A brief announcement: After 20 years of writing “Intellectual Affairs” for Inside Higher Ed, I am retiring at the end of the month—from the gig, that is, not from writing itself. The final column will run in two weeks.
Going to a play at the height of COVID-19 was effectively impossible, but I managed to see two productions of Will Arbery’s Heroes of the Fourth Turning in the fall of 2020. The first performance was via Zoom. The actors did what they could, but the suspension of disbelief was never a viewer option. Heroes was then produced by Philadelphia’s Wilma Theater and “captured digitally as a site-specific production, created in a closed quarantine ‘bubble’ at a private location in the Poconos, following strict health guidelines,” as press materials stated at the time.
Set at a small Catholic college in rural Wyoming during the first months of Donald Trump’s presidency, Heroes centers on four friends (two men, two women) who reunite at a college function, a few years after graduation. They all admire a professor who has been appointed as president of the college. She joins them around two-thirds of the way through the play; one of the four is her daughter.
The audience quickly picks up that Transfiguration College of Wyoming has a curriculum based on the Great Books, with a strong dose of conservative theology—not least on matters of sexual morality. And the lessons have gone deep. None of the four has drifted away from the faith, or skewed to the left, although one is clearly more troubled by punitive rhetoric than the rest.
The play’s title alludes to a pop-sociological theory of history as moving through a cycle of four periods, each about two decades long. Since graduation, one member of the group has become a fairly successful figure in right-wing media (likely she has Steve Bannon on speed dial) and an ardent believer in the apocalypse promised by the fourth turning.
“It’s destruction,” she says. “It’s revolution, it’s war. The nation almost doesn’t survive. Great example is the Civil War, and the economic crisis before that. Or the Great Depression and World War II. And it’s right now. The national identity crisis caused by Obama. Liberals think it’s Trump. It’s the fight to save civilization. People start to collectivize and turn against each other. It seems like everything’s ending—we’re all gonna die. No one trusts each other. But the people who do trust each other form crazy bonds. Somehow we get through it, we rise from the ashes …”
The phoenix that emerges? An era of security, conformity and prosperity. The apocalypse has a happy ending.
When the play premiered off-Broadway in 2019, reviewers often imagined the discomfort it would presumably give New York theatergoers—plunged into a continuous flow of red state ideology, with no character challenging it. But the play did more than that. The figures Arbery puts on stage are characters, not ventriloquist dummies. They have known one another at close proximity for years and formed “crazy bonds” of great intensity.
Their conversation is rooted in that personal history as well as in Transfiguration College’s carefully tended vision of Judeo-Christian Western civilization. The playwright creates a good deal of inner space for the actors to occupy and move around in. When I finally got to see Heroes of the Fourth Turningonstage, in person, there were moments that felt like eavesdropping on real people.
What comes out of a character’s mouth at times echoes well-worn culture-war talking points—many unchanged now, almost eight years after when the play is set. At the same time, the characters clash over points of doctrine and ethical disagreement, and express very mixed feelings about the MAGA crusade. The closest thing to an expression of enthusiasm for the new president (then and now) is when a character calls Trump “a Golem molded from the clay of mass media … Even if he himself is confused, he has the ability to spit out digestible sound bites rooted in decades of the work of the most brilliant conservative think tanks in the country.”
This is cynical, but also naïve. When the president of the college appears before her adoring former students, she recites some points they have undoubtedly heard from her many times:
“Progressivism moves too fast and forces change and constricts liberty. Gridlock is beautiful. In the delay is deliberation and true consensus. If you just railroad something through because you want it done, that’s the passion of the mob. Delaying is the structure of the [republic], which is structured differently in order to offset the dangers of democracy. I believe in slowness, gridlock.”
She’s a fictional character, but I still wonder what she’s made of the last few weeks.
Not long after Heroes opened in 2019, Elizabeth Redden wrote an in-depth article for Inside Higher Ed about Wyoming Catholic College, the not-so-veiled original for the play’s Transfiguration College. Arbery’s father was the college’s president at the time. All of which goes some ways toward explaining how a one-act play can evoke so palpably a college that is also a counterculture.
Scott McLemee is Inside Higher Ed’s “Intellectual Affairs” columnist. He was a contributing editor at Lingua Franca magazine and a senior writer at The Chronicle of Higher Education before joining Inside Higher Ed in 2005.
Indirect cost recovery (ICR) seems like a boring, technical budget subject. In reality, it is a major source of the long-running budget crises at public research universities. Misinformation about ICR has also confused everyone about the university’s public benefits.
These paired problems—concealed budget shortfalls and misinformation—didn’t cause the ICR cuts being implemented by the NIH acting director, one Matthew J. Memoli, M.D. But they are the basis of Memoli’s rationale.
Trump’s people will sustain these cuts unless academics can create an honest counternarrative that inspires wider opposition. I’ll sketch a counternarrative below.
The sudden policy change is that the NIH is to cap indirect cost recovery at 15 percent of the direct costs of a grant, regardless of the existing negotiated rate. Multiple lawsuits have been filed challenging the legality of the change, and courts have temporarily blocked it from going into effect.
Memoli’s notice of the cap, issued Friday, has a narrative that is wrong but internally coherent and plausible.
It starts with three claims about the $9 billion of the overall $35 billion research funding budget that goes to indirect costs:
Indirect cost allocations are in zero-sum competition with direct costs, therefore reducing the total amount of research.
Indirect costs are “difficult for NIH to oversee” because they aren’t entirely entailed by a specific grant.
“Private foundations” cap overhead charges at 10 to 15 percent of direct costs and all but a handful of universities accept those grants.
Memoli offers a solution: Define a “market rate” for indirect costs as that allowed by private foundations (Gates, Chan Zuckerberg, some others). The implication is the foundations’ rate captures real indirect costs rather than inflated or wishful costs that universities skim to pad out bloated administrations. On this analytical basis, currently wasted indirect costs will be reallocated to useful direct costs, thus increasing rather than decreasing scientific research.
There’s a false logic here that needs to be confronted.
The strategy so far to resist these cuts seems to focus on outcomes rather than on the actual claims or the underlying budgetary reality of STEM research in the United States. Scientific groups have called the ICR rate cap an attack on U.S. scientific leadership and on public benefits to U.S. taxpayers (childhood cancer treatments that will save lives, etc.). This is all important to talk about. And yet these claims don’t refute the NIH logic. Nor do they get at the hidden budget reality of academic science.
On the logic: Indirect costs aren’t in competition with direct costs because direct and indirect costs pay for different categories of research ingredients.
Direct costs apply to the individual grant: costs for chemicals, graduate student labor, equipment, etc., that are only consumed by that particular grant.
Indirect costs, also called facilities and administrative (F&A) costs, support infrastructure used by everybody in a department, discipline, division, school or university. Infrastructure is the library that spends tens of thousands of dollars a year to subscribe to just one important journal that is consulted by hundreds or thousands of members of that campus community annually. Infrastructure is the accounting staff that writes budgets for dozens and dozens of grant applications across departments or schools. Infrastructure is the building, new or old, that houses multiple laboratories: If it’s new, the campus is still paying it off; if it’s old, the campus is spending lots of money keeping it running. These things are the tip of the iceberg of the indirect costs of contemporary STEM research.
In response to the NIH’s social media announcement of its indirect costs rate cut, Bertha Madras had a good starter list of what indirects involve.
Screenshot via Christopher Newfield
And there are also people who track all these materials, reorder them, run the daily accounting, etc.—honestly, people who aren’t directly involved in STEM research have a very hard time grasping its size and complexity, and therefore its cost.
As part of refuting the claim that NIH can just not pay for all this and therefore pay for more research, the black box of research needs to be opened up, Bertha Madras–style, and properly narrated as a collaborative (and exciting) activity.
This matter of human activity gets us to the second NIH-Memoli claim, which involves toting up the processes, structures, systems and people that make up research infrastructure and adding up their costs. The alleged problem is that it is “difficult to oversee.”
Very true, but difficult things can and often must be done, and that is what happens with indirect costs. Every university compiles indirect costs as a condition of receiving research grants. Specialized staff (more indirect costs!) use a large amount of accounting data to sum up these costs, and they use expensive information technology to do this to the correct standard. University staff then negotiate with federal agencies for a rate that addresses their particular university’s actual indirect costs. These rates are set for a time, then renegotiated at regular intervals to reflect changing costs or infrastructural needs.
The fact that this process is “difficult” doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with it. This claim shouldn’t stand—unless and until NIH convincingly identifies specific flaws.
As stated, the NIH-Memoli claim that decreasing funding for overhead cuts will increase science is easily falsifiable. (And we can say this while still advocating for reducing overhead costs, including ever-rising compliance costs imposed by federal research agencies. But we would do this by reducing the mandated costs, not the cap.)
The third statement—that private foundations allow only 10 to 15 percent rates of indirect cost recovery—doesn’t mean anything in itself. Perhaps Gates et al. have the definitive analysis of true indirect costs that they have yet to share with humanity. Perhaps Gates et al. believe that the federal taxpayer should fund the university infrastructure that they are entitled to use at a massive discount. Perhaps Gates et al. use their wealth and prestige to leverage a better deal for themselves at the expense of the university just because they can. Which of these interpretations is correct? NIH-Memoli assume the first but don’t actually show that the private foundation rate is the true rate. (In reality, the second explanation is the best.)
This kind of critique is worth doing, and it can be expanded. The NIH view reflects right-wing public-choice economics that treat teachers, scientists et al. as simple gain maximizers producing private, not public goods. This means that their negotiations with federal agencies will reflect their self-interest, while in contrast the “market rate” is objectively valid. We do need to address these false premises and bad conclusions again and again, whenever they arise.
However, this critique is only half the story. The other half is the budget reality of large losses on sponsored research, all incurred as a public service to knowledge and society.
Take that NIH image above. It makes no logical sense to put the endowments of three very untypical universities next to their ICR rates: They aren’t connected. It makes political narrative sense, however: The narrative is that fat-cat universities are making a profit on research at regular taxpayers’ expense, and getting even fatter.
The only way to deal with this very effective, very entrenched Republican story is to come clean on the losses that universities incur. The reality is that existing rates of indirect cost recovery do not cover actual indirect costs, but require subsidy from the university that performs the research. ICR is not icing on the budget cake that universities can do without. ICR buys only a portion of the indirect costs cake, and the rest is purchased by each university’s own institutional funds.
For example, here are the top 16 university recipients of federal research funds. One of the largest in terms of NIH funding (through the Department of Health and Human Services) is the University of California, San Francisco, winning $795.6 million in grants in fiscal year 2023. (The National Science Foundation’s Higher Education Research and Development (HERD) Survey tables for fiscal year 2023 are here.)
UCSF’s negotiated indirect cost recovery rate is 64 percent. This means that it has shown HHS and other agencies detailed evidence that it has real indirect costs in something like this amount (more on “something like” in a minute). It means that HHS et al. have accepted UCSF’s evidence of their real indirect costs as valid.
If the total of UCSF’s HHS $795.6 million is received with a 64 percent ICR rate, this means that every $1.64 of grant funds has $0.64 in indirect funds and one dollar in direct. The math estimates that UCSF receives about $310 million of its HHS funds in the form of ICR.
Now, the new NIH directive cuts UCSF from 64 percent to 15 percent. That’s a reduction of about 77 percent. Reduce $310 million by that proportion and you have UCSF losing about $238 million in one fell swoop. There’s no mechanism in the directive for shifting that into the direct costs of UCSF grants, so let’s assume a full loss of $238 million.
In Memoli’s narrative, this $238 million is the Reaganite’s “waste, fraud and abuse.” The remaining approximately $71 million is legitimate overhead as measured (wrongly) by what Gates et al. have managed to force universities to accept in exchange for the funding of their researchers’ direct costs.
But the actual situation is even worse than this. It’s not that UCSF now will lose $238 million on their NIH research. In reality, even at (allegedly fat-cat) 64 percent ICR rates, they were already losing tons of money. Here’s another table from the HERD survey.
There’s UCSF in the No. 2 national position, a major research powerhouse. It spends more than $2 billion a year on research. However, moving across the columns from left to right, you see federal government, state and local government, and then this category, “Institution Funds.” As with most of these big research universities, this is a huge number. UCSF reports to the NSF that it spends more than $500 million a year of its own internal funds on research.
The reason? Extramurally sponsored research, almost all in science and engineering, loses massive amounts of money even at current recovery rates, day after day, year in, year out. This is not because anyone is doing anything wrong. It is because the infrastructure of contemporary science is very expensive.
Here’s where we need to build a full counternarrative to the existing one. The existing one, shared by university administrators and Trumpers alike, posits the fiction that universities break even on research. UCSF states, “The University requires full F&A cost recovery.” This is actually a regulative ideal that has never been achieved.
The reality is this:
UCSF spends half a billion dollars of its own funding to support its $2 billion total in research. That money comes from the state, from tuition, from clinical revenues and some—less than you’d think—from private donors and corporate sponsors. If NIH’s cuts go through, UCSF’s internal losses on research—the money it has to make up—suddenly jump from an already-high $505 million to $743 million in the current year. This is a complete disaster for the UCSF budget. It will massively hit research, students, the campuses’ state employees, everything.
The current strategy of chronicling the damage from cuts is good. But it isn’t enough. I’m pleased to see the Association of American Universities, a group of high-end research universities, stating plainly that “colleges and universities pay for 25 percent of total academic R&D expenditures from their own funds. This university contribution amounted to $27.7 billion in FY23, including $6.8 billion in unreimbursed F&A costs.” All university administrations need to shift to this kind of candor.
Unless the new NIH cuts are put in the context of continuous and severe losses on university research, the public, politicians, journalists, et al. cannot possibly understand the severity of the new crisis. And it will get lost in the blizzard of a thousand Trump-created crises, one of which is affecting pretty much every single person in the country.
Finally, our full counternarrative needs a third element: showing that systemic fiscal losses on research are in fact good, marvelous, a true public service. A loss on a public good is not a bad and embarrassing fact. Research is supposed to lose money: The university loses money on science so that society gets long-term gains from it. Science has a negative return on investment for the university that conducts it so that there is a massively positive ROI for society, of both the monetary and nonmonetary kind. Add up the education, the discoveries, the health, social, political and cultural benefits: The university courts its own endless fiscal precarity so that society benefits.
We should also remind everyone that the only people who make money on science are in business. And even there, ROI can take years or decades. Commercial R&D, with a focus on product development and sales, also runs losses. Think of “AI”: Microsoft alone is spending $80 billion on it in 2025, on top of $50 billion in 2024, with no obviously strong revenues yet in sight. This is a huge amount of risky investment—it compares to $60 billion for federal 2023 R&D expenditures on all topics in all disciplines. I’m an AI skeptic but appreciate Microsoft’s reminder that new knowledge means taking losses and plenty of them.
These up-front losses generate much greater future value of nonmonetary as well as monetary kinds. Look at the University of Pennsylvania, the University of Wisconsin at Madison, Harvard University, et al. in Table 22 above. The sector spent nearly $28 billion of its own money generously subsidizing sponsors’ research, including by subsidizing the federal government itself.
There’s much more to say about the long-term social compact behind this—how the actual “private sector” gets 100 percent ICR or significantly more, how state cuts factor into this, how student tuition now subsidizes more of STEM research than is fair, how research losses have been a denied driver of tuition increases. There’s more to say about the long-term decline of public universities as research centers that, when properly funded, allow knowledge creation to be distributed widely in the society.
But my point here is that opening the books on large everyday research losses, especially biomedical research losses of the kind NIH creates, is the only way that journalists, politicians and the wider public will see through the Trumpian lie about these ICR “efficiencies.” It’s also the only way to move toward the full cost recovery that universities deserve and that research needs.
In a conversation recently with someone whose presidency and mine overlapped (1992–2003), we talked about how even though we worked 24-7 and lost a fair amount of sleep, we mainly loved what we did and even had lots of fun doing it. That is not what I am hearing today from presidents I know, nearly all of whom use language like “I’m worn out” and “I can’t wait to retire.” It is therefore not surprising that the average presidential tenure, according to a recent American Council on Education survey, has decreased significantly in recent years (from 8.5 years to 5.9).
As I have often learned during my 18 years as a higher ed consultant, short presidential tenures take a toll on their institutions. Even in the best of circumstances, presidential transitions are time-consuming. Searches frequently take nine or more months, during which time planning and even implementation of previously approved plans often get put on hold. Departing presidents are frequently viewed as lame ducks, while interim presidents are often seen as placeholders, whose presence similarly delays institutional progress.
Then, too, during the first year of a new presidency, campus communities generally are trying to decide if the new president is trustworthy and capable. If the previous president left under negative circumstances, people on campus are likely to be especially skittish about new leadership. Moreover, many new presidents are so focused on learning about the institution and its people that they defer important decisions until their second year.
That used to make things difficult; now in these fraught times for higher education, it can be catastrophic.
Successful presidents simultaneously serve a variety of different groups (students, faculty, staff, alumni, the community, donors and the board), many of whom have conflicting interests and concerns. As I tell presidents I coach, their board has the responsibility to hire and fire them, so their board is inevitably their most important constituency.
Given the array and complexity of presidential responsibilities, many of which require confidentiality, it’s not surprising that a campus community doesn’t know all the ins and outs of how their presidents spend their time and the issues with which they deal. Indeed, on most campuses and even for some board members, the issues presidents must contend with are a black box.
In this context, the president’s connection to the board is typically opaque to the broader campus community. Indeed, as is also true for most marriages, it’s almost impossible for those not in the relationship to know what really happens inside it. And of course, if a board loses confidence in the president, the result is a divorce in which the president is the one who leaves. (Two personal confessions come to mind in this regard: First, as a former Faulkner scholar, I am mindful of the importance of narrative, am alert to unreliable narrators and am always aware that history, culture and memory affect perception. And second, despite the fact that I have never taken a course in clinical psychology, I sometimes believe that clients with unhealthy board-president relationships may need a marriage counselor in addition to a higher ed consultant.)
In any case, when the president-chair relationship is troubled, it is almost always presidents who find themselves on shaky ground. And although I am happy to say that the majority of president-chair relationships that I have observed are positive, I have been recently observed what seems to be an uptick in the souring of such relationships.
Specifically, a dozen presidents—at least half of whom were in a second contract—have described their relationship with their chair as deeply problematic. In a number of these instances, I should stress, the chair who was in place when the president was hired has rotated out of that position and the new chair is for various reasons less invested in the president’s success. (Note: In the interest of confidentiality, none of my examples derive from clients with whom I have begun to work in the last year. In fact, a number of these examples come from institutions with which I’ve not had a consulting relationship but where I know well the president and/or the chair.)
The most common complaint I hear is from presidents who characterize their chair as a micromanager who is inappropriately engaged in operational decisions—despite the fact that in every institution I know, board bylaws call for the trustees to delegate operational responsibility to the president. As a result, these boards often spend their time in the proverbial weeds rather than focusing on their primary fiduciary responsibility and their responsibilities for strategy and policies.
I also have heard about chairs who have—without presidential knowledge much less involvement—talked directly with faculty and staff (and sometimes even students), ignoring the best practice that all trustees, including the chair, who wish to interact with those on campus should work with and through the president or, if the president so specifies, the board secretary. (The exception to this is trustee committee chairs who have direct conversations about the work of their committee with their administrative liaison, typically a vice president. At the same time, in healthy institutions presidents are fully informed about and often participate in such conversations.)
Some examples:
A chair at a research university crossed the boundary from governance into management by inappropriately meeting with individual faculty members without the president’s knowledge in his quest to gain support for his personal belief that the provost should be let go, even though he knew the president wished to retain the provost.
The board chair at a liberal arts college met with individual faculty members without the president’s knowledge to dissuade them from addressing diversity or gender in their classes.
The board chair at a small comprehensive college met with members of the campus community off-site to seek reasons to let the president go.
The first two presidents subsequently left the institution they were leading, dismayed that their chair was ignoring the fact that as president, they were the board’s only employee and that all other employees essentially work for the president. The third president ended up being fired, based on the chair’s conversations.
Why has this happened? My suspicion is that it is related to the coarsening of discourse generally and the growing partisanship in this country and beyond. Until roughly the last decade, I was struck by how much those of us in the academy—faculty, staff, administrators and trustees—truly placed a high value on civil discourse, with colleges and universities typically priding themselves on being places where people could disagree passionately but with mutual respect, or at least the appearance of that respect. But in recent years, this is no longer the case. Instead, as we are seeing, families and friends are torn apart by differing points of views. Congress, which was once a place where people argued fervently with those with whom they disagreed but then spent congenial social time together, is now similarly torn apart. And although colleges and universities ideally should not be the playground for partisan politics, that is no longer the case.
I believe that in this context, particularly at a time when so many colleges and universities are vulnerable (think for example about the enrollment cliff), the president-chair relationship is even more critical than ever. Presidents and boards, especially their chairs, are entrusted in different ways with the health and integrity—financial and academic—of the institutions they serve. Successful presidents and chairs both have a clear understanding of and respect for their differing roles and responsibilities. In the most successful of these relationships, chairs see themselves as the president’s strategic partner and presidents see the board as a strategic advantage to the institution.
But in those instances where the relationship is strained, entire communities of faculty, staff, students, alumni, donors and others are often negatively affected even if few if any of them are aware of this problematic leadership dynamic. Indeed, members of the campus community in these cases are like families and friends of those in a fragile marriage—they don’t know what’s really going on, but they know enough to be unsettled.
So what do we do about all of this? Although I know enough now to know that we aren’t likely to change the larger culture, I do recommend that college and university boards set aside time—certainly in new trustee orientation and at least once a year for the entire board in an executive session—to address the question of how trustees interact with one another and with the campuses that they have committed to serve. I further recommend that boards commit to a regular process by which they are reviewed. For example, if a board has retained an outside consultant to do a 360-degree review of the president, I suggest that they ask that same consultant to make recommendations about the board’s functioning, particularly in terms of its behavior in relation to the president and the senior leadership team. But most of all, I hope that trustees, who at their best are focused on the health and integrity of the institution, will understand how important it is that they model respect for others and the civil discourse that is necessary not only for board service but for the health of our larger society.
Susan Resneck Pierce is president of SRP Consulting, president emerita of the University of Puget Sound and author ofOn Being Presidential(2011) andGovernance Reconsidered (2014), both published by Jossey-Bass and sponsored by Inside Higher Ed.
Since the public release of ChatGPT in late 2022, artificial intelligence has rocketed from relative obscurity to near ubiquity. The rate of adoption for generative AI tools has outpaced that of personal computers and the internet. There is widespread optimism that, on one hand, AI will generate economic growth, spur innovation and elevate the role of quintessential “human work.” On the other hand, there’s palpable anxiety that AI will disrupt the economy through workforce automation and exacerbate pre-existing inequities.
Historyshowsthat education and training are key factors for weathering economic volatility. Yet, it is not entirely clear how postsecondary education providers can equip learners with the resources they need to thrive in an increasingly AI-driven workforce.
Here at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville’s Education Research and Opportunity Center, we are leading a three-year study in partnership with the Tennessee Board of Regents, Advance CTE and the Association for Career and Technical Education to explore this very subject. So far, we have interviewed more than 20 experts in AI, labor economics, career and technical education (CTE), and workforce development. Here are three things you should know.
Generative AI is the present, not the future.
First, AI is not new. ChatGPT continues to captivate attention because of its striking ability to reason, write and speak like a human. Yet, the science of developing machines and systems to mimic human functions has existed for decades. Many people are hearing about machine learning for the first time, but it has powered their Netflix recommendations for years. That said, generative AI does represent a leap forward—a big one. Simple machine learning cannot compose a concerto, write and debug computer code, or generate a grocery list for your family. Generative AI can do all of these things and infinitely more. It certainly feels futuristic, but it is not; AI is the present. And the generative AI of the present is not the AI of tomorrow.
Our interviews with experts have made clear that no one knows where AI will be in 15, 10 or even five years, but the consensus predicts the pace of change will be dramatic. How can students, education providers and employers keep up?
First, we cannot get hung up on specific tools, applications or use cases. The solution is not simply to incorporate ChatGPT in the classroom, though this is a fine starting point. We are in a speeding vehicle; our focus out the window needs to be on the surrounding landscape, not the passing objects. We need education policies that promote organizational efficiency, incentivize innovation and strengthen public-private partnerships. We need educational leadership focused on the processes, infrastructure and resources required to rapidly deploy technologies, break down disciplinary silos and guarantee learner safeguards. We need systemic and sustained professional development and training for incumbent faculty, and we need to reimagine how we prepare and hire new faculty. In short, we need to focus on building more agile, more adaptable, less siloed and less reactive institutions and classrooms because generative AI as we know it is not the future; AI is a harbinger of what is to come.
Focus on skills, not jobs.
It is exceedingly difficult to predict which individual occupations will be impacted—positively or negatively—by AI. We simply cannot know for certain whether surgeons or meat slaughterers are at greatest risk of AI-driven automation. Not only is it guesswork, but it is also flawed thinking, rooted in a misunderstanding of how technology impacts work. Tasks constitute jobs, jobs constitute occupations and occupations constitute industries. Lessons from prior technological innovations tell us that technologies act on tasks directly, and occupations only indirectly. If, for example, the human skill required to complete a number of job-related tasks can be substituted by smart machines, the skill composition of the occupation will change. An entire occupation can be eliminated if a sufficiently high share of the skills can be automated by machines. That said, it is equally true (and likely) that new technologies can shift the skill composition of an occupation in a way that actually enhances the demand for human workers. Shifts in demands for skills within the labor market can even generate entirely new jobs. The point is that the traditional approach to thinking of education in terms of majors, courses and degrees does learners a disservice.
By contrast, our focus needs to be on the skills learners acquire, regardless of discipline or degree pathway. A predictable response to the rise of AI is to funnel more learners into STEM and other supposed AI-ready majors. But our conversations, along with existing research, suggest learners can benefit equally from majoring in liberal studies or art history so long as they are equipped with in-demand skills that cannot (yet) be substituted by smart machines.
We can no longer allow disciplines to “own” certain skills. Every student, across every area of study, must be equipped with both technical and transferable skills. Technical skills allow learners to perform occupation-specific tasks. Transferable skills—such as critical thinking, adaptability and creativity—transcend occupations and technologies and position learners for the “work of the future.” To nurture this transition, we need innovative approaches to packaging and delivering education and training. Institutional leaders can help by equipping faculty with professional development resources and incentives to break out of disciplinary silos. We also need to reconsider current approaches to institutional- and course-level assessment. Accreditors can help by pushing institutions to think beyond traditional metrics of institutional effectiveness.
AI itself is a skill, and one you need to have.
From our conversations with experts, one realization is apparent: There are few corners of the workforce that will be left untouched by AI. Sure, AI is not (yet) able to unclog a drain, take wedding photos, install or repair jet engines, trim trees, or create a nurturing kindergarten classroom environment. But AI will, if it has not already, change the ways in which these jobs are performed. For example, AI-powered software can analyze plumbing system data to predict problems, such as water leaks, before they happen. AI tools can similarly analyze aircraft systems, sensors and maintenance records to predict aircraft maintenance needs before they become hazardous, minimizing aircraft downtime. There is a viable AI use case for every industry now. The key factor for thriving in the AI economy is, therefore, the ability to use AI effectively and critically regardless of one’s occupation or industry.
AI is good, but it is not yet perfect. Jobs still require human oversight. Discerning the quality of sources or synthesizing contradictory viewpoints to make meaningful judgments remain uniquely human skills that cut across all occupations and industries. To thrive in the present and future of work, we must embrace and nurture this skill set while effectively collaborating with AI technology. This effective collaboration itself is a skill.
To usher in this paradigm shift, we need federal- and state-level policymakers to prioritize AI user privacy and safety so tools can be trusted and deployed rapidly to classrooms across the country. It is also imperative that we make a generational investment in applied research in human-AI interaction so we can identify and scale best practices. In the classroom, students need comprehensive exposure to and experience with AI at the beginnings and ends of their programs. It is a valuable skill to work well with others, and in a modern era, it is equally necessary to work well with machines. Paraphrasing Jensen Huang, the CEO of Nvidia: Students are not going to lose their jobs to AI; they will lose their jobs to someone who uses AI.
Cameron Sublett is associate professor and director of the Education Research and Opportunity Center at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. Lauren Mason is a senior research associate within the Education Research and Opportunity Center.
Despite frequent media reports about the high cost of college, many students pay much less than the eye-catching sticker price. Students enrolled at four-year institutions living away from their parents face the highest sticker prices. But only around a quarter or fewer of those enrolled at public institutions (for state residents) or private nonprofit four-year institutions pay that sticker price. The remainder receive financial aid. Even most high-income students receive merit-based aid. How are they supposed to know how much they will have to pay?
Here is how colleges and universities could help. They can provide students with tools that lead them through a financial aid “information funnel.” Provide limited financial details (just family income?) and get an instant ballpark estimate at the top of the funnel. Provide a few more details, get a better, but still ballpark estimate. Keep going until you get an actual price. Extreme simplicity at the beginning of the process facilitates entry; the funnel should have a wide mouth. If the result is below sticker price, it can promote further investigation. Along the way, positive reinforcement through favorable results (if they occur) supports students continuing through the funnel.
Courtesy of Phillip Levine
This approach represents a significant advance over past practices, as I detail in a report newly released by the Aspen Economic Strategy Group (AESG). Historically, colleges provided no preliminary estimates. Students filed their financial aid forms (FAFSA and perhaps CSS Profile), applied to a college, and received their admissions decision and financial aid offer (if admitted) at the same time. Who knows how many students didn’t bother to apply because they believed they couldn’t afford it?
This began to change in 2008. The Higher Education Act was amended at that time to require institutions to provide “net price calculators” by 2011 that were intended to provide early cost estimates. Unfortunately, the well-intended policy hasn’t been very effective because these tools often are not user-friendly. They may represent a useful step higher up the funnel relative to the ultimate financial aid offer, but they remain toward its bottom.
Other steps have been taken along the way attempting to provide greater pricing information to prospective students. The government launched new webpages (the College Navigator and the College Scorecard), which provide college-specific details regarding the average “net price” (the amount students pay after factoring in financial aid). But the average net price mainly helps students with average finances determine their net price. Besides, using the median rather than the average would lessen the impact of outliers. It’s a much better statistic to capture the amount a typical student would pay in this context. Additional data on net prices within certain income bands are also available, but they still suffer from the biases introduced by using the average net price as well. What students really want and need is an accurate estimate of what college will cost them.
The most recent advance in college price transparency is the creation of the College Cost Transparency Initiative. This effort represents the response of hundreds of participating institutions to a Government Accountability Office report detailing the inconsistency and lack of clarity in financial aid offer letters. To participate, institutions agreed to certain principles and standards in the offer letters they transmit. It is an improvement relative to past practice, but it also is a bottom-of-the-funnel improvement. It does not provide greater price transparency to prospective students prior to submitting an application.
Institutions have also engaged in other marketing activities designed to facilitate communication of affordability messaging. Some institutions have begun to provide offers of free tuition to students with incomes below some threshold. The success of the Hail Scholarship (now repackaged as the Go Blue Guarantee) at the University of Michigan supports such an approach. Many of these offers, though, do not cover living expenses, which is a particular problem for students living away from their parents. In those instances, such offers may be more misleading than illuminating.
In 2017, I founded MyinTuition Corp. as a nonprofit entity designed to provide pricing information higher up in the financial aid information funnel. Its original tool, now used by dozens of mainly highly endowed private institutions, requires users to provide basic financial inputs and receive a ballpark price estimate. More recently, MyinTuition introduced an instant net price estimator, which is currently operational at Washington University in St. Louis, based solely on family income. Given the limited financial details provided, those estimates include some imprecision; the tool also provides a range of estimates within which the actual price is likely to fall. These tools are an easy entry point into the process, which is what the top of the funnel is designed to accomplish. More such efforts are necessary.
If we could do a better job communicating the availability of financial aid, it would also contribute to better-informed public discussions about college pricing and access. One recent survey found that only 19 percent of adults correctly recognized that lower-income students pay less to attend college than higher-income students. It is a legitimate question to ask whether the price those students pay is low enough. But we cannot even start the discussion with such limited public understanding of how much students across the income distribution pay now. Any step that colleges and universities can take to facilitate that understanding would be helpful. Improving the transparency in their own pricing certainly would be an important step they can take.
Phillip Levine is the Katharine Coman and A. Barton Hepburn Professor of Economics at Wellesley College and the founder and CEO of MyinTuition Corp.
While consequential for all of higher education, pending and potential moves by the Trump administration that implicate funding could especially affect what has become an increasingly dominant aspect of multiple universities in terms of budgets and focus—academic medical centers (AMCs). AMCs are major funding recipients from the National Institutes of Health, the National Science Foundation and other federal agencies. AMCs and their health enterprises also are deeply connected to patient care programs like Medicare and Medicaid.
Media outlets covered the “confusion and chaos” that beset university presidents, medical center vice presidents, deans and researchers after the initial federal funding freeze. Now that the freeze has been temporarily rescinded, leaders of academic medical centers should move beyond confusion and chaos to focus on public presentations that emphasize their competence, compliance and cooperation with federal reviews. Now is an opportune time to pick up on President Trump’s recent emphasis on “merit” as the key to gaining federal support. University academic medical centers are well positioned to demonstrate and document their case.
To showcase “merit,” for example, a university academic medical center could cite ratings and commentaries about its successful NIH grant proposals, illustrating the talent and competitive advantages of its principal investigators and research teams. And they should emphasize that the NIH-funded research projects are not isolated: They are inseparable from a cooperative network within university health centers and hospitals. Evaluating these complex applied research alliances helps answer external questions about efficiency, effectiveness and significance of projects. The same kinds of questions are continually monitored in analysis of existing and new university degree programs for the education of medical doctors, nurses, physician assistants, pharmacists, medical technicians and health-care administrators. In addition to evaluating the training and preparation of researchers and health-care practitioners, an AMC pays systematic attention to accountability and responsibility for patient care and treatment as part of its daily and annual operations. These stories need to be told.
There are other sources that can be used to document AMC merit and performance. One can look at accreditation reports, specialized degree program reviews and financial balance sheets for the mosaic of health services and programs that are housed under the umbrella of an academic medical center. Institutional data can show that an academic medical center that aligns colleges of medicine and health care with such disciplines as biochemistry, physiology, bioengineering and statistics has evolved into a dynamic institution in which practice and advanced research are intertwined with providing professional services within a community.
A few summary statistics indicate this presence. The top 20 university AMCs each brought in more than $400 million in NIH research grants in fiscal year 2023. Within this group, Johns Hopkins University is first, with $843 million, followed by the University of California, San Francisco, with $789 million, and in third place, the University of Pennsylvania with $703 million. These are the peak of a cluster of 220 university medical centers in which academic programs such as the college of medicine partner with university medical foundations.
The fusion represents a new academic model in which the medical and health programs typically constitute about 60 percent or more of the total university budget. At universities with this structure, the AMC typically is home to a majority of the university faculty positions and student enrollments. The AMC also becomes a major economic force and employer in metropolitan areas and regional communities.
The academic health and medical complexes are economic engines. They often are the largest employer in the metropolitan area or even in the state, such as is the case for the University of Alabama at Birmingham and its health system. Universities in this category are the major provider of health services to large constituencies of patients. This academic health organization includes partnerships with Medicare, Medicaid and private insurance companies. Federal grants for research and service to the university often stimulate state financial support in terms of program grants and capital funding from state legislatures and governors and major gifts from foundations and private donors.
The message for “merit” is that these universities represent a new type of American organization—what might be termed the academic health business model. An abundance of quantitative and qualitative data makes external evaluation and detailed analysis of accountability possible. Sound policy evaluation from several constituencies—the executive branch, Congress, federal and state agencies, university leaders, and patient advocacy groups—calls for thoughtful, informed analysis to review and perhaps renew what has evolved as a distinctive academic enterprise.
A lively dialogue about the promises and benefits of AMCs that includes consideration of recent executive actions and potential future decisions, such as funding levels for Medicaid, is timely. The events of the last two weeks provide a much-needed moment for academic constituencies to reflect on what the expansion of AMCs means for individual research universities and higher education broadly in the future. If a funding freeze causes a chill for AMCs and their health enterprises, does the rest of the campus catch a cold, or even worse?
Recent presidential actions from Washington, D.C., have highlighted how much the budgets and identities of some research universities are more and more defined by their AMCs. In addition to helping AMCs continue to sustain and enhance their vital missions, all higher education groups need to contemplate the implications for universities whose mission and purposes are increasingly characterized and shaped by their academic medical centers.
John R. Thelin is University Research Professor Emeritus at the University of Kentucky. He is the author of several books on the history of higher education.
Neal H. Hutchens is a professor in the Department of Educational Policy Studies and Evaluation at the University of Kentucky. His research focuses on the intersection of higher education law, policy and practice.
If progressive or even not-so-progressive Jewish students invited comedian Sacha Baron Cohen to their university to perform his riotous parody “In My Country There Is Problem,” with its call-and-pogrom chorus “throw the Jew down the well / so my country can be free,” would Cohen be allowed on campus? If the song were indeed sung, and a few humorless, unthinking listeners were distressed by the lyrics, or at least claimed to be, would the Jewish students face discrimination and harassment charges under the university’s disciplinary code?
Today, probably. Would they be found responsible for discrimination and harassment based on national origin? Again, probably. And what if a student band wished to parody the parody with a song titled something like, “Throw Chris Rufo Down the Well So My University Can Be Free”? Could the song be sung against the backdrop of students’ sensitivities and the reciprocated rage of today’s young conservative white men?
In her recently published opinion essay for Inside Higher Ed, Joan W. Scott skewered the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression and its vice president for campus advocacy, Alex Morey, for condemning the American Association of University Professors. Scott’s criticism of Morey’s criticism goes like this: Morey lambasted AAUP president Todd Wolfson’s expression of “disappointment” over Donald Trump’s re-election, arguing that Wolfson’s explicit partisanship betrays the AAUP’s purported commitment to academic freedom. Scott countered that FIRE is a libertarian wolf donning academic freedom drag. FIRE, explains Scott, is “dedicated to the absolutist principle of individual free speech,” a principle that is “not,” Scott italicizes, synonymous with academic freedom. In turn, Scott elaborates on academic freedom as “individual and collective rights of faculty as they pursue the mission of higher education in a democracy.”
We agree with Scott that FIRE—with its many right-wing funding sources as Scott lists them—is unlikely to have our backs if and when the federal government comes to shut down diversity, equity and inclusion programs and cultural studies departments on campus (i.e., queer and Black studies). We respect, too, that Scott knows more about the history and purpose of academic freedom than we do.
And yet, we worry that the line she draws between free speech and academic freedom—the former ideological and libertarian, the latter true and good—cedes too much. Indeed, her distinction hands “free speech” over to the conservative groups championing their anti-educational causes under its banner, and her dismissal of free speech defenses as apologia for racism lets stand, unnuanced, the left-originating but now right-appropriated proposition that combative, controversial speech is necessarily harmful in an egalitarian university environment. It is the quick conversion of (at times highly provocative) political speech into hate speech that allows “from the river to the sea” to be branded as categorically harassing antisemitism—a conversion that would so quickly ban Jews from sending up antisemitism (“throw the Jew down the well”), ban musicians from joking about drowning Rufo or prohibit, for that matter, marginalized groups from reappropriating slurs to divest them of their injurious force.
In short, we think there is still good reason—several good reasons—for the academic left to defend speech, both as elemental to academic freedom and as a democratic value unto itself.
We and nearly every colleague we know have stories of students hastily claiming talk—talk of sex, Israel, Palestine and criticism of affirmative action—as intimidating, harassing or discriminating. It seems to us that a robust defense of academic freedom must include healthy skepticism, but not outright cynicism, of the proposition that words injure. Skepticism, not cynicism, because words may hurt people, further subordinate marginalized groups and erode democratic ideals. David Beaver’s and Jason Stanley’s recently published The Politics of Language draws on critical race and feminist theory to show how some speech acts—affective, nondeliberative and/or racist dog whistles—function to polarize and degrade.
But we also know, especially in the wake of spurious discrimination claims against campus activists and academics protesting Israel’s military campaigns, that conservative stakeholders are weaponizing the idea of words as weapons, alleging atmospheres of harassment to chill political speech—a project, we must concede, that the left paved the way for.
Indeed, around 2013, as trigger warnings gained traction on college campuses, the right repackaged “free speech” as the inalienable freedom of anyone to speak on any topic without consequence, especially if that consequence is the loss of a platform. Instead of drawing on the left’s history of free speech advocacy, scholars of “identity knowledges” centered attention on the moral wrongness of offensive speech and the intolerability of feeling unsafe. This shift left progressives defending feelings rather than ideas, collapsing political discord with dehumanization—or, as Sarah Schulman argues, conflict with abuse. Now, with free speech reduced to melodrama, even the Christian right claims to protect its constituents against “harm”—whether from critical race theory or drag shows—rendering the issue a conceit of the culture wars.
In his much-ridiculedop-ed for TheNew York Times published last year, linguist John McWhorter lamented that he and his students were unable to listen to John Cage’s silent “4:33” during class, as the silence would have been interrupted by the sound of student protests. The irony that McWhorter chided the protesters for impeding his students from appreciating Cage’s invitation to listen to “the surrounding noise” of the environs was not lost on McWhorter’s critics.
What was not commented on, though, was McWhorter’s contention that if a group of students had been shouting “DEI has got to die” with the same fervor with which they were shouting for Palestine’s self-determination, then the protests “would have lasted roughly five minutes before masses of students shouted them down and drove them off the campus. Chants like that would have been condemned as a grave rupture of civilized exchange, heralded as threatening resegregation and branded as a form of violence.”
Whether correct or not, McWhorter’s speculation is not baseless. We want to insist, though, that there are left, not just libertarian, grounds to defend, for example, a student protest against DEI initiatives. They include: respecting and celebrating the university as a space of open dialogue and debate; the possibility that you might learn something from someone with whom you disagree; the opportunity to lampoon, parody or otherwise countermand whatever worse-than-foolish statement the opposition is making; the opportunity, as John Stuart Mill taught us, to strengthen your own ideas and arguments alongside and against the ideas of others; and finally, avoiding the inevitable backlash of “the cancel,” whereby censored conservatives rebrand themselves as truth-telling victims of the “woke.”
Granted, some of these grounds for defending speech tilt more liberal or libertarian than pure left, whatever that means, but we nonetheless maintain that it is self-defeating for us to carry the banner for “academic freedom” while consigning “free speech” to the province of white grievance. This is especially true for those of us teaching queer and critical sexuality studies, where classrooms and related spaces of activism and dialogue are increasingly circumscribed, the harm principle ever more unprincipled. Consider the case of Aneil Rallin, who in 2022 was accused by Soka University of America of teaching “triggering” sexual materials to his students in a course called Writing the Body, and whose case—while taken up by FIRE—was met with little alarm from the academic left.
It also applies to those of us who still recognize satire, irony and social commentary in an age of breathtaking literalism. In 2011, the Dire Straits song “Money for Nothing” (1985) was temporarily banned from Canadian radio for its use of the f-slur, even though the term was intended as a commentary on working-class homophobia. The drive to censor and demonize without regard for social context has arguably gotten stronger in the years since.
From the recent historical record, it seems to us that the enforcement of bureaucratic speech restrictions often damages campus culture and democratic norms more than the speech acts themselves. Indeed, the better question than is X speech act harmful is, to crib from Wendy Brown, when—if ever and at what costs—are speech restrictions the remedy for injury?
Debating DEI programs, myths of meritocracy and so on is the stuff of academic freedom. A speech act like “DEI must die” is provocative, abrasive and worth publicly disparaging, but it is not the same as hate speech. Song parodies will not save us from the dark years ahead for public education, academic freedom and egalitarian pedagogies of all kinds. But our battle preparations demand standing up for, not surrendering, free speech.
Joseph J. Fischel is an associate professor of women’s, gender and sexuality studies at Yale University.
Kyler Chittick is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Political Science at the University of Alberta.
President Trump has used diversity, equity and inclusion to explain failures in education, the economy and national security, so you might think we’d be inured to his strategies by now. When he blamed the tragic plane crash in Washington, D.C., on DEI, he reached a new nadir of callousness. The victims of the crash had not even been recovered and he was blaming DEI policies for “lower” standards. When pressed by reporters, he couldn’t even articulate the object of his complaint or any specifics related to last week’s crash. His instinct, though, reveals a deeper, more troubling current.
By tacking immediately to DEI in the wake of a tragedy, he seeks to create an association in the minds of Americans: People of color are underqualified and incompetent. As a woman of color who earned a Ph.D. and is also the president of a university, I know these narratives are baseless. I know how many talented, innovative people of color there are in our country. I know that their leadership, research and intelligence have produced countless benefits to our society. I also know that we have spent the last century undoing the psychological and practical damage of systemic racism in our nation. We have spent precious capital in our country recreating equality of opportunity, and programs of diversity, equity and inclusion have been essential to this transformation.
When a president of the United States has the audacity to pose DEI as a corruption tool he is combating, I cannot be silent. It is an affront to those who sacrificed in the multiple civil rights struggles of the 20th century and helped position our nation as a place with more equality of opportunity than ever in our history. Education has been a central part of that architecture.
As a student of language and culture, I also know that when a president and his narrow-minded minions repeat a paradigm ad nauseam, people start to believe it. The forerunner of exclusion and violence across history has been gradual dehumanization. Let us not be complicit with our silence.
DeRionne P. Pollard is president of Nevada State University. The views expressed here are her own and do not represent the views of Nevada State University or the Nevada System of Higher Education.
Australia’s universities are some of the most prestigious and highly-ranked in the OECD. Yet the sector is arguably in crisis.
It narrowly escaped a potentially devastating hit to the $47.8 billion in annual revenue generated by international education, with proposed international students caps only just scuppered in parliament’s last sitting fortnight of the year.
But it is again being rocked by headlines around “wage theft” and millions of dollars wasted on consulting fees by some of our biggest universities.
A damning report by the National Tertiary Education Union has labelled this a “crisis of governance” constituting “reckless spending’’ by “the overpaid executive class”.
Ouch.
Yet Australia’s education system is strong by global standards, ranking third globally, and is home to several prestigious universities that consistently rank among the best in the world.
It is unlikely that a sector built on advancing human potential has solely reached this point by maliciously setting out to hurt its own backbone – its faculty.
Rather, systemic problems often indicate structural sectoral flaws, and ineffective means to address them. And Australia’s university system is not immune by any means.
A legacy issue of systemic complexity
We cannot know with certainty if there are indeed some bad actors in this story. Possibly.
But what is undeniably evident are the range of sectoral factors contributing to the sector’s longstanding history of poor record-keeping, including the challenges posed by its complex workforce structure.
Payroll compliance in universities is highly complex due to the combination of intricate awards, unique enterprise agreements, and a history of poor record-keeping.
For instance, universities rely heavily on casual staff, working under often-opaque arrangements. Compensable tasks such as marking essays or tutorial attendance are governed by intricate rules or piece-rate agreements, complicating the tracking of hours and payment.
These layers of complexity create incomplete and inaccurate timesheet data, making it nearly impossible for a human to verify when employees worked and whether they were paid correctly.
And so the resulting payroll errors aren’t just mistakes – they represent a systemic failing with devastating consequences all round.
Underpaid employees face reduced morale, a loss of trust in their employers, and financial stress that often disproportionately affects the most vulnerable. Menwhile, the underpaying universities risk potentially enormous fines and suffer from deep reputational damage, as has been demonstrated recently.
Worse still, is the fact that attempts at resolving these issues are also failing, because they represent nothing more than curative and labour-intensive bandaid “solutions”.
For instance, many universities, after spending millions on consultants to recalculate and backpay impacted employees, have now shifted to hiring large internal teams to manage ongoing compliance efforts.
These teams are tasked with monitoring timesheet accuracy, tracking errors, and managing ongoing remediation efforts, seemingly indefinitely, as if fixing this problem should somehow just be “business as usual”.
Yet treatments should never be “business as usual”, because this is to accept that the problem will never be resolved.
Instead, systemic problems like this one require systemic solutions that assume eliminating the problem is indeed possible.
Fixing the system, not the symptoms
For this to occur, Australia’s tertiary education sector must urgently stop outdated and cumbersome legacy practices and instead embrace preventative long-term solutions that rebuild trust, and support fair and accurate pay for all employees.
In practice, this would involve the adoption of advanced compliance tools and technologies that enable payroll teams to efficiently and accurately monitor payroll end-to-end. This allows teams to rapidly identify errors before, not after, a pay run, and drastically reduce the need for constant manual interventions.
Introducing independent oversight by risk and compliance teams will also help to reduce the risk of a “marking your own homework” approach by human resources and payroll teams, bringing a fresh perspective to compliance checks.
Regular training to keep payroll and compliance teams up to date on changes in legislation, award conditions, and enterprise agreements are also a must in industries like education where payroll practices are complex and dynamic.
And, finally, all of these processes should be consistent across all schools and faculties to avoid disparities and confusion, and reduce errors caused by varying practices.
Any university with the courage to break from centuries of backwards-looking remediation practices and instead embrace a forward-looking, technology-based approach would not only demonstrate bold and refreshing leadership.
It would also help to create enormous goodwill for a sector in desperate need of positive news and, critically, potentially save millions in the process.
Fred van er Tang is chief executive of payroll compliance technology companyPaidRight.
The second Trump administration has begun with a cacophony of executive orders, memos from the Office of Management and Budget, and the disconcerting disappearance—and some reappearance—of research grants and programs. This has led to fear of the loss of important federal data, threats to the livelihoods of researchers and students, and the end of critical programs that have enabled greater participation in science. Many of these actions are being litigated in the courts, and while some judges have helped stop the worst actions, the whiplash leads to more drama and uncertainty. The research community on college campuses has been left in a state of anxiety and confusion.
The public response from college presidents has been mostly muted so far. While this is causing even more distress in some quarters, there are reasons for it. The administration has suggested that on top of the current actions, there are prospects for increasing the tax on large university endowments, cutting indirect cost recovery on federal grants, investigating students and institutions for antisemitism, and more. It’s no surprise that university presidents, general counsels, communications professionals and federal relations officials want to play it safe. Many of these leaders probably also feel constrained by their commitments to institutional neutrality and don’t want to be seen as taking a political position against the administration’s actions.
And so higher education is in yet another crisis. This one affects the whole country, just like the 2008 financial crisis and the pandemic. Former Tulane University president Scott Cowen faced a unique local crisis after Hurricane Katrina and also navigated the pandemic as interim president at Case Western Reserve University. He has been justifiably praised as an outstanding crisis manager, bringing Tulane through an event that easily could have permanently devastated the institution. He said on this site that—both after Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans and during COVID-19 in Cleveland—frequent, emotionally transparent communication was crucial to lower anxiety and provide updated information.
“Crises are bound to happen,” he said, “impacting a few people or everyone. How we lead through them depends in large part on the nature of the crisis. And when one strikes, a leader should first understand how that particular crisis makes themfeel” (emphasis mine).
We don’t need to wonder about how people feel this time. The current crisis is definitely making people on campuses anxious and afraid. A few presidents have heeded Cowen’s advice and made public statements, including Christina Paxson at Brown University, Maurie McInnis at Yale University and Kevin Guskiewicz at Michigan State University. These statements have all acknowledged the pain and anxiety on the campuses. All three of these presidents are quite experienced: Paxson has been in office at Brown for 12 years, and McInnis and Guskiewicz are both in their second executive positions.
Paxson perhaps went the farthest in taking a stand. “We always follow the law,” she said. “But we are also prepared to exercise our legal right to advocate against laws, regulations or other actions that compromise Brown’s mission.” That would be a difficult statement to make at a public university in a red state—and is still quite a courageous one at a private one in Rhode Island.
Other presidents have made similar statements, and as the situation grinds on, more will continue to do so, particularly as it becomes apparent that this is not something to be waited out but rather to be managed and adapted to. Nearly every college president cares first and foremost about their campus; when they don’t show it, it’s usually because they think doing so would cause more damage in the long run. My heart goes out to all of the officials who for two weeks—and for many weeks to come—have had long early-morning and late-night meetings trying to figure out what they can and cannot do or say. Being in the foxhole late at night with your team and college town takeout can be energizing at first, but as it continues, it gets very difficult, especially as the days start to blur and it’s hard to remember whether you’ve already decided something or not.
I went through two crises myself as chancellor of University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. I followed Cowen’s advice on the first one, the 2008 financial crisis; I had seen him present on what he did at Tulane at my first presidents’ meeting. I sent out frequent emails to the campus with the help of a very sharp communications colleague who helped me craft my voice for such times. I went to employee meetings and answered all the questions I could. I hugged people when appropriate and let them share their emotions. As an autistic person, I don’t always know when emotions are in the air, but this was a dire enough situation that I didn’t need to do a lot of interpreting. We got through it, and I felt even more connected to the campus when we did.
In the second crisis, which was a local scandal involving UNC athletics, I started off on the right foot by famously apologizing to “everyone who loves this university” at the first press conference. It seemed a logical continuation of what had gotten me through my first crisis, and it was consistent with what I had learned from Cowen. But the reaction was very different. While much of the campus appreciated it, the sports fans ridiculed me for being apologetic and not having a “stiffer spine” when it came to fighting for athletics. To my literal brain, this meant they wanted me to say it was acceptable that we cheated. I should have ignored that, because it caused me to lose my voice for a year or more, during which I just looked tongue-tied and indecisive while the scandal grew. As with the current situation, I was worried that saying anything would lead to more investigations and penalties for the Tar Heels. Finally, a wise adviser told me that I needed to decide who my people were. The people on the campus—the students, staff and faculty—those were my people. The sports fans were not; I can’t make a layup to save my life. “Stick to your people,” he said. I eventually got my voice back and happily went off to a Division III university.
As the current crop of presidents goes through this same process, they’ll begin sticking with their people, too. Like me, many of them will end up wishing they did it sooner, but that’s to be expected given the stress and tension. In the long run, we need leaders who can lead the academic community to the other side of this. And that doesn’t always mean overt “resistance” as we often hear calls for, although as Paxson said in her letter, it certainly does mean standing up for the academic freedom of the individuals on the campus. It also means understanding the situation, caring for the people under their charge who are affected, helping them grieve for what is being lost and leading a conversation about how higher education is going to adapt to the new realities without sacrificing our values. I believe those leaders will emerge.
As McInnis said at Yale, “Our mission is to create, share and preserve knowledge; to educate and inspire students; and to apply our discoveries to address the world’s greatest challenges. We are committed to navigating these times with a steadfast focus on advancing that mission and on supporting members of our community.” Most of the college leaders who read this and don’t think they can say something like it are wishing they could. In the coming weeks, more will.
In the meantime, the academic community needs to stick together and try not to get overwhelmed by responding to everything that comes along while also acknowledging the fear, loss and pain many are experiencing. Teaching, patient care, research, justice and opportunity have defined American higher education for a century. And, somehow, they will continue.
Holden Thorp is the editor in chief of the Science family of journals. He previously served as the chancellor of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and the provost of Washington University in St. Louis.
