Tag: opinion

  • A Compact for Control (opinion)

    A Compact for Control (opinion)

    For more than 80 years, the system of higher education in the United States has partnered with the federal government to produce the best science, technology and scholarship in the world. Competing for federal research support on the basis of merit, universities have produced countless innovations and spurred enormous economic growth. The Trump administration has now proposed a “Compact for Academic Excellence in Higher Education” that threatens to destroy this partnership.

    Holding hostage federal loans and grants, the “compact” is essentially a unilateral executive decree that cannot be refused. Although it sounds in high and unobjectionable ideals, it is in fact designed to undermine the traditional academic independence and freedom that have sustained the greatness of American universities. The compact should be immediately and forcefully rejected by all self-respecting institutions of higher education.

    Universities and colleges have two essential missions. They serve to increase our knowledge of the world and to educate our young. Knowledge cannot be increased if it is assessed by political criteria, as distinguished from standards of intellectual merit. But the compact requires that institutions of higher education abolish “institutional units that … belittle … conservative ideas.” What exactly counts as conservative is unstated and left in the control of the administration. The compact seeks to supplant intellectual competence with explicitly political criteria, to be determined by a political agency. This demand violates not only academic freedom, but also free speech. It imposes government orthodoxy on private entities.

    The compact demands that universities offer empirical verification that each institutional field, department and unit represent a “broad spectrum of viewpoints.” It thus invites government to overrule scientific consensus on the range of acceptable inquiry. Most colleges of environmental sciences, for example, teach that global climate change is accelerated by human conduct. But Trump himself, speaking before the United Nations, branded this view the “greatest con job.” Most medical schools teach that vaccines are important to health. But Trump’s secretary of health and human services “has been crusading against vaccines for decades.” Under the compact, government might insist that every biology department house a vaccine denier, or that every environmental science program contain a climate change skeptic. Political control of this kind would quickly degrade the intellectual integrity of university scholarship.

    Early in the 20th century, American universities were managed by laypersons who attempted to censor and control the scholarship of professors. But in 1915, the newly established American Association of University Professors defined and defended academic freedom in the canonical Declaration of Principles on Academic Freedom and Academic Tenure. The declaration set forth principles that are now enshrined in contracts at virtually every American college and university. These principles protect academic freedom, which rests on the axiom that scholarly excellence is to be determined by academic rather than political standards. Trump’s proposed compact wantonly violates this essential principle, even as it purports to protect academic freedom.

    The declaration also makes clear the educational goal of American colleges and universities, which is to equip students to think for themselves. The compact, in contrast, requires universities to suppress “support for entities designated by the U.S. Government as terrorist organizations.” Government may of course create such designations, but unfortunately they may also be problematic, overbroad or erroneous. Students and professors should be allowed to criticize such errors, but the compact would prevent this. It would require American colleges and universities to become instruments of official thought control. This is what happened in the United States during World War I, when professors were fired for opposing the war. We have spent a century repenting those mistakes, and now the Trump administration demands that we repeat them.

    Some provisions in the compact are unobjectionable because they merely restate existing law. The Supreme Court has outlawed the use of race in admissions. Congress has laid out procedures for enforcing antidiscrimination law under Title VI and Title IX. These tools are adequate to enforce the law. But the compact has a larger goal: It seeks to break the independence of American higher education, an independence that has fueled the ascent of American colleges and universities to greatness. The compact goes far beyond the Supreme Court’s ruling on affirmative action to require that all admissions decisions “be based upon and evaluated against objective criteria.” It also requires “grade integrity,” freezing tuition rates for five years, disclosure of postgraduate earnings and free tuition for students in the hard sciences at universities with large endowments. It limits the percentage of foreign students and requires screening for anti-American bias.

    The diversity of American institutions of higher education is commonly understood to be a source of its enormous strength. Competing against each other for students, American colleges and universities admit students based on their own distinct and legal criteria. But the administration seeks to end that heterogeneity. For many institutions what matters is the creativity of a student’s essay, the qualitative assessment of recommendations and the resilience of an applicant’s personality as revealed in a résumé. The administration would have universities ignore all that. It would turn our colleges and universities into drab, bureaucratic and uniform institutions, under the shadow of the continuous threat of government interference.

    Under the compact, universities also must commit to institutional neutrality, the idea that university leaders and departments will not officially comment on social and political issues of the day that do not affect the university. This is an ideal embodied in the 1967 Kalven report at the University of Chicago, but its adoption and interpretation is a very local matter, and it should not be required as a condition for receipt of federal funds.

    Institutional neutrality is important because it protects the maximum freedom of students and faculty to vigorously inquire, without battling the pall of official ideas. But some institutions might have specific missions that they deem essential. For example, a religious institution of higher learning might have a certain set of principles that require leaders to speak out. If government gets to decide what counts as a social or political issue, a medical school might not be able to opine on the safety of vaccines, an environmental department on the impacts of climate change or a law school on violations of the rule of law. Of course, universities may choose not to opine on these matters, but for the administration to impose this silence is truly inimical to a marketplace of ideas.

    The compact insists that universities “commit to defining” gender roles “according to reproductive function and biological processes.” Gender troubles certainly abound in universities, and prior administrations may have contributed to these difficulties. But these quandaries are for universities to settle. The diversity of approaches taken by American colleges and universities is our greatest strength. The compact unaccountably seeks to impose its own ideology on all institutions of higher education. It seeks to replace a pluralist market with a single orientation set by Washington, D.C.

    The architect of America’s public-private research partnership, Vannevar Bush, asserted that “scientific progress” required “the free play of free intellects, working on subjects of their own choice, in the manner dictated by their curiosity for exploration of the unknown.” The Trump administration would do well to recognize that a genuine marketplace of ideas requires academic freedom for scholars and a competitive environment for institutions.

    For the administration to attempt to use federal funds to force colleges and universities to toe a conservative line is to create what our constitutional law calls unconstitutional conditions. No university that is committed to independently searching for the truth, or to producing students who can think for themselves, should submit to the deliberate and possibly illegal humiliations contained in the compact. Institutions that do so may very well cease being universities in the full sense of the term. They should just say no.

    Robert Post is the Sterling Professor of Law at Yale Law School, where he served as dean from 2009 to 2017. His research specialties include issues of free speech and academic freedom.

    Tom Ginsburg is the Leo Spitz Distinguished Service Professor of International Law at the University of Chicago Law School and director of Chicago’s Forum for Free Inquiry and Expression.

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  • Colleges Must Pursue All Legal Paths for Diversity (opinion)

    Colleges Must Pursue All Legal Paths for Diversity (opinion)

    Two years ago, the Supreme Court dealt a devastating blow to opportunity in America when it gutted access to higher education for underrepresented groups. That decision was not only legally misguided but also turned a blind eye to the deep inequities that have long shaped our education system. Our colleges and universities scrambled to find lawful tools to ensure that their student bodies still reflected the breadth of talent and promise in this country.

    One of those tools was Landscape, a program recently canceled by the College Board that gave admissions officers data about a student’s high school and neighborhood while explicitly excluding race or ethnicity.

    Standardized test scores and GPAs never tell the whole story. Median family income, access to Advanced Placement courses, local crime rates and other key indicators help admissions officers see the full picture and provide crucial context to help identify high-achieving students from disadvantaged communities. These are students whom universities might otherwise overlook. Tools that give context level the playing field—not by lowering standards, but by lifting students up according to their merit and the obstacles they have overcome.

    The Supreme Court, even in striking down diversity initiatives, still made clear that universities could explore race-neutral alternatives to achieve equity. The use of socioeconomic and geographic factors is exactly such an alternative. Despite U.S. Attorney General Pamela Bondi’s recent nonbinding guidance warning against the use of geographic indicators as “proxies” for race, make no mistake: Abandoning consideration of these elements of an applicant’s background is not a legal requirement but a political choice, reflecting fear rather than courage.

    Without tools that account for the barriers students face, colleges will fall back on practices that overwhelmingly favor the privileged, shutting out low-income and first-generation students who have already beaten the odds. This spoils opportunity for millions, and our campuses and our nation will suffer for it. Diversity is not a box to check; it is a vital engine of education and democracy. Classrooms that bring together students from different walks of life prepare all graduates to lead a diverse society, foster innovation and strengthen our communities.

    We cannot allow the Supreme Court’s decision—and the chilling effect in its wake—to undo decades of progress. And we cannot allow educational institutions to abdicate their responsibility in this moment of crisis. The data that provides broader context for applicants remains available, but without the will to use it, too many doors will remain closed for the students who need them most.

    America has always promised to reward hard work and perseverance, no matter where you come from. That promise rings hollow if we allow the wealthy and well connected to monopolize educational opportunity. Colleges and universities must honor that promise by continuing to seek out and support students who have succeeded against the odds. Fairness demands it, equal opportunity requires it and the future of our country depends on it.

    The authors all serve as state attorneys general: New York Attorney General Letitia James, Connecticut Attorney General William Tong, Delaware Attorney General Kathy Jennings, Illinois Attorney General Kwame Raoul, Minnesota Attorney General Keith Ellison, New Jersey Attorney General Matthew Platkin, Vermont Attorney General Charity Clark and Washington Attorney General Nick Brown.

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  • How We Outperformed National Reading Scores – And Kept Students at Grade Level – The 74

    How We Outperformed National Reading Scores – And Kept Students at Grade Level – The 74


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    As reading scores remain a top concern for schools nationwide, many districts are experimenting with ability-based grouping in the early grades. The idea is to group students in multiple grade levels by their current reading level — not their grade level. A classroom could have seven kindergartners, 10 first graders, and three second graders grouped together for reading because they all read at the same level.

    While this may work for some schools, in our district, Rockwood School District in Missouri, we’ve chosen a different path. We keep students together in their class during whole-class instruction — regardless of ability level — and provide support or enrichment by creating flexible groups based on instructional needs within their grade level.

    We’re building skilled, confident readers not by separating them, but by growing them together.

    Children, like adults, learn and grow in diverse groups. In a Rockwood classroom, every student contributes to the shared learning environment — and every student benefits from being part of it.

    Our approach starts with whole-class instruction. All students, including English multilingual learners and those working toward grade-level benchmarks, participate in daily, grade-level phonics and comprehension lessons. We believe these shared experiences are foundational — not just for building literacy, but for fostering community and academic confidence.

    After our explicit, whole-group lessons, students move into flexible, needs-based small groups informed by real-time data and observations. Some students receive reteaching, while others take on enrichment activities. During these blocks, differentiation is fluid: A student may need decoding help one day and vocabulary enrichment the next. No one is locked into a static tier. Every day is a new opportunity.

    Students also engage in daily independent and partner reading. In addition, reading specialists provide targeted, research-based interventions for striving readers who need additional instruction.

    We build movement into our instruction, as well — not as a brain break, but as a learning tool. We use gestures for phonemes, tapping for spelling and jumping to count syllables. These are “brain boosts,” helping young learners stay focused and engaged.

    We challenge all students, regardless of skill level. During phonics and word work, advanced readers work with more complex texts and tasks. Emerging readers receive the time and scaffolded support they need — such as visual cues and pre-teaching or exposing students to a concept or skill before it’s formally taught during a whole-class lesson. That can help them fully participate in every class. A student might not yet be able to decode or encode every word, but they are exposed to the grade-level standards and are challenged to meet the high expectations we have for all students.

    During shared and interactive reading lessons, all students are able to practice fluency and build their comprehension skills and vocabulary knowledge. Through these shared experiences, every child experiences success.

    There’s a common misconception that mixed-ability classrooms hold back high achievers or overwhelm striving readers. But in practice, engagement depends more on how we teach rather than who is in the room. With well-paced, multimodal lessons grounded in grade-level content, every learner finds an entry point.

    You’ll see joy, movement, and mutual respect in our classrooms — because when we treat students as capable, they rise. And when we give them the right tools, not labels, they use them.

    While ability grouping may seem like a practical solution, research suggests it can have a lasting downside. A Northwestern University study of nearly 12,000 students found that those placed in the lowest kindergarten reading groups rarely caught up to their peers. For example, when you group a third grader with first graders, when does the older child get caught up? Even if he learns and progresses with his ability group, he’s still two grade levels behind his third-grade peers.

    This study echoes what researchers refer to as the Matthew Effect in reading: The rich get richer, and the poor get poorer. Lower-track students are exposed to less complex vocabulary and fewer comprehension strategies. Once placed on that path, it’s hard to catch up. Once a student is assigned a label, it’s difficult to change it — for both the student and educators.

    In Rockwood, we’re confident in what we’re doing. We have effective, evidence-based curricula for Tier I phonics and comprehension, and every student receives the same whole-class instruction as every other student in their grade. Then, students receive intervention or enrichment as needed.

    At the end of the 2024–25 school year, our data affirmed what we see every day. Our kindergarteners outperformed national proficiency averages in every skill group — in some cases by more than 17 percentage points, according to our Reading Horizons data. Our first and second graders outpaced national averages across nearly every domain. We don’t claim to have solved the literacy crisis — or know that our model will work for every district, school, classroom or student — but we’re building readers before gaps emerge.

    We’ve learned that when every student receives strong Tier I instruction, no one gets left behind. The key isn’t separating kids by ability. It’s designing instruction that’s universally strong and strategically supported.

    We recognize that every community faces distinct challenges. If you’re a district leader weighing the trade-offs of ability grouping, consider this: When you pull students out of the room during critical learning moments, the rich vocabulary, the shared texts and the academic conversation, you are not closing the learning gap, but creating a bigger one. Those critical moments build more than skills; they build readers.

    In Rockwood, our data confirms what we see every day: students growing not only in skills, but also in confidence, stamina and joy. We’re proving that inclusive, grade-level-first instruction can work — and work well — for all learners.


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  • A Defining Choice for Higher Ed (opinion)

    A Defining Choice for Higher Ed (opinion)

    Ask people at Columbia, Harvard or UCLA how things are going for higher education, and they might rightly say that things are quite dismal. Those places have been early targets in the Trump administration’s ongoing effort to bring colleges and universities to heel.

    Funding cutoffs, intrusive demands for data and investigations have made life pretty difficult for those universities and some others. In addition, they have had to confront the excruciating choice of whether to defy the administration’s demands or try to reach a settlement.

    At Columbia, Harvard and UCLA, budgets have been squeezed. Uncomfortable adjustments have been made. Reputations and careers have been damaged or ruined.

    While some college presidents have publicly condemned what the administration has been doing, many other college and university leaders have tried to keep their heads down, to say nothing or do nothing to join with and support places that have been prominent on the administration’s hit list. But the days of duck and cover in American higher education may be coming to a close.

    On Sunday, The Washington Post reported that the administration was considering a new strategy in its dealings with colleges and universities. The plan is to change the way the federal government awards research grants, “giving a competitive advantage to schools that pledge to adhere to the values and policies of the Trump administration on admissions, hiring and other matters.”

    Then, on Wednesday, the administration sent letters to nine universities asking them to sign a 10-page “Compact for Academic Excellence in Higher Education.” In exchange for getting preferential treatment for federal funds, among other benefits, colleges would agree “to freeze tuition for five years, cap the enrollment of international students and commit to strict definitions of gender.” They also must, per The New York Times, “change their governance structures to prohibit anything that would ‘punish, belittle and even spark violence against conservative ideas.’”

    The “Compact for Academic Excellence” seeks to get colleges and universities to sign onto President Trump’s priorities all at once. That means that the kinds of excruciating choices faced by a few colleges and universities will soon be coming to a campus near you.

    Higher education is now facing an unprecedented moment of truth, with institutions needing to decide whether to stick to their commitments to independence and academic freedom at the cost of their financial well-being and capacity to carry out research, or to show their loyalty to the administration at a cost to their integrity and mission.

    As I see it, there really is no choice. Colleges and universities must say no. They should do so now, when resistance might dissuade the administration from going any further with its plan.

    If colleges relent, they will forfeit whatever moral capital they have left and send the message that the pursuit of truth matters less than loyalty to a political agenda and that colleges and universities can be made to give up their independence if the price of freedom is high enough.

    I am enough of a realist not to take odds on what choices colleges and universities will make. And I know that resistance of the kind I am advocating may be very costly for students, faculty and staff, as well as the communities served by campuses that push back.

    But as journalist Nathan M. Greenfield explained in 2021, “Academic freedom is the sine qua non of universities in common law countries as well as those in Western Europe and, indeed, is central to the functioning of universities in all but those countries with repressive governments.” Yale Law School professor Robert Post explains that “academic freedom rests on a bargain between society and institutions of higher education. Universities are granted independence so they can produce two necessities of modern life: knowledge and education.”

    The very idea that the Trump administration is seeking to compel universities to adhere to the values and policies that it prefers suggests how little regard it has for either knowledge or education. Post gets it right when he says, “Democracy would become a farce, and the value of self-government meaningless, if the state could manipulate the knowledge available to its citizens.”

    In 1957, Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter approvingly cited a statement that identified four conditions for higher education to thrive: universities must be free to determine who may teach, what can be taught, how it is taught and who will be admitted. “For society’s good,” Justice Frankfurter wrote, “inquiries into [academic and social] problems, speculations about them, stimulation in others of reflection upon them, must be left as unfettered as possible. Political power must abstain from intrusion into this activity of freedom, pursued in the interest of wise government and the people’s wellbeing.”

    The Trump administration is not displaying such restraint in dealing with all of American higher education. The Washington Post quotes Ted Mitchell, president of the American Council on Education, who said that the new policy is a frontal “assault … on institutional autonomy, on ideological diversity, on freedom of expression and academic freedom.”

    “Suddenly, to get a grant,” Mitchell continued, “you need to not demonstrate merit, but ideological fealty to a particular set of political viewpoints … I can’t imagine a university in America that would be supportive of this.”

    We may soon see whether he is right. But he may have framed the issue incorrectly.

    The question is not whether America’s colleges and universities will support a clearly unconstitutional overreach by the Trump administration. The question is whether they will go along with it by signing on to the “Compact for Academic Excellence in Higher Education.”

    The administration is asking colleges and universities, “’What are the things that you believe? What are your values?” Justice Frankfurter must be rolling over in his grave.

    We can only hope that the first nine universities asked to agree to the administration’s latest intrusion into higher education will follow his wisdom and refuse to do so. And other colleges and universities should make clear now that if they are asked to follow suit, they too will say no.

    Austin Sarat is the William Nelson Cromwell Professor of Jurisprudence and Political Science at Amherst College.

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  • Academic Staff Need Academic Freedom, Too (opinion)

    Academic Staff Need Academic Freedom, Too (opinion)

    Late last spring, something disturbing happened in my classroom. For the first time in 15 years of teaching, I opened by telling my students I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to speak. The class was an introduction to the philosophy of education, and months earlier I’d scheduled this day for our opening discussion on critical pedagogy. But in light of charged campus climates and broader legal threats facing institutions nationwide, I realized that as an academic staff member who engages in teaching and research, I was particularly vulnerable.

    What followed was one of the more important classes I’ve taught, though not about the subject I’d planned. We spent the hour investigating our institution’s academic freedom policies, asking questions of whom those policies included and excluded. We discovered the troubling reality: Although I was expected to facilitate complex educational discussions, I lacked clear protections to do so safely.

    My situation reflects a growing crisis in higher education that has received little attention. While much has been written about the vulnerabilities of contingent faculty, there has been almost no discussion of the academic freedom needs of one of higher education’s most rapidly growing workforces: third-space professionals.

    The Rise of the Third Space

    Over the past two decades, universities have dramatically expanded what researcher Celia Whitchurch terms “third-space” professionals: staff who blend academic and administrative functions but operate in the ambiguous territory between traditional faculty and staff roles.

    These roles aren’t new or unprecedented. The American Association of University Professors has long recognized that librarians, despite often holding staff status, require academic freedom protections given their integral role in teaching and research. What’s new is the scale and diversity of academic work now performed by nonfaculty academic professionals.

    This growth represents the contemporary evolution of a workforce shift that began in the 1970s, when academic support roles developed in response to diverse students entering colleges through open admissions policies. The 1990s brought expansion into new fields like faculty development and community-based learning, as colleges recognized these roles could enhance teaching practices institutionwide. Most recently, colleges have seen explosive growth in data-driven student success and enrollment management roles.

    What unites these professionals is their expertise in designing and delivering on the academic mission of the university, with special emphasis on student success. They lead pedagogical and curricular initiatives, make decisions about learning interventions, analyze data that reveals uncomfortable truths about institutional performance, and advocate for evidence-based policy revisions. They also regularly teach college courses, write and receive major grants, and publish in peer-reviewed journals. In essence, they do academic work, but without academic protections.

    Why Academic Freedom Matters for Third-Space Work

    The problem is easy to name but difficult to address. Institutions have radically restructured how academic work gets done based on the shifting needs of students and priorities of institutions, without a reciprocal restructuring of how academic work gets supported or protected. Third-space professionals need academic freedom protections for four key reasons.

    1. Educational decision-making: These professionals make pedagogical and curricular choices about student learning interventions, program design and educational strategies. Without academic freedom, they face pressure to implement approaches based on administrative convenience, pressure from faculty or donor preferences, rather than evidence-based best practices. What happens, for instance, when a faculty member feels the writing center’s approach to writing pedagogy conflicts with their own vision for writing in their classroom?
    2. Data interpretation and reporting: Student success professionals analyze retention, graduation and achievement data that may reveal uncomfortable truths about institutional performance or equity gaps. They need protection when their findings challenge institutional narratives or suggest costly reforms. What happens when an institutional researcher’s analysis shows that a flagship retention program isn’t working, but the administration has just featured it in a major donor presentation?
    3. Policy advocacy: Their direct work with students gives them insights into institutional policies and processes that harm student success. They should be able to advocate for necessary changes without fear of retaliation, even when those changes conflict with administrative priorities or departmental preferences. What happens when an academic adviser discovers that the prerequisite structure in a major is creating unnecessary barriers for students, but changing it would require difficult conversations with powerful department heads?
    1. Research and assessment: Many third-space professionals conduct and publish research on student success interventions, learning outcomes and institutional effectiveness. This scholarship requires the same protections as traditional academic research. What happens when assessment reveals the ineffectiveness of first-year seminar teaching, but presenting findings could damage relationships with faculty colleagues?

    The Problem of Selective Recognition

    Universities have already recognized that faculty work has diversified and requires differentiated policy structures. Many institutions now distinguish between research professors (focused on scholarship and grant acquisition), teaching professors (emphasizing teaching practice) and professors of practice (bringing professional expertise into academic settings). Each category receives tailored policies for promotion, performance evaluation and professional development that align with their distinct contributions.

    Yet on the staff side, institutions continue to operate as if all nonfaculty work is identical. A writing center director publishing on linguistic justice, an assistant dean of students developing crisis-intervention protocols for student mental health emergencies and a facilities director managing building maintenance are all governed by the same generic “staff” policies. This isn’t just administratively awkward: It’s a fundamental misalignment between how work actually happens and how institutions recognize and protect that work.

    Applying Consistent Logic

    The way forward isn’t revolutionary, but simply the application of the same logic that most universities already use for faculty. Rather than the outdated single “staff” category, colleges and universities need at least three distinct categories that reflect how staff work actually happens.

    1. Academic staff: Professionals engaged in teaching, research, curriculum design and educational assessment, including learning center directors, faculty developers, institutional researchers, professional academic advisers and academic program directors. These roles require academic freedom protections, scholarly review processes and governance representation.
    2. Student life staff: Professionals focused on co-curricular support, belonging and student life, including residence life coordinators, activities directors and counseling staff. These roles need specialized professional development and advancement pathways that recognize and support their expertise in student development.
    3. Operational staff: Professionals handling business functions, facilities and administrative operations. These roles can continue with traditional staff policies and support structures.

    This framework enables differentiated policy environments and support structures across multiple areas. Critically, academic freedom policies can be tailored to protect inquiry for staff who engage in this kind of work, while recognizing that other staff have different professional needs.

    The expansion of third-space/academic staff roles represents higher education’s recognition that effective student success requires diverse forms of expertise working collaboratively. But without policy frameworks that acknowledge and protect this academic work, institutions risk undermining the very innovations they’ve created. When the professionals responsible for student success cannot engage in free inquiry, challenge ineffective practices or advocate for evidence-based approaches, everyone loses—especially students.

    Aaron Stoller is associate vice president for student success and a lecturer in education at Colorado College.

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  • Toward a Trauma-Informed Writing Process (opinion)

    Toward a Trauma-Informed Writing Process (opinion)

    “Your writing isn’t academic enough.”

    A single sentence from a faculty mentor cut deeper than I expected—because it wasn’t the first time my voice had been questioned. I spent decades believing I was not good enough to become a writer. Not because I lacked skill or insight, but because I was writing through a deep wound I didn’t yet understand.

    That statement was a flashpoint, but the wound began long before:

    • When I, as a shy Guatemalan immigrant child, felt I was lacking academically and learned to shrink my voice.
    • When I was told that my ways of knowing—grounded in culture, emotion, embodiment—didn’t belong in academic writing.
    • When I absorbed the perfectionism and shame that academia breeds.

    For years, I edited myself into invisibility—performing an academic voice that was praised for its polish and precision but stripped of everything that made it mine.

    And I am not alone.

    The Invisible Wounds We Carry

    In my work as a writing consultant and developmental editor, I hear the same story over and over: Brilliant scholars—often from historically excluded communities—are convinced they are bad writers when, in reality, they are carrying unprocessed writing trauma.

    We rarely name it as such. But that is what it is:

    • The trauma of repeatedly being told your voice is wrong or not “rigorous.”
    • The trauma of navigating academic culture that rewards conformity over authenticity.
    • The trauma of absorbing deficit narratives about your language, identity or intellectual worth.

    Academic spaces can be punishing, performative and isolating. Add in past wounds—whether from classrooms, reviewers, supervisors or broader systems—and writing becomes more than putting words on a page. It becomes a battleground.

    I once had a client who burst into tears during a one-on-one session with me. She opened the document she had avoided for weeks. The moment her fingers hovered over the keyboard, she said, her chest tightened. She felt dizzy, like the room was closing in.

    “I can’t do this,” she whispered.

    What was she working on? A simple literature review. But there was nothing simple about it.

    Her body remembered: her first-year doctoral seminar, where she was told her writing wasn’t academic enough. Being cut off in class. Watching her white male peer echo her words and be praised for his “insight.”

    Writing didn’t feel liberating. It felt like re-enactment.

    Her tears weren’t a breakdown. They were a breakthrough. Her nervous system was doing exactly what it was designed to do: keep her safe.

    I’ve experienced that spiral, too. Sitting in front of a blank screen, begging my brain to write something!—only to be met with my inner chorus:

    • I teach people how to write—what’s my problem?
    • I’m not going to say anything that hasn’t already been said.
    • This is going to take forever—and I’d rather not disappoint myself.
    • I’m not really a good writer. I’m just faking it.

    Even after years of writing—journals, academic papers, dissertation, books—it still doesn’t feel easy. I have to work at it each day. Writing, for me, is like a relationship. At first, it’s exciting. Words flow; ideas spark. But eventually, the doubts creep in. You start to ghost your own document.

    But real relationships, and real writing, require showing up. Even when you’re tired. Even when it’s hard. Even when it feels like your worst critic lives inside your own head.

    This Isn’t All in Your Head—It’s All in Your Body

    These blocks that haunt you as you imagine writing aren’t signs that you shouldn’t write the thing. These are survival strategies your nervous system uses to protect you. And yes—they show up at your desk.

    This is all to say that, in my experience, writing blocks tend to be trauma responses—not character flaws or technical writing issues. Now, are there times when folks are challenged by things like time management? Of course. But to me, that is just a symptom of something deep-seated.

    We’re told to “just sit down and write,” as if our struggle is solely or partly a matter of discipline, time management or motivation. But often, it’s not that we don’t want to write. We actually really want to write. It’s that our body—our entire nervous system—is sounding an alarm.

    Not safe. Not ready. Not now.

    The response varies. It’s not one-size-fits-all. But it’s always trying to protect us.

    Let’s break these responses down.

    1. Fight: You argue with your work. Nothing sounds good enough. Every sentence feels off. You rewrite the same paragraph 10 times and still hate it. You pick fights with your draft like it owes you money. You hover over the “delete” key like a weapon. You get lost in perfectionist loops, convinced that your argument is weak, your evidence lacking, your phrasing too soft, too bold, too elementary, too you.

    This is the part of you that learned, somewhere along the way, that the best defense is a good offense. If you criticize your writing first, no one else can beat you to it.

    It’s a form of protection dressed as hypervigilance.

    It’s exhausting. And it’s not your fault.

    1. Flight: You avoid it completely. The minute you open the document, your chest tightens. So instead, you check your email, clean the kitchen, research grants for a project you haven’t even started, reformat your CV for the fifth time or suddenly become very concerned about the state of your inbox folders. Every task feels urgent—except the one you actually need to do.

    It doesn’t mean you don’t care. It means your system is trying to escape danger. And in academia, writing often is danger, because of what it represents—exposure, judgment, potential rejection—and what it can lead to: excommunication, cancellation, even deportation.

    Flight says, “If I don’t go near the source of pain, I won’t have to feel it.” But avoidance doesn’t erase fear. It buries it. And that buried fear just grows heavier.

    1. Freeze: You stare at the screen, paralyzed. You’ve carved out time, made the tea, lit the candle—and still, nothing happens. The cursor blinks like it’s mocking you. You reread the same sentence 30 times. You open a new tab, then another. You scroll, refresh, skim, click—but you’re not absorbing anything.

    Your body might go still, but inside, it’s chaos: looping thoughts, spiraling doubts, blankness that feels like suffocation.

    This is shutdown. Your brain says, “Too much.” So it hits pause.

    It might look like laziness, but it’s actually self-preservation.

    1. Fawn: You overfocus on pleasing others.

    This one’s sneaky. You’re writing. You’re producing. But you’re doing it in someone else’s voice. You try to imagine what your adviser would say. You filter every word through Reviewer 2’s past critiques. You write with a white, cis-hetero-masculine ghost looking over your shoulder.

    You say what you think you should say. You cite whom you think you have to cite. You mute your own voice to keep the peace.

    You’re not writing to be heard. You’re writing to be accepted.

    Fawning isn’t about submission. It’s about safety. It’s about staying small so you don’t become a target. But in doing so, you slowly disappear from your own work.

    What if your block isn’t failure?

    What if it’s your body’s way of saying:

    “This way of writing doesn’t feel safe.”

    “These expectations aren’t sustainable.”

    “You are not a machine. You are a whole human.”

    Writing as a Site of Healing, Not Harm

    If we understand writing blocks as trauma responses, then the answer isn’t more pressure or productivity hacks.

    The answer is care.

    A trauma-informed writing practice prompts us to shift our questions:

    • Instead of “Why am I procrastinating?” ask, “What am I protecting myself from?”
    • Instead of “How can I write more?” ask, “What would make this feel safer?”
    • Instead of “Why can’t I just get it done?” ask, “What do I need to feel supported right now?”

    This practice is about making room for your whole self at the writing table.

    It includes:

    • Slowing down to listen to your resistance. What is it trying to tell you? What stories or fears are surfacing?
    • Creating emotional safety before expecting output. That might mean grounding rituals, community check-ins or simply naming your fear out loud.
    • Reframing writing as healing, not harm. What if writing wasn’t about proving your worth but about reclaiming your voice? What if it became a place to process, reflect, resist—and even rest?

    Because here’s the truth: You can’t punish yourself into productivity.

    You can’t shame your voice into clarity.

    But you can write your way into wholeness—slowly, gently, in your own time.

    Resistance Is Wisdom

    Let’s stop treating our writing resistance as evidence of failure. What if it’s an invitation to listen? A clue to your next move? A doorway into a new way of knowing? Let’s not avoid resistance but lean into it, face it and treat it with compassion.

    Ask yourself,

    • What if my block isn’t a wall, but a mirror?
    • What if my voice needs tenderness, not toughness?
    • What if my writing can be a place where I feel more like myself, not less?

    Maybe the goal isn’t to “push through” your writing block.

    Maybe it’s to create the conditions where it feels safe enough to speak your voice.

    You don’t need to force yourself to write like someone you’re not.

    You don’t need to perform brilliance to be taken seriously.

    You don’t need to sacrifice your health on the altar of productivity.

    You need practices that restore your voice, not erase it.

    You need writing that nourishes, not punishes.

    A trauma-informed writing practice invites your whole self to the page. It makes room for and challenges you to lean into the imperfection, reflection and vulnerability. It reframes writing not as punishment but as possibility.

    Toward a More Human Academy

    In this political moment—where academic freedom is under attack, DEI initiatives are being dismantled and scholars are being silenced for telling the truth—we can’t afford to ignore how trauma shapes whose voices get heard, cited or erased.

    Trauma-informed writing is a form of resistance.

    It’s how we push back against systems that demand performance over presence, conformity over courage.

    It’s how we cultivate an academy where all voices—especially those long excluded—can write with power, truth and unapologetic authenticity.

    I’m still healing my own writing wounds. Maybe you are, too.

    But here’s what I know now: Writing wounds don’t heal overnight.

    They heal when we meet them with compassion—every time we dare to put words on a page.

    Aurora Chang is the founder of Aurora Chang Consulting LLC, where she provides developmental editing, holistic faculty support and writing consulting rooted in compassion and authenticity. A former professor and faculty developer, she now partners with academics to reclaim their voices, sustain their careers and write with purpose.

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  • The Em Dash Debate We Should Be Having (opinion)

    The Em Dash Debate We Should Be Having (opinion)

    It seems a day does not go by without seeing someone confidently assert on social media that an em dash is not an indicator of AI-written text. Those social media posts are in response to an ongoing debate about whether or not the em dash is a dead giveaway of writing produced by generative AI. Some writers and academics resent that their cherished em dash is getting a bad rap. As one writes, “You can take my em dash from my cold, dead hands.”

    As a writer who does not use AI, I understand the frustration with the recent em-dashes-are-a-sign-of-AI-use bandwagon. I certainly do not want to be accused of using AI whenever I use an em dash. And as an English composition instructor who wants students to write without using AI, I understand how easy it can be to latch on to a purported way of quickly identifying AI-generated writing.

    But rather than get angsty about it as a writer or accusatory as an instructor, I am choosing to view the current em dash–AI kerfuffle as serendipitous. AI might be new, but a controversy about em dash usage is not, and the current debate provides an opportunity to try and temper its overuse—again.

    A year before what is recognized as the birth of the World Wide Web, Robert Bringhurst, in The Elements of Typographic Style, took a shot across the bow at em dash usage. An em, in typesetting vernacular, is a square measurement where, as Bringhurst explains, “One em is a distance equal to the type size”: therefore “the em is a sliding measure.” In other words, an em is not a fixed horizontal length; it is a horizontal space proportional to the point size. So if someone is using 12-point type, then one em would be 12 points horizontally. Half of an em is called an en. So when using 12-point type, an en is six points horizontally.

    In post-typesetting days, Bringhurst recommends that spaced en dashes – like this – be used—instead of nonspaced em dashes like this—to set off phrases within a sentence. Although he did see valid uses for the em dash, such as for written dialogue, Bringhurst contends that “the em dash is the nineteenth-century standard” and “too long for use with the best text faces” in modern times. According to Bringhurst, just as we no longer put two spaces after a period at the end of a sentence (a holdover from typesetting and later typewriter days), the em dash “belongs to the padded and corseted aesthetic of Victorian typography.”

    While Bringhurst’s suggestion was to replace ungainly em dashes with en dashes to offset sentence interruptions, continuing debates over the em dash focus on limiting such interruptions in the first place.

    In 2011, Philip Corbett of The New York Times noted an increasing use of the em dash in newspaper articles. The problem? The em dash “can seem like a tic; worse yet, it can indicate a profusion of overstuffed and loosely constructed sentences, bulging with parenthetical additions and asides.”

    That same year, Noreen Malone, writing for Slate, demonstrated how the em dash “discourages truly efficient writing” and “disrupts the flow of a sentence.” Granted, a purpose of the em dash is to interrupt, but the problem was not just that people were interrupting their writing a lot, but that they were also using it in place of better-suited punctuation. Rather than figuring out the best punctuation to use for specific writing situations and purposes, people were using the em dash as the jack-of-all-trades but master of none. Would it be best to use a comma, semicolon, period or colon? Who cares? Just throw in the exotic em dash.

    Now, as a direct result of its overuse as a substitute for more apt punctuation and its ubiquity in the written material that became the training data for LLMs, it is no surprise that the em dash is frequently showing up in AI-generated writing. There is no indication, as far as I am aware, that AI is intentionally trying to wrest the em dash from those who use it ethically and responsibly. But AI is fortuitously forcing us to grapple with the cavalier use of the em dash across recent decades. So what can writers and teachers do about it?

    As writers, we have a roster of punctuation marks from which to draw upon for specific purposes, and our choices can bring better clarity to our writing and demonstrate writerly skill. As Andi Zeisler points out in “AI can’t have my em dash,” em dashes “don’t really need to be there,” “aren’t integral to sentence structure” and “are decidedly extra.” That does not mean that writers must lay down all their em dashes and surrender them to AI. But as writers, we should be connecting thoughts smoothly and taking care to use just the right punctuation for a specific purpose while resisting the allure of an em dash that might save us the expert work of choosing the precisely placed period, comma, parenthesis, semicolon or colon.

    As teachers, we should not automatically think a student used AI when we see an em dash. I reject the notion that em dashes are a telltale of AI-written text. Whenever I suspect that something I am reading was written by AI, it is due to the writing style, not the presence of an em dash. Regardless, whether its use is attributable to AI or simply disjointed or imprecise writing, the presence of an em dash provides an opportunity to teach students how to better connect their thoughts in their writing and more carefully consider when and how to use the best punctuation for different situations.

    Richard Mitchell (a.k.a. the Underground Grammarian) once wrote, about the word “input,” that “a word that means almost anything means almost nothing” and “no longer makes any useful distinction.” The same can be said about the em dash. It might be that the em dash is necessary in select situations, but in most others it is not.

    Brenda Thomas has worked in various roles in online higher education, including as an adjunct faculty member and instructional designer, at several colleges and universities since 2015.

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  • In Defense of Distasteful Faculty Speech (opinion)

    In Defense of Distasteful Faculty Speech (opinion)

    Charlie Kirk at Utah Valley University on Sept. 10.

    Trent Nelson/The Salt Lake Tribune/Getty Images

    The assassination of Charlie Kirk was a tragedy that struck at the heart of American democracy. As the faculty adviser for Turning Point USA at Georgia College & State University, I took on that role despite significant ideological disagreements with the organization Kirk founded because I believe so fervently in the value of political discourse—even when that discourse makes us uncomfortable.

    Kirk and I disagreed on virtually every policy issue. His rhetoric often struck me as divisive, and his positions frequently ran counter to my own deeply held beliefs. Nevertheless, I advised the campus chapter of his organization because I passionately believe that universities must be places where competing ideas can clash, where students can hear from voices across the political spectrum and where the marketplace of ideas remains vibrant and open.

    The wave of faculty terminations sweeping across American institutions in response to Kirk’s death represents a dangerous moment for academic freedom and constitutional principles. Educators across the nation have been fired or suspended for social media posts that ranged from celebrating Kirk’s death to making pointed observations about the irony of his rhetoric regarding gun violence being an acceptable price to pay to maintain the Second Amendment. While these comments were often distasteful and insensitive, the rush to punish people for them reveals a troubling disregard for the First Amendment protections that should shield government employees—particularly university faculty—from exactly this kind of viewpoint-based retaliation.

    I’m not defending the wisdom or sensitivity of the statements made about Kirk by those being fired. In point of fact, I believe that most if not all were ill-timed, crude, callous and deeply hurtful to those mourning Kirk’s death. But constitutional principles protect speech that offends, disturbs and challenges our sensibilities.

    For example, in 1987, the Supreme Court decided Rankin v. McPherson in response to a government employee being fired after expressing hope that a potential future assassin would succeed in killing President Reagan. Even though this despicable comment was said in the immediate aftermath of an assassination attempt against the president, the court nevertheless held that it was protected speech. If such an extreme statement merits protection, surely the same is true for similar statements about Kirk in the wake of his assassination.

    The irony here is particularly acute. Conservative activists and politicians who claim to champion free speech principles are now leading coordinated campaigns to silence critics through organized pressure and doxing efforts. Meanwhile, university administrators—those who should be the staunchest defenders of academic freedom—are capitulating to political pressure rather than standing up for constitutional principles. The result is a chilling effect that extends far beyond these specific cases, sending a clear message to faculty everywhere that certain political viewpoints will no longer be tolerated.

    For public university professors like me, this represents an especially troubling erosion of academic freedom. The Supreme Court has long recognized that universities occupy a special place in our constitutional framework as centers of free inquiry and debate. The Pickering balancing test that governs government employee speech also typically weighs heavily in favor of faculty members discussing matters of public policy, precisely because such discourse is central to the university’s educational mission.

    We’re witnessing universities abandon their constitutional obligations to appease a political pressure campaign, one often led by Republican members of government. Universities and school districts are making hasty decisions based on social media pressure rather than carefully considering their legal duties and educational responsibilities. This institutional cowardice not only violates the constitutional rights of individual employees but also undermines the very principles that make American higher education a global leader in research and innovation.

    The legal precedent here is clear, and many of these terminations will likely be reversed through costly litigation. Even so, the damage to academic freedom and democratic discourse has already been done. The message being sent is that political speech—even on matters of clear public concern—can be punished if it offends the right people with sufficient political power.

    This is precisely the moment when our institutions must demonstrate courage in defending constitutional principles. University presidents, school board members and other educational leaders must resist the pressure to sacrifice employees on the altar of political expedience. They must remember that their obligation is not to popular opinion or political movements, but to the Constitution and the principles of free inquiry that make education possible.

    The death of Charlie Kirk was a senseless tragedy that robbed America of a young voice in our political discourse. But if we allow that tragedy to justify the systematic erosion of free speech protections, we will have compounded the damage immeasurably. The best way to honor Kirk’s memory is not through ideological purges, but by recommitting ourselves to the principles of free expression and open debate that he claimed to champion.

    Nicholas Creel is an associate professor of business law at Georgia College & State University and the faculty adviser to the campus chapter of Turning Point USA.

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  • In Light of AI, a Creative Alternative to Essays (opinion)

    In Light of AI, a Creative Alternative to Essays (opinion)

    For decades now, professors have been complaining about the futility of asking students to write term papers, otherwise known as a research paper. In theory, research papers teach students how to gather a large body of information, weigh conflicting interpretations and come up with their own ideas about the subject, all while honing their writing skills.

    But the reality is very different. The prose is usually terrible and the ideas a bad rehash of class lectures. Grading these essays is pure torture. Anecdotally, I’ve heard many say that evaluating papers is the worst part of teaