity.

    As for inaction, a crisis is an opportune moment to do no more than is absolutely necessary. Off-campus turmoil demands energy and attention. Do your best to help the department separate things that must be done now from the things that can wait. This may not be the time to request funds for an external speaker. Delay scheduling a faculty retreat to overhaul the long-overdue revision of the capstone class. Use the opening faculty meeting of the year to set some scaled-back, modest goals and enlist your colleagues in a pledge to keep the shared to-do list lean. (We suspect that’ll be an easy sell.)

    Prioritize stability management. Ashley Goodall has argued that change, even necessary change, tends to disrupt our ability to find belonging, autonomy and meaning in our professional lives. Goodall offers the term “stability management” to describe what leaders can do for their colleagues on a daily basis, especially when everything is in flux.

    Stability management begins by recognizing what works and needs to remain constant, focusing above all on preserving those things. Many faculty members may find comfort in the ordinary work of constructing class schedules, ordering textbooks, applying for travel funds, conducting faculty searches and the like. For some of your colleagues, business as usual may convey the implicit assurance that university life marches ever forward. This doesn’t mean that you should ignore or downplay the severity of a crisis; it just means that you can try to keep it in perspective.

    Rituals and relationships also provide stability. If your department has a tradition of festive gatherings to mark the beginning of the academic year, now is the time to approach such gatherings with all the joy you can muster. And if your department is lacking in joyful traditions, well, that might be an opportunity for meaningful and much-needed change.

    Defer to campus experts. During the pandemic, campuses mobilized their public health resources in highly visible ways, such as appointing campus physicians and researchers to policymaking task forces. Recent executive orders and policy mandates from the federal government have forced colleges to draw on a new set of experts, including international support personnel, grant managers, lawyers and financial aid counselors.

    Rather than chairing high-profile committees, many of these trained professionals may work with impacted individuals in their specific, and often highly technical, unique situations. Many of these sensitive conversations are best conducted away from the limelight.

    In other words, if you don’t see these efforts happening in public, extend the charitable assumption that campus resources are being mobilized to support those in need in the ways that make the most sense.

    Embrace—don’t fight—the messy in-betweenness of being a department chair. The true art of midlevel leadership hinges on accepting its inherent dualities, limitations and freedoms. Department chairs may not be able to issue broad decrees, but they wield considerable influence over climate and tone. Not all problems are theirs to solve, but they can always offer sympathy and empathy. Instead of issuing top-down edicts, they can provide time and space for others to respectfully think together about hard topics.

    In fraught moments, higher ed needs midlevel leaders to lean into their in-betweenness—to serve as translators, mediators and conduits between what on some campuses are warring factions. Send messages up the chain by highlighting the concerns of the most vulnerable members of the department, in case these individuals aren’t already receiving help. Make a point to show up at campus town halls and carefully read emails from central administration so you can keep your faculty informed. When you can, de-escalate hostile exchanges, quash baseless rumors and ensure no one feels overlooked or left out.

    Commit to the beauty of your discipline. One of the hardest parts of leading in a crisis is not just navigating external pressures, but withstanding the slow erosion of your own spirit, which can quietly wear down even the most resilient leader. You can’t show up as the best version of your chair self to serve others if you have fallen into despair.

    The recent attacks on colleges and universities have cut many of us to the core. There is no point in pretending that most of the work that happens in the academy will solve climate change, save American democracy or right centuries of injustice. Whatever benefits accrue to the world out there as a result of your teaching and scholarship will probably be indirect and difficult to measure.

    Nonetheless, an academic leader can gain strength by reflecting on the ways in which their chosen discipline contributes, however indirectly, to the common good. The grunt work you do as department chair also makes it possible for students and faculty to deepen, enrich and expand their understanding of the world. Your work makes it possible for them to come ever closer to fulfilling their dreams.

    Their work has meaning and value because, among other things, it embodies curiosity and an openness to new ideas. Your work may sometimes feel like an exercise in keeping the trains running on time, but you might remind yourself that, as long as the academy stays true to its core principles, the trains are heading in a worthwhile direction.

    As a new academic year approaches, midlevel leaders are uniquely positioned to be a source of information, prudence, levity, focus and reassurance for the faculty, staff and students in their immediate spheres of influence. There’s plenty that we cannot begin to predict about the year to come, but we are confident that this is a year when students, faculty and staff will look to their most proximate leaders for guidance on how to keep moving forward.

    Duane Coltharp is an associate professor of English at Trinity University in San Antonio. He served Trinity for 18 years as an associate vice president for academic affairs.

    Lisa Jasinski is president of the Associated Colleges of the Midwest. She is the author of Stepping Away: Returning to the Faculty After Senior Academic Leadership (Rutgers University Press, 2023).

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  • Shocking Cancellation of a Special Journal Issue (opinion)

    Shocking Cancellation of a Special Journal Issue (opinion)

    Rumors are swirling about the extent to which Harvard University will acquiesce to the Trump administration’s attempt to crush institutions of higher education. Until very recently Harvard was being publicly lauded for standing up to the government. Reports that Harvard may be willing to pay a sizable financial settlement to resolve legal accusations that it allowed antisemitism and promoted diversity policies were shocking to many. But the university’s purported resistance to government overreach already had a glaring exception—Palestine—and we as scholars who work on the subject have recently experienced it firsthand.

    The Harvard Educational Review was set to release a special issue this summer focusing on education and Palestine. The topic, commissioned in early 2024, was timely in the wake of Israel’s onslaught on Gaza, which rights groups and other experts have concluded is a genocide, and aligned with the journal’s commitment to publishing research that tackles the most pressing issues facing education. The articles had been accepted, edited and contracted. The special issue had already been promoted at major education conferences and on the back cover of the spring issue of the HER. But suddenly, Harvard pulled the plug.

    As recently reported in The Guardian, the Harvard Education Publishing Group (HEPG), which publishes the Review, abruptly and unilaterally decided to cancel the forthcoming special issue.

    We wrote one of the articles that was supposed to be published in the special issue. Our article, one of 10 slated for publication, focused on the experiences of Palestinian teachers during the Lebanese civil war. But in May, as the special issue was nearing publication, we were surprised to find out that HEPG wanted to submit the entire issue to Harvard’s Office of the General Counsel for an exceptional and last-minute “risk” review. Articles had already been through the regular publishing process and were under contract. At no point to our knowledge had any “risk”-related concerns been raised about any of them. An additional review was therefore well outside the realm of routine practice.

    Alarmed by this move and the dangerous precedent of subjecting academic scholarship to vetting by university lawyers, all authors in the special issue organized and expressed unequivocal refusal to this additional review in a letter sent to HEPG.

    After we expressed our refusal, HEPG went radio silent for almost a month. And then it canceled the whole issue, only then claiming that there were problems with copyediting and its internal process. But procedural claims have often been leveled to silence speech, especially when it comes to Palestine. Whatever concerns about the process, there is no justification for the cancellation of the entire special issue. HEPG’s decision is yet another example of the “Palestine exception” in action: the term used to describe how seemingly liberal institutions restrict freedom of expression when it comes to Palestine.

    Given the timing of HEPG’s decision—which aligns with the Trump administration’s weaponizing of Title VI of the Civil Rights Act—this seems to be the logical outcome of a political climate that has promoted sweeping claims of antisemitism to attack student protesters and higher education institutions, including Harvard. In this climate it seems far more likely that HEPG opted for censorship over academic freedom.

    Of particular concern is Harvard’s recent adoption of a problematic new definition of antisemitism. That definition, proposed by the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA), has been roundly criticized by experts—and one of the authors of the definition—for equating critiques of the state of Israel with antisemitism. This conflation makes it harder to speak out against Israel’s actions and policies toward Palestinians and easier to victimize Palestinians. Harvard is not alone in this action.

    Even before Israel’s latest brutal onslaught of Gaza, scholars writing and advocating for Palestinian rights confronted the limits of liberal empathy for Palestinians in the form of tenure denials, censored freedom of speech, doxing by pro-Israel groups and even death threats. But the repression of knowledge production and freedom of speech on Palestine has escalated since October 2023. U.S. universities and colleges (including Harvard) have canceled events that center Palestinian rights, attempted to censor scholarship, forcibly suppressed student protests against Israel’s actions in Gaza and beyond, and dismissed faculty over Palestine-related programming.

    Still, the scrapping of this special issue marks a worrying escalation. It suggests that even those universities that are outspoken about their liberal values are ready to stifle academics’ legitimate criticism of Israeli policies and practices. Make no mistake: Anticipatory censorship of this kind is a hallmark of the governmental overreach that authoritarian regimes around the world are known for. As a growing number of higher education institutions adopt the IHRA definition of antisemitism, we fear we will see more and more examples of the suppression of academic freedom.

    The consequences of this extend far beyond the academy. As the death toll in Gaza exceeds 60,000 and young people there face a third year without education amid ongoing bombardment, blockade and starvation, knowledge, debate and democratic action are essential to preventing the kind of horrors that are unfolding in Gaza today.

    Thea Renda Abu El-Haj is a professor of education at Barnard College, Columbia University. Jo Kelcey is assistant professor of education in the Department of Psychology and Education at Lebanese American University.

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  • Why Write About Grad, Postdoc Career Development? (opinion)

    Why Write About Grad, Postdoc Career Development? (opinion)

    As a higher education professional with a background in writing and rhetoric, I frame my work in career and professional development in terms of communication, such as helping trainees translate their skills to the language of employers, convey complex research to audiences beyond their fields and forge professional selves through the written and digital texts they produce. By training, I often think about how texts produce effects on readers and the design choices writers make to engage those audiences.

    At a time when higher education faces great adversity, I find myself reflecting on the value of writing about career and professional development work in a venue such as “Carpe Careers”: Why write about graduate and postdoc career and professional development? How does this writing translate the impact of our work to different audiences? In this piece, I outline what we do when we write about graduate and postdoc career and professional development and why we should keep writing about this work.

    Writing to Empower Graduate and Postdoctoral Scholars

    As career and professional development leaders, we sometimes feel frustrated that the impact of our work seems limited to one institution or program. For example, we might be the office of one at our institution and concerned about the scalability of advising appointments or low attendance at workshops. Writing about best practices for career and professional development can expand the reach of our advice to online audiences worldwide.

    For example, “Carpe Careers” writers have penned more than 400 pieces that address key career exploration skills like job search strategies, building an authentic personal brand and identifying transferable skills. In addition to equipping graduate and postdoctoral trainees with strategies for landing fulfilling jobs, we present essential advice for navigating academia, such as how to communicate with faculty mentors, deliver effective presentations and cultivate professional references.

    These essential topics continue to be necessary and relevant to new generations of graduate and postdoctoral readers because they make visible the hidden curriculum of academia and the world of work. Our work gives learners the tools to navigate these spaces with confidence, supplementing the efforts of mentors, coaches and instructional workshops. Likewise, when we write about professional development, we attend to the holistic flourishing of graduate and postdoctoral scholars by centering topics such as mental well-being on the job search, coping with the culture shock of career transitions or the power of rest. We not only give learners practical advice for the next steps in their careers but also cultivate virtual community and belonging for graduate and postdoctoral trainees facing common challenges and pursuing similar goals.

    Writing to Support Fellow Practitioners

    When we write about career and professional development, we put our own spin on old chestnut topics by drawing on our backgrounds, identities and experiences. For example, this recent piece reframes professional networking as a form of evidence-gathering and scientific research, leveraging the authors’ training in science. Putting our own spins on standard topics of career transitions and exploration can help us create a distinct personal professional brand as practitioners: How have we synthesized our own stories and the wisdom of others to support current graduate and postdoc trainees? What do we want to be known for as graduate and postdoc career development leaders?

    Beyond enriching individual professional identities, when we write about graduate and postdoc career and professional development, we also reflect on how our work with graduate and postdoctoral trainees is changing and identify opportunities for innovation, from the pros and cons of using generative AI tools for career-related activities to advice for supporting international job seekers. We likewise showcase innovative approaches to implementing career and professional development for graduate and postdoctoral learners, such as how to tailor experiential learning, alumni mentoring and badging programs to these populations.

    By reflecting on our practice and how we have adapted to challenges, this writing becomes a form of professional development for us, as it enriches the dynamic fields of graduate and postdoc career and professional development and extends our conversations from professional organizations and conferences to wider, virtual communities of practitioners. For instance, recent “Carpe Careers” pieces have highlighted administrative postdoc and “meta” postdoc roles as entry points to career development and related academic administrative work, defining new positions through the perspectives of those who hold these inaugural roles and shaping the futures of work in our fields. When we address practitioners as an audience, writing about career and professional development creates a virtual community of practice where we highlight emerging trends and offer support for one another’s professional growth.

    Writing to Engage Stakeholders

    Writing for fellow graduate and postdoc career practitioners elevates our work and sets the stage to convey its value to stakeholders, such as faculty and senior administrators whose support is crucial for campus career and professional development initiatives. The external recognition from a piece in a venue such as “Carpe Careers” can lead to greater internal recognition for our programs and offices. For example, when I wrote a “Carpe Careers” post on professional thank-you notes for Thanksgiving week 2024, a University of Pittsburgh newswire service highlighted it in a newsletter, and a vice provost invited me to present on writing thank-yous at a faculty retreat.

    Beyond our campuses, when we write about graduate and postdoctoral career development, we communicate the value of our efforts to stakeholders outside higher education, such as employers, policymakers and the public. As Celia Whitchurch observed, graduate and postdoc career and professional development work occupies a third space in higher education amid academic, student affairs and administrative functions, so it is often overlooked and less understood than more conventional academic or student life initiatives.

    Writing about our work situates it—and by extension the experiences of graduate and postdoctoral scholars—in the wider ecosystems of higher education and the workforce. This writing can educate stakeholders who are less familiar with the work of career and professional development, highlighting our contributions to graduate and postdoctoral learners’ success, and thereby helping us advocate for greater visibility and resources. When we write about graduate and postdoc career and professional development, we underscore the value of our work and its impacts on trainees, higher education and the wider society.

    Writing for and as Change

    Writing about graduate and postdoc career and professional development positions us as change agents, championing trainees’ holistic success and envisioning what our field could be. In this writing, we hold space for courageous conversations in difficult times, such as supporting learners through recent disruptions, reflecting on activism as a form of professional development and highlighting the entrepreneurial potential of our trainees amid economic uncertainty. Whether we address learners, fellow practitioners or broader stakeholders, when we write about career and professional development, we let ourselves dream about our careers and those of trainees, not only advocating for change but also modeling what change looks like through our advice, our programmatic innovations and our support for the broader enterprise of higher education.

    In short, writing about graduate and postdoc career and professional development is an affirmation of advanced degrees, higher education and the work of practitioners who support these learners’ long-term professional flourishing. This writing can be rewarding, as it scales up the impact of our advice, enriches professional communities and elevates the profile of career and professional development work. It can be bold, as it envisions and embodies positive change in our areas of practice. For “Carpe Careers” readers who are writers, why do you write about graduate and postdoc career and professional development? For “Carpe” readers who are considering writing about their work, when will you start?

    Katie Homar is the assistant director of the Office of Academic Career Development, Health Sciences, at the University of Pittsburgh. She is a member of the Graduate Career Consortium—an organization providing an international voice for graduate-level career and professional development leaders.

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  • Scoring the AP English Exam: A Diary (opinion)

    Scoring the AP English Exam: A Diary (opinion)

    Each May, hundreds of thousands of high school students from across the United States take the Advanced Placement exam for English Literature and Composition. Each June, hundreds of high school and college English instructors gather for a week to score them. The three-hour exam consists of two parts: a multiple-choice section and a section with three essays (analyses of poetry and fiction and a literary argument essay).

    This year, for the third time, I was one of the essay graders. What follows are my unvarnished thoughts from the week, presented anonymously—because I might want to get invited back to grade again.

    Day 1

    My plane to Salt Lake City is delayed, so I arrive at my hotel well after midnight. My assigned roommate is fast asleep. We have the option of staying in a single room, but only if we pay half.

    The alarm goes off at 7. My roommate and I introduce ourselves as he exits the shower. He is ready to go well before me. He’s a first-timer.

    I head over to the convention center. At 8 a.m. sharp, hundreds of us gather in a large auditorium for orientation. The chief reader—a professor at a Baptist college—seems a genial enough person. He goes over the week’s game plan via PowerPoint (“read every essay like it’s your first”), makes sundry bureaucratic announcements and introduces the other managers (“assistant readers,” “table leaders,” etc.). Peals of applause burst out frequently, lending the proceedings a summer camp air. To cap things off, the chief reader puts up photos of his dog.

    The reading room—the size of an airplane hangar, with cement floors and high ceilings hung with banks of fluorescent lights—is divided into four or five sections of probably around 100 people each. Each section is enclosed by black curtains supported by metal rods. Readers are grouped eight to a table, each with a laptop.

    I admit I’m not in the most chipper mood after the short night’s sleep. The enthusiastic vibe can’t help, either. I grab a cup of free coffee (very low quality), take my seat and introduce myself to the woman seated next to me, a high school teacher from Texas. Then our peppy table leader comes over. “Hi, yeah, sorry, would you mind putting your coffee on the floor? We’re trying to be careful with the laptops.” I sigh and glance around to see other tables with coffee cups and bottles on them. I put my cup on the floor. We spend much of the first day training—watching videos, practicing on sample essays, tuning our brains to AP standards.

    Day 2

    As I sit in the reading room, time crawls; with no windows it could be 3 in the morning for all I know. The novelty has worn off and the grind has set in. Is this what a real job is like? I improvise a routine to manage the boredom: Along with the scheduled 15-minute breaks in the morning and afternoon, every 30 or 40 minutes I get up to walk around, check my phone, stare into space.

    The other readers seem to be mostly high school teachers. They seem well adapted to the AP regimen, and to regimentation. Many wear T-shirts with pro-literacy or pro-reading themes. I’d estimate that about two-thirds of the scorers are women. That fits with the service-heavy load female professors typically shoulder at most universities.

    We are served three free meals a day, buffet-style, all you can eat. There’s a strange symmetry with our daily work—all the exams you can score from a never-ending supply. As my waistline expands, I feel my brain shrinking. The buffet lines are staffed by an army of food service workers, mostly Hispanic or Asian, who bring out metal trays and various tureens from mysterious kitchens for our breakfast, lunch and dinner, as well as the coffee and snacks for our scheduled breaks. The working class works for us, the petit bourgeois, as we help classify the next generation as either part of the future lower middle or upper middle class.

    As we filter back into the reading room after lunch, the chief reader addresses us over a PA system, thanking us for returning on time, reminding us to score carefully, regaling us with a choice quote or two.

    Day 3

    I breakfast with my roommate and a few of his reading-table mates. He really is the nicest person. They invite me to karaoke later. A few drinks would be nice, though I can’t fathom singing after this kind of work.

    I read (or scan, actually) more than 100 essays per day. On average, one or two offer something insightful or fluent. The rest either scrape by, or don’t. Many in fact are aborted on takeoff—a sentence or two, maybe a phrase, sometimes nothing at all. Probably 10 to 15 percent are these kind of no-show efforts. It makes me wonder why these students take this test. Do they get extra class credit for merely showing up? To quote from a favorite Scorsese movie, “Qui bono?”

    I continually hear the crinkling of candy and other snacks—provided free by AP, and replenished daily—being unwrapped. This is in addition to the free, all-you-can-eat meals and snacks during breaks.

    The assistant reader hovers around the tables in our section like a wary exam proctor, watching us for who knows what. This afternoon, the third day of the reading, the computers go down. With nothing to do, I pull out my phone and start reading an article on the author of a literary selection our exams are based on. My friendly table leader comes over. “Let’s please put away our phones.” I scoff and return to reading the article. A few minutes later the assistant reader sidles up to me. “Please put away your phone.” Before I can reply she has moved away.

    The silent whistle finally blows at 5. We stream out of the reading room and down the long corridors of the convention center like mill workers at the end of the day shift. We enter the dining hall or drift outside into the sunny and warm late afternoon. I head straight to the hotel fitness center, the stress of the day evaporating with each set, recharging for another day, just like my Motorola plugged into the hotel room nightstand.

    Later that evening my roommate returns to our room (“karaoke was great!”) and asks me if I want to go tomorrow night. I beg off again (I plead achoraphobia—fear of public singing).

    Day 4

    Salt Lake City—capital of the Beehive State. At lunch I skip the dining hall and make a beeline outside to get some much-needed air and sun. I make my way to Temple Square, the Mormon Vatican. Groups of tourists mix in with groups of name-tagged believers. The temple itself is swaddled in scaffolding. I watch the giant cranes convey building materials to men 10 stories up. A plaque on the Brigham Young Monument records the names of the original 1847 Mormon pioneers. One of them is my great-great-great-great-grandfather.

    Of course, working as an AP exam reader is entirely voluntary. I need extra money this year to pay off some taxes. Scorers make $30 an hour. With overtime—we get paid time and a half on days six and seven—I’ll make about $2,000, before taxes.

    After the 5 o’clock whistle, I go back to the hotel room and blast rock music from the TV so I can feel something (The Strokes’ “Room on Fire” and Greta Van Fleet’s “From the Fires”). The day’s strain melts away.

    Day 5

    Every few days we are tested to make sure we are scoring “accurately.” “Calibration” involves scoring a set of six sample exams—and if you score them as an “expert” reader would, you pass. If you don’t, you get sent to remediation. A few members of my table seem genuinely worried. When I arrive to our table this morning (I am always the last to arrive) my neighbor, the high school teacher from Texas, greets me with some tension in her voice: “We’re calibrating today!” I score my set like I don’t give a damn, and pass. One of my table mates disappears for a couple hours.

    In the afternoon the chief reader makes his most serious announcement—apparently someone has been posting photos of the reading on social media, which is a big no-no. AP has to preserve the “integrity” of its tests, of course. Its Lloyd’s of London–type image is key to that integrity, it seems.

    Most essays are painfully incoherent, ungrammatical. Many, as previously mentioned, are incomplete.

    Still we read them, one after another—we scorers are the English teachers of the future, in the wet dreams of the likes of Elon Musk. All of us readers are in our field because we love reading—and here we are, scanning endless variations on a single passage from a single novel, our love being milked to a slow death, dairy cows once impregnated with passion now tightly corralled into an assembly line and hooked up to machines.

    Like the character Thomas Bradshaw in the brief excerpt the AP essays are based on (from the novel The Bradshaw Variations by Rachel Cusk), most of the essays leave us wanting. We will never see the wife for whom Thomas is waiting in the kitchen; we will never experience their reunion, or the development of their relationship. Like Thomas, we marinate in limbo. Like the static but frantic figures on Keats’s Grecian urn, we chase, we desire, but never consummate.

    Day 6

    The other members of my table pass around a greeting card for everyone to sign for our table leader. They also take up cash donations for a gift. I sign the card.

    The computer servers crash and scoring comes to a halt. I have a feeling of relief, like for extra recess or a snow day.

    Day 7

    Over the course of the week, I’ve given a perfect score to just a handful of exams. Is this how we’re educating the best and brightest, these college students of the near future? Are the vaunted humanities—assailed for years from without—rotting from within? I get a few exams in which the student does not offer an essay, but instead a rant about the meaninglessness of the AP exam itself. These could be mere excuses, but the voices that emerge from these exams are funny, searching, thoughtful.

    “Look beneath the façade of affable confidence and seamless well-adjustment that today’s elite students have learned to project, and what you often find are toxic levels of fear, anxiety and depression, of emptiness and aimlessness and isolation,” William Deresiewicz wrote in Excellent Sheep. “We all know about the stressed-out, overpressured high school student; why do we assume that things get better once she gets to college?”

    The author is a professor of English at a regional public university in the eastern United States.

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  • Teaching About Class in a Post-DEI Era (opinion)

    Teaching About Class in a Post-DEI Era (opinion)

    When I taught about social class in my Intimacy, Marriages and Families course this past semester, I began with reflection and a sticky note, not with a lecture or statistics.

    This wasn’t the first time I used sticky-note prompts in class. Earlier in the semester, I introduced a similar activity during our unit on race, ethnicity and immigration. That experience inspired me: It showed how a simple sentence starter could help students unpack the emotional weight of identity, belonging and difference. It also helped me refine how to frame and facilitate the conversation in a more impactful way.

    So when we arrived at the unit on families and social class, I returned to the sticky notes—this time with more complexity of prompts. And what followed was one of the most meaningful moments of the semester.

    The Sticky Note Activity: A Gentle Way Into a Hard Topic

    I gave students a set of sentence starters and asked them to complete them anonymously on a sticky note. After writing, they placed their notes on the walls, windows, doors and whiteboard—spreading them out wide enough so everyone could read at the same time. Then students walked silently around the room, taking in what their classmates had shared. After the walk, I invited each student to share one or two statements that resonated with them.

    Here are some of the prompts:

    • “I didn’t realize how class shaped me until …”
    • “One thing my family couldn’t afford growing up was …”
    • “I noticed others had more when …”
    • “I felt lucky to have _______ when others didn’t.”
    • “At school, I learned to stay quiet about …”
    • “An opportunity I almost missed because of money was …”
    • “I was taught to always …”

    These prompts are simple but emotionally rich. They allow students to enter the topic from their own lived experience—before theory, before data, before the academic discourse.

    The range of responses students shared was both personal and eye-opening. To the prompt “I didn’t realize how class shaped me until …,” one student reflected on “seeing how much my mother worked just to provide a roof over our heads.” In response to “An opportunity I almost missed because of money was …,” students listed things such as education, rent, bills, Air Jordan shoes, going to college and even a football trip—while one noted simply, “Nothing,” suggesting a contrasting perspective. When asked “I was taught to always …,” many shared values shaped by scarcity and resilience: “be grateful and humble,” “earn money for life by myself after high school” or “bite my tongue to maintain peace.” Responses to “One thing my family couldn’t afford growing up was …” included extracurricular activities, having their own rooms, brand-new items, frequent family time and vacations.

    Furthermore, students noticed class differences with reflections such as “I had to wait for things my friends got in a blink of an eye.” Others shared the silence they learned to carry, responding to “At school, I learned to stay quiet about …” with reflections on their home situations, financial aid or how much their parents made. Some added the inverse: “I learned to stay quiet about other kids’ struggles.”

    A prompt asking students for one moment that made them aware of inequality yielded responses such as “having to work in high school while others went out,” “facing racial discrimination at a young age” and “realizing some classmates couldn’t afford meals.” Finally, to the prompt “I realized not everyone had _______ like I did,” students shared privileges they had come to recognize: “the options to choose,” “the ability to study abroad” or “having parents, food, shelter and protection.” Together, these reflections painted a vivid and humanizing picture of the many ways class difference shapes lived experience—often invisibly.

    After the gallery walk, the room felt palpably different—softer, more thoughtful. While the reflections I’m about to share were originally expressed during a similar activity in our earlier unit on race, ethnicity and immigration, I chose to include them here because they speak to the same core theme. Several students had shared that the activity helped them “see how diverse people in the class are—the values, backgrounds” and one added, “It helped humanize people.”

    This activity then helped me transition smoothly to my key take-home message for students. After the sticky note reflections and class discussion, I prompted them to pause and consider this:

    “Not everyone grows up with the same set of tools. Some of us had parents who could advocate for us, who knew how to navigate systems—others had to figure it all out on their own. Some kids are encouraged to raise their voices; others are expected to stay in line. We’re often told that success is about effort—but what if the race isn’t the same for everyone?”

    I then connected some of the sticky-note reflections back to this statement—helping students draw the line between their lived experiences and structural patterns.

    Why It Matters More Than Ever

    In a political climate in which diversity, equity and inclusion efforts are being rolled back, educators may hesitate to bring up inequality in their classrooms. But this is precisely when it matters most.

    Class disparities are getting wider. Students are balancing coursework while managing food insecurity, housing challenges or caregiving responsibilities. Others arrive with generational wealth, college prep resources and family support networks. If we don’t name these disparities, we risk reinforcing them through silence.

    Teaching about social class isn’t about shame or blame—it’s about giving students the tools to understand their place in the world and the systems that shape it.

    Tips for Teaching Social Class

    There are several strategies educators can use to teach social class in a way that is welcoming and engaging. First, start with stories, not stats—students already live within systems of inequality, so grounding the conversation in their lived experiences builds emotional buy-in before introducing abstract concepts. One effective way to do this is to use low-stakes writing prompts, such as the sticky-note activity, which encourages honest reflection while creating a safe, low-pressure environment.

    It’s also important to create space for silent voices; not all students are comfortable speaking aloud, so alternatives like gallery walks or anonymous digital boards help everyone to feel comfortable participating. After reflection, connect students’ lived experiences with research by introducing concepts such as cultural capital and texts like Unequal Childhoods (University of California Press, second edition, 2011) by Annette Lareau, which explores how social class influences parenting styles and shapes children’s life chances.

    Closing the Loop

    At the end of the unit, I asked students, what can we do?

    I introduced them to the concept of social capital, after earlier discussions on cultural and human capital. I introduced the article “What the Privileged Poor Can Teach Us” by Anthony Abraham Jack, which shows how first-generation and low-income students can build academic support networks—particularly by building relationships with professors.

    Before that, I shared Rita Pierson’s TED Talk “Every Kid Needs a Champion,” a moving reminder that in education, relationships can change lives. Her story exemplifies how connection itself becomes a form of capital, especially for those who grow up without material advantage.

    This pairing helped students see how they could move from understanding class inequality to navigating it—and even challenging it—with critical thinking, empathy and advocacy.

    Teaching about inequality is not partisan—it’s fundamental to education. If we want to graduate students who are not only career-ready but human-ready—who understand structural inequality and social responsibility—then we must create space for conversations about class.

    Sothy Eng is an associate professor of human development and family science at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. He received the 2024 Board of Regents Medal for Excellence in Teaching and is currently contributing to Psychology Today (previously to HuffPost). His work focuses on social capital, family dynamics, parenting and relationship-based education.

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  • Antisemitism Is Not a Problem at George Mason (opinion)

    Antisemitism Is Not a Problem at George Mason (opinion)

    Ages ago, in the 1970s Soviet Union, a Jewish stand-up comedian, Mikhail Zhvanetski, remarked in one of his skits that if you want to argue about the taste of coconuts (not available in the Soviet Union at that time), it’s better to talk to those who’ve actually tried them.

    If you want to argue about antisemitism in academia, better ask those who have actually experienced it. Ask me.

    I was 16 years old when I graduated from high school in Moscow in 1971. My ethnic heritage—Jewish—was written on my state ID by the authorities. I couldn’t change it. I applied to the “Moscow MIT”: Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology. I passed the entrance tests with flying colors: 18 points out of 20, higher than 85 percent of those admitted. I was denied entry. I knew why. The unwritten but strict quota was that Jews could make up no more than 2 percent of freshmen.

    I did get my education, at another university less closely observed by the party authority. But six years later, looking for a job, I could not find one. In part, this was because institute directors knew they could be disciplined if they hired Jews who then applied to emigrate to Israel. I later learned that I was hired only when my future boss and close friend gave his word of honor that I would never try to emigrate.

    Two years later, I applied for Ph.D. study at the renowned Lebedev Physical Institute of the Russian Academy of Sciences (home to seven Nobel laureates). It was common knowledge at that time that one of the officials at Lebedev who had to approve admissions was a notorious antisemite. My gentile adviser also knew that, made sure that the official would never see either my characteristically Jewish face or my state ID, and took over all paperwork communications himself under various pretexts. When I was officially admitted and walked into the official’s office, they looked like they were going to have a heart attack. This was antisemitism.

    In 1994, 10 years after graduating, I moved to the United States, where, eventually, I devoted more than 20 years of service to the Naval Research Laboratory. Then, in 2019, I joined the faculty at George Mason University, one of the most ethnically diverse universities in the country. In my time here, I have never seen any sign of antisemitism, not a shred. I graduated a Muslim student, who—in his own words—felt honored to have me as his adviser (he even invited me to his sister’s wedding, which was restricted, due to the pandemic, to just 20 guests). I taught several more Muslim students and did research with some others. We openly discussed our religions, and I found these students to be good and compassionate listeners if I chose to share one or another story from my Jewish experience.

    Now, however, the U.S. Department of Education is taking seriously a charge of “a pervasive hostile environment for Jewish students and faculty” at George Mason. This is as shocking to me (and to many of my Jewish colleagues at GMU) as hearing that I have broken two legs and never noticed it. In fact, during the trying months after Oct. 7 and amid growing pro-Palestinian protests on campuses, I often praised Mason president Gregory Washington’s handing of this sensitive issue. While paying full respect to respectful protests, freedom of speech and the First Amendment, he fully avoided disruption of the educational process and university business.

    To this point, I can again dig into my experience under a totalitarian regime. When I came to America in 1994, I was fascinated by the famous case of Yates v. U.S., in which the Supreme Court issued a decision that offered a powerful contrast to Soviet rule. In that 1957 case, the court reversed the convictions of 14 Communist leaders in California who had been charged with advocating for the overthrow of the U.S. government by force. As Justice Black wrote, they “were tried upon the charge that they believe in and want to foist upon this country a different, and, to us, a despicable, form of authoritarian government in which voices criticizing the existing order are summarily silenced. I fear that the present type of prosecutions are more in line with the philosophy of authoritarian government than with that expressed by our First Amendment.”

    To me, this case reflected a quintessential characteristic of American democracy: rephrasing Voltaire, “We may find your view despicable, but will defend to the death your right to say it.”

    Though the details of the antisemitism complaint against George Mason have not been made public, it appears that Washington’s leadership is coming under attack based on just two cases involving three students; only one of those cases involved an alleged incident (vandalism) that occurred on campus. In both cases, the university administration, in collaboration with law enforcement, took immediate and harsh steps to resolve the situations: As Washington noted in a recent message to campus, the university was applauded by the Jewish Community Relations Council of Greater Washington for “deploying the full weight of the university’s security and disciplinary measures to prevent these students from perpetrating harm on campus.”

    And these incidents are outliers. Just as three thieves who may be GMU students wouldn’t attest to “pervasive thievery” on campus, three students alleged to have violent anti-Israeli agendas do not constitute a “pervasive hostile environment for Jewish students and faculty.” On the contrary, I feel safer and more assured knowing that three miscreants out of a student body of 40,000 were immediately and efficiently dealt with.

    What does make me feel uncomfortable—and what I do find antisemitic— is the implicit suggestion that I, an American Jew who does not have Israeli citizenship, must feel offended and defensive in the face of any criticism of any action of the Israeli government. I find such beliefs reprehensible, and they encroach on my freedom to have my own opinion about international affairs.

    Gregory Washington is my president, and I am confident that he is doing an excellent job protecting all faculty and students, including Jews, from bigotry and harassment. It is false allegations of antisemitism on campus under the pretext of “defending” Jews like myself that really threatens my well-being as a GMU professor.

    Igor Mazin is a professor of physics at George Mason University.

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  • The Good Enough Manuscript (opinion)

    The Good Enough Manuscript (opinion)

    I recently coached a scholar through drafting a proposal for her second book. Her manuscript is almost complete, and our work together involved putting together a strong pitch for a few of the university presses that publish in her field. As she shared the last component of her book proposal with me for feedback, she observed with satisfaction that the proposal was indeed coming together but that the hard part would be working up the nerve to send the project off. If she only knew how many times I’ve seen that “hard part” be the step that kept people from realizing the publishing success they so deserve.

    As a professional developmental editor and publishing consultant who has spent the last 10 years helping academics bring their books and articles to print, I’m well-versed in the struggles of the scholarly writer. It’s no small feat to find time to research and write amid other professional obligations (like teaching and service) and personal commitments (like childcare, eldercare and self-care), not to mention national and global turbulence. Those who manage to complete a scholarly manuscript under these conditions should be applauded. But then the writer who has already accomplished so much faces another hurdle: persuading a press or journal to publish the text they’ve written.

    A common reaction to this hurdle is to find ways to delay having to confront it. I see writers get stuck in endless rounds of revision, going back and forth about which citations to include, tinkering with sentence structure and word choice, waiting to contact publishers until they’ve landed on the perfect phrasing for their cover letters.

    The truth is that the minute details don’t matter as much in the first submission as authors might think, especially at book publishers. You do want to put your best foot forward, to show that you value an editor’s time and that of the peer reviewers who will consider your work for publication. But it’s expected that your manuscript will evolve with the input of peer reviewers and that polishing words and sentences will happen during the final revision and copyediting stages. The writer’s goal when submitting to publishers should therefore not be a perfectly finished text, but a “good enough” manuscript that allows a press or journal to seriously consider whether they want to give a greater platform to the writer’s ideas.

    But what constitutes “good enough” in the eyes of scholarly publishers? The first criterion publishers are looking for is a sense of fit with their existing offerings. This actually has little to do with the quality of your writing. It’s more about whether the readership that the press or journal has already cultivated is generally welcoming to the topic, methods and theoretical framework of your piece.

    To ensure your manuscript is good enough in the area of fit, do your homework on what your target press or journal has recently published in the last year or two. Get clear on whom you are writing for and find outlets where those readers are already gathering. The risk of rejection goes down exponentially when you send your manuscript to the right place.

    Turning to your manuscript itself, before sending it to a publisher, you should evaluate it for what I call the four pillars of scholarly writing: argument, evidence, structure and style. Scholarly manuscripts must have a solid foundation in all four areas to be successful in the publishing process, because each of these fundamental aspects of the text has the potential to make or break the text’s chances of being received well by peer reviewers, getting approved for publication and ultimately reaching readers in the author’s scholarly field and beyond.

    Your argument is the main claim that drives your text and that you want readers to accept. Is it clearly stated near the beginning and does it remain present throughout the text? Your evidence backs up the argument for the reader. Do you have sufficient evidence and do you analyze it effectively to guide your reader to the points you want them to accept?

    The structure of your manuscript supports the reader in encountering your evidence and absorbing your points in a logical and engaging order. Structural concerns include the way the text is organized into chapters, sections and paragraphs, as well as your use of titles, headings, transitions and other signposts to move your reader along. Have you put thought into why the components of your text are organized the way they are, and have you used appropriate cues to make the structural logic obvious to your reader? By style, I mean the overall presentation of your writing, including how your attitude toward both reader and subject matter shows up on the page. Depending on the publishing venue, the style of a scholarly manuscript may be informal or formal, passionate or detached. Consider what will be most effective with your most important readers and ensure stylistic consistency across your text.

    After attending to big-picture matters, you will want to double-check that everything in your text is accurate and that sloppy errors don’t interfere with a reader’s understanding of what you want to say. But resist the temptation to tinker endlessly with superficial details. Everyone’s time, labor and mental fortitude are limited these days, so spend yours where they will get you the greatest return on investment.

    Try to reframe the editorial and publication process in your mind, thinking of it not as an adversarial set of gatekeeping encounters—though it can be that at times—but as a process designed to make your work the best it can be before it goes public. Your manuscript doesn’t have to be perfect when entering the process, because you’ll be taking it through several cycles of development before considering it to be finished. There will be multiple opportunities to improve it, and editors, peer reviewers and supportive readers will be alongside to help.

    The prospect of hitting “send” on your manuscript can be incredibly nerve-racking, but your ideas can’t reach anyone, let alone do good work in the world, if you don’t put them out there. You must eventually let go of the manuscript so it can go do its work.

    Doubts are natural. You may worry that a reader you respect will have reasonable objections or that you’ve missed something important. Perhaps you also worry about exposing yourself to criticism or rejection on the basis of your ideas, identity, background or political beliefs. Such fears are legitimate, especially for those scholars who are already marginalized in the academy. Name these fears and acknowledge that you have a right to feel your anxieties. Then assess whether the actual risks are worth silencing yourself by not putting your work out there at all.

    Laura Portwood-Stacer is the author of Make Your Manuscript Work (Princeton University Press, 2025), which offers a practical method to develop scholarly texts for publication, including a list of the most common areas where manuscripts need improvement. She is also the author of The Book Proposal Book (Princeton, 2021) and the Manuscript Works Newsletter, providing weekly guidance for scholarly writers and publishing professionals.

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  • A Framework for Organizing Student Success Efforts (opinion)

    A Framework for Organizing Student Success Efforts (opinion)

    From declining enrollments to equity gaps and growing concerns about student belonging, the pressures on colleges and universities—especially those serving first-generation and regional student populations—are intense and unrelenting. We have all read about the enrollment cliffs and seen firsthand how small, regional institutions are being asked to do more with less while still delivering transformational experiences to diverse and increasingly nontraditional learners.

    While there is no single solution to these complex and multifaceted challenges, I believe we can and must do better to organize and focus our collective efforts. In my two decades of experience as a mathematics education professor, interim dean, student success leader and first-generation college graduate, I have repeatedly seen the power of synthesizing widely known but often disconnected strategies into coherent, institutionwide models for student success.

    That experience led me to develop the ACCESS framework, a holistic and memorable approach that integrates six core pillars essential to supporting students from recruitment through graduation and beyond. These pillars—affinity, community, career, early alert, support and storytelling—are not novel in isolation. However, woven together, they offer a powerful and practical road map for institutions striving to create environments where students not only persist but thrive. Importantly, ACCESS also addresses what I see as a common and costly issue in higher education: fragmentation. Too often, well-intentioned programs exist in silos, failing to produce the sustained, cross-campus impact we seek. ACCESS offers a way to unify these efforts into a clear, student-centered strategy.

    Affinity: Fostering Belonging From Day One

    Students are more likely to succeed when they feel they belong. This is especially true for first-generation students, underrepresented populations and those navigating higher education in rural or regional settings where campus may feel unfamiliar or disconnected from prior experiences.

    Affinity strategies focus on helping students quickly form meaningful connections with peers, faculty and the institution itself. Examples include first-year experience programs, peer mentorship initiatives, themed housing and proactive advising. Institutions that intentionally create these touch points early and often can increase students’ sense of belonging and purpose, which research has shown to be critical predictors of retention and achievement.

    Affinity is about more than social engagement—it is about students seeing themselves as valued and capable members of the campus community.

    Community: Building Meaningful and Reciprocal Connections

    Beyond personal belonging, students benefit from opportunities to engage in shared purpose.

    Community-focused strategies emphasize service learning, civic engagement, student organizations and collaborative learning experiences that help students feel connected not only to campus but to broader societal goals. Partnerships with local community and nonprofit organizations create reciprocal value: Students gain real-world experience and social capital while institutions strengthen ties with the communities they serve.

    Moreover, community-building activities enhance peer support networks. Students engaged in study groups, cohort models or co-curricular leadership roles often demonstrate higher retention and graduation rates. Creating purposeful, inclusive spaces for students to connect with one another should be viewed as essential, not optional.

    Career: Connecting Learning to Life After College

    Students increasingly expect—and deserve—a clear connection between their academic experience and future opportunities. Career-connected learning, designed to deepen students’ classroom experiences by connecting skills to real-world occupations, has been shown to increase engagement, motivation, broader sense of purpose and sense of preparedness for employment. But career integration must go far beyond the traditional career center model. It should be infused throughout the student journey.

    ACCESS emphasizes career as a core pillar, with a focus on early and ongoing exposure to career pathways, industry partnerships and hands-on learning. Microcredentials, internships, alumni mentoring and project-based courses all help students articulate the value of their degree and build the confidence to pursue their aspirations. When students can see the relevance of their studies to their goals, their motivation, persistence and sense of belonging increase substantially.

    Early Alert: Leveraging Data to Intervene and Support

    While many institutions have adopted early-alert systems, ACCESS emphasizes the importance of using data in intentional, coordinated ways across campus. A study of more than 16,000 students at a regional university found an early-alert system was effective at identifying students at significantly higher risk of dropping out, even when controlling for academic performance and demographic characteristics. Early-alert systems are not simply about identifying struggling students—they are about creating a culture where faculty, advisers and staff collaborate to proactively support students before issues become crises. Effective systems involve mobilizing cross-campus teams to conduct outreach—through emails, phone calls or in-person check-ins—to improve retention rates and remove barriers ranging from financial hardship to emotional stress.

    Early alert requires more than technology. It requires buy-in, training and shared ownership. When done well, it sends a powerful message to students: “You matter, and we are here to help you succeed.”

    Support: Providing Comprehensive, Seamless Services

    Students’ lives are complex, and so are the challenges they face. ACCESS recognizes that academic success cannot be separated from wellness, financial stability and mental health. Institutions must offer robust, coordinated support systems that meet students where they are and that encompass everything from advising, tutoring and accessibility services to counseling, financial aid navigation and basic needs support. Centralized student success centers, coordinated case management models and wraparound services are all effective ways to ensure that no student falls through the cracks.

    Wraparound student support services, especially when delivered through relational, trauma-informed and personalized case management, foster deeper connection and institutional engagement. This in turn supports retention and persistence outcomes. Importantly, support must be framed as a strength, not a deficiency. Normalizing help-seeking behavior and reducing stigma are essential to creating an environment where students feel safe accessing the resources they need.

    Storytelling: Creating a Culture of Pride and Narrative

    Finally, ACCESS includes a pillar that is often overlooked but profoundly impactful: storytelling. Students are more likely to persist and complete their degrees when they can see themselves as protagonists in their own educational journeys.

    Institutions should prioritize sharing student and alumni stories—through social media, newsletters, admissions materials and campus events—to reinforce the value and relevance of the college experience. Equally important is empowering students to reflect on and tell their own stories, helping them make meaning of their experiences and building a sense of pride and ownership. Research suggests that as students reshape their narrative identities, seeing themselves not as outsiders but as capable contributors, they become more engaged and persistent in their academic work.

    In my leadership roles, I have seen how storytelling humanizes data and drives institutional momentum. Donors connect emotionally to stories of transformation. Prospective students see possibilities reflected in the experiences of peers. Faculty and staff are reminded of their purpose. Storytelling, when done authentically, becomes a unifying force.

    Putting ACCESS Into Action

    The ACCESS framework is not prescriptive or rigid. Rather, it is an adaptable model that provides institutions with a common language and conceptual map for aligning efforts across recruitment, retention, student support and advancement.

    I am mindful that the individual strategies embedded in ACCESS are not new. What is new—and, I believe, urgently needed—is a simple, memorable framework that helps institutions avoid fragmented initiatives and instead build integrated, student-centered ecosystems.

    Importantly, ACCESS should not exist outside of the academic mission. Its greatest potential lies in integration with the curriculum. Faculty play a vital role in fostering belonging, connecting coursework to careers, identifying students in need of support and empowering students to reflect on their learning. When academic and co-curricular strategies align, student success becomes not a separate initiative but a seamless and transformative part of the college experience.

    ACCESS can serve as a guide for cabinet-level planning, cross-departmental working groups, strategic enrollment management and assessment. It offers a way to bring together academic affairs, student affairs, advancement and community partners around a shared vision for student success.

    As higher education faces unprecedented challenges, we must embrace models that are not only evidence-based but also intuitive and human-centered. I invite my colleagues across higher education to consider how ACCESS—or similar integrative models—might provide clarity, cohesion and inspiration as we work collectively to support the students we serve.

    Laura J. Jacobsen is the chair of the Department of Mathematics and Statistics and a professor of mathematics education at Radford University.

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  • Higher Ed Is Morally Injured (opinion)

    Higher Ed Is Morally Injured (opinion)

    For months, I’ve been grappling with the current state of higher education, which seems to be increasingly defined by anxiety, uncertainty and fear. Our budgets are shrinking and our programs are threatened. New federal legislation includes major changes to student aid. The values that have historically undergirded our work are under threat: We operate under a cloud of political interference, limiting academic freedom, diversity initiatives and even the very topics we are permitted to teach. We witness administrators, deans and presidents forced into impossible corners by the choices they have to make that pit their own convictions against their political survival and the financial health of their institutions. I wonder how many leaders have quietly caved to outside pressures because they feel that they have no other choice. And I wonder how many more will.

    Our current moment isn’t the first time educators have faced profound moral dilemmas. During the McCarthy era, for instance, faculty and educators were forced to choose between signing loyalty oaths and risking professional ruin. These dilemmas did not simply fade into history; their echoes resonate powerfully in today’s educational climate, where, once again, many educators confront impossible choices, perhaps reflecting broader societal trends toward authoritarianism, censorship and anti-intellectualism. The recent wave of book bans and legislation restricting DEI initiatives highlights how deeply entangled education has become in national culture wars. These forces don’t just target policies; they directly wound the morale, trust and integrity of our campus communities.

    This ongoing bending to pressures that run counter to our deeply held educational and ethical beliefs makes me wonder if we’re experiencing a collective moral injury in higher education. Moral injury is the profound emotional and psychological wound that occurs when our core values and integrity are betrayed or compromised, often through external pressures or systemic forces beyond our control. Unlike general burnout, which emerges from chronic exhaustion, moral injury arises specifically from the betrayal or violation of deeply held ethical convictions, creating profound psychological and existential distress. In higher education, moral injury manifests when institutional and political demands clash with our educational and human mission—that is, when leaders, faculty and staff are compelled to enact policies or decisions that violate their beliefs about equity, care, academic freedom and justice. It goes beyond burnout and stress; moral injury cuts deep, affecting trust, agency and our very sense of purpose.

    Why should we care? Because moral injury doesn’t simply stay contained within the individual experiencing it. It’s not just private pain; it’s a profoundly social and relational wound. Moral injury has a silent, corrosive effect: When we educators and leaders repeatedly experience a conflict between institutional demands and our ethical convictions, it gradually erodes our trust in ourselves, in others and in the institutions we serve. Left unnamed, it quietly undermines morale, corrodes relationships and weakens the very foundations of our educational communities.

    Moreover, when we leave moral injury unaddressed, we risk allowing it to become normalized. That is, we treat it as just another form of stress or burnout rather than a profound betrayal that calls for careful attention, communal support and systemic change. So, by openly naming moral injury, not only do we validate its seriousness, we also create pathways toward collective acknowledgment, courageous dialogue, healing and, ultimately, transformative action.

    Consider the recent example of Jim Ryan, the ninth president of the University of Virginia, who announced his resignation in late June in a deeply reflective, heartfelt letter to the university community. Ryan faced a difficult choice: fight the federal government on principle, potentially losing the university’s federal funding, causing hundreds of employees to lose their jobs, cutting off vital research support and jeopardizing the educations and visas of countless students—or step aside. Ryan explained that while he believes deeply in fighting for what he values, he simply could not justify risking real and immediate harm to the UVA community. He called this decision “excruciatingly difficult,” a choice made with “a very heavy heart.” His resignation was not a defeat, but rather a stark acknowledgment of the painful moral dilemmas facing higher education leaders today.

    Ryan’s decision underscores precisely what moral injury looks and feels like in our institutions. Higher education leaders are being placed in impossible situations, forced to choose between bad and worse. His decision reveals that moral injury isn’t abstract; it’s profoundly personal and relational, deeply rooted in the values that guided many of our decisions to enter education in the first place. His ordeal, however, is only half the story; the ripples of such decisions roll outward to our classrooms and, most crucially, to our students.

    That’s because moral injury does not only affect leadership. I worry about how these conditions shape our students’ experiences. What lessons do students internalize when their institutions and professors appear forced into moral compromises? When we as educators seem powerless to protect our values or our students’ right to honest inquiry, how does our acquiescence impact their ability to trust, engage deeply and imagine hopeful futures? How does this dynamic undermine the very educational outcomes we strive to achieve?

    These moral dilemmas and compromises aren’t accidental; they’re often embedded in the institutional structures of higher education itself. Consider how our reliance on politically influenced state funding can leave institutions and their leaders little room to maneuver ethically. National research funding, such as from the National Science Foundation, National Institutes of Health or National Endowment for the Humanities, has now been politicized as well. These pressures become structural conditions that not only invite moral injury but almost inevitably enforce it. They leave educators and administrators feeling trapped between their values and institutional survival.

    Yet, for me, Jim Ryan’s resignation provides us an example of moral clarity and moral courage. Ryan’s honest and public acknowledgment of his dilemma defines the harm and injustice of his situation. By openly describing his dilemma, Ryan makes the crucial first step toward us hearing it and allows us to bear witness to his moral wound.

    Ryan’s choice thus compels us not only to recognize moral injury but also to grapple with how we might respond, heal and move forward collectively. When we experience moral injury, the clarity and courage we typically rely upon become distorted; in such moments, it is difficult to rise alone. We need that trusted community to recover our sight, to rekindle our nerve and to ask the hard questions that let healing begin. As educators and leaders, we need to consider the following questions:

    • How can we create spaces to compassionately name the wounds we carry from these morally injurious conditions?
    • What forms of community support might allow us to reclaim our sense of agency and take courageous, authentic action?
    • What new futures might we collectively imagine for higher education, futures rooted in justice, compassion and integrity?

    These questions are critical precisely because moral injuries do not heal on their own; instead, they require intentional, communal responses. Importantly, asking tough questions and naming the wound are only the threshold; authentic healing demands the collective courage to hold one another accountable, to co‑imagine more beautiful possibilities and to cultivate the shared clarity and resolve needed to pursue them. Imagination can help us sketch the future we long for, clarity lights our path toward it and courage supplies our stride: Each feeds the next in a journey that carries us from injury to transcendence.

    Across our campuses, educators at every level (librarians defending banned books, faculty resisting diluted curricula, department chairs shielding vulnerable programs and, yes, the occasional president who chooses conscience over position) are modeling what it means to align clarity, courage and imagination. Each act, whether public or quietly steadfast, reminds us that collective moral injury can become a springboard for systemic renewal. When we discern what truly matters, dare to envision just alternatives and summon the courage to act together, we shift from enduring harm to transcending it. In so doing, we begin to rebuild higher education on the ethical foundations that first called us to teach and learn.

    Mays Imad is an associate professor of biology at Connecticut College. She serves as an AAC&U Senior STEM Fellow as well as a scholar in residence at the Red House at Georgetown University and a research fellow with the Centre for the Study of the Afterlife of Violence and the Reparative Quest at Stellenbosch University. She writes on higher education, effective teaching, stress, learning and the brain.

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  • What to Do When Your Job Search Stalls (opinion)

    What to Do When Your Job Search Stalls (opinion)

    Graduating into a tight job market can feel very daunting. You’ve invested years into your education and training, built strong skill sets, and followed the advice given by mentors and peers to make yourself competitive. So why aren’t the offers coming?

    If you find yourself in this situation, it’s normal to feel discouraged, demoralized or unsure of what to do next. Below are some steps you can take to help jump-start your job hunt by evaluating what’s working and identifying what might need adjusting so you can move forward and maintain momentum.

    Step 1: Evaluate Your Job Search Strategy

    Before making any major changes, start by examining your current approach.

    Are you submitting lots of job applications but not hearing back? This could be a sign that your application materials need refinement. Ask yourself: Are my CV or résumé and cover letter polished and tailored to each role? Am I clearly highlighting how my skills align with the job description? If you’re unsure, reach out to a professional in your field, mentor or career coach to review these materials and provide feedback.

    Are you getting interviews but not progressing to the next round or receiving final offers? This may signal that your interview approach needs improvement. Using structured interview methods, such as the STAR method (situation, task, action, result), can help you learn how to better organize your responses to highlight your experiences in a more focused manner. Practicing with a mentor or even a peer can help you identify gaps in preparation or missteps in how you present yourself. Many universities offer free career services, including mock interviews, to their students and alumni.

    In a competitive market, job searching also requires proactive strategies beyond submitting applications. I often see job seekers hyperfixate on tweaking applications that are already strong when their time would be better spent networking. Reach out to professionals, schedule informational interviews and make connections that help you uncover hidden opportunities and potentially receive internal referrals. These conversations can also help you better understand your target roles and the broader job landscape.

    Step 2: Broaden Your Search Strategically

    If networking and refining your materials isn’t enough, it may be time to broaden the types of jobs you’re considering. This doesn’t mean giving up on your long-term career aspirations; instead it means exploring bridge or adjacent roles that can help you stay on track while you continue to grow professionally. While bridge roles may not be your first choice, they can support future career moves by helping you gain relevant work experience, build new skills and expand your professional network.

    One way to identify bridge roles is to explore LinkedIn profiles of alumni and professionals in your field. Examining the positions they held after graduating and where they are now can help expand your list of possible bridge roles. Take this a step further during informational interviews by asking professionals about their knowledge of bridge roles. For example, a person targeting a medical science liaison role might ask an MSL in an informational interview, “I have been applying to MSL roles without any success; what other roles could help me work toward this path?” They might learn of opportunities in medical communications, clinical research or technical sales, positions that develop many of the same skills valued in MSL roles and often done by professionals before landing an MSL position.

    Bridge jobs can also provide financial stability while allowing you to build your skills. For example, I work with many students who aim to move directly into industry as scientists. However, if the job search stalls, an academic postdoc can be a strategic choice, especially when it aligns with building specific skills and provides much-needed income. One graduate I advised discovered through informational interviews that he would need additional expertise in advanced sequencing techniques to be competitive for the R&D roles he was targeting. He chose to take a two-year academic postdoc with a clear plan to build those exact skills, positioning himself for a stronger transition into industry while providing financial stability for his family. A postdoc can offer time to deepen your technical expertise, build a more competitive research portfolio and prepare for roles in biotech, R&D or other sectors.

    If you pursue a postdoc as a bridge role, be transparent with the postdoc mentor about your intentions. Take the earlier example of the graduate pursuing industry R&D roles. He was clear in communicating both the specific skills he needed to gain (RNA sequencing) and the time frame he would commit (two years). That kind of clarity helps establish shared expectations and ensures the postdoc experience is mutually beneficial for both you and the lab.

    Another important strategy for broadening your job search is to reflect carefully on your needs versus preferences. Needs are the nonnegotiables, such as visa requirements, caregiving responsibilities or a two-income household situation. A person’s preferences might include living in a specific city, having a certain job title or starting at a particular salary. While all of these are important to consider, being flexible on preferences can help you uncover new possibilities. Ask yourself: Are there geographic areas I’ve ruled out that might be worth reconsidering? Could I shift my salary expectations temporarily to get a foot in the door? Widening your criteria doesn’t mean compromising your goals; it’s a strategic step in reaching them.

    Step 3: Know When to Pivot

    If you’ve been searching consistently and not gaining traction, it may be time for a bigger strategic shift. Sometimes we become so focused on our initial ideas about our career that we overlook other options that could be equally or more fulfilling. Ask yourself: Could there be paths that better match my strengths or allow me to grow in ways my original plan didn’t? Have I overlooked opportunities that may better align with my values, interests or lifestyle goals as they are now?

    In the book Designing Your Life: How to Build a Well-Lived, Joyful Life (Knopf, 2016), authors Bill Burnett and Dave Evans suggest that being stuck can be a powerful launchpad for creativity and personal growth. They encourage readers to approach career planning as a design problem that benefits from curiosity, experimentation and iteration. One recommended exercise to stimulate curiosity is to brainstorm multiple career paths for yourself. Once you have your list of possible futures, you can then explore the most promising options through research and conversations with professionals in those roles.

    If you need help identifying new directions, the individual development plan can be a useful tool. Platforms such as myIDP or ImaginePhD offer exercises and assessments to help you identify your skills, interests and values and pinpoint career paths aligned with your results. These platforms also include resources to guide you toward researching and setting goals to reach a new path.

    Importantly, pivoting doesn’t mean giving up. It means recognizing that there are many viable paths available and you may end up at a better destination than originally planned.

    Managing the Emotions of Job Searching

    Job searching can take a real emotional toll, especially when it feels like you’re doing everything right and not seeing results. Many students feel intense pressure to secure a job after graduation, and when that doesn’t happen quickly, feelings of inadequacy can creep in. These feelings can make it harder to ask for help, reach out for support or even acknowledge how difficult the process has been. When the process feels overwhelming, shift your focus to what you can control. Set small, achievable goals each week to keep your momentum going during a slow-moving search. For example, set a goal of applying to a defined number of jobs, completing a short online course to build a new skill or attending a virtual or local networking event in your field.

    One trend I’ve noticed is that some students reach a point in which they are tempted to pay someone to “fix” the problem. If you are considering investing in paid career coaching, do your homework first. This should be a thoughtful decision, not an emotional reaction driven by frustration. Some paid coaches and services are legitimately helpful, but others overpromise results and prey on frustrated job seekers. Ask about outcomes, get referrals and make sure that their services align with your goals.

    Take Your Next Steps

    After reading this, you may have several new ideas or directions you are considering. To avoid feeling overwhelmed, start by writing down one microgoal you can complete in the next few days that is simple but still meaningful. For example, you might set up a meeting with a mentor, revise a section of your résumé or research a new role. Choose something that is doable and aligned with where you want to go. Small steps like these can really jump-start your progress.

    Even if it’s not going according to your original timeline, remember that the job search is a dynamic process. By keeping an eye on your long-term goals but remaining flexible, you’ll be open to the roles and experiences that can help you get there. Most importantly, give yourself credit for working the problem, pushing forward and continuing to put yourself out there.

    Raquel Y. Salinas is the assistant dean of career and alumni engagement at the University of Texas MD Anderson Cancer Center UTHealth Houston Graduate School of Biomedical Sciences. She is a member of the Graduate Career Consortium, an organization providing an international voice for graduate-level career and professional development leaders.

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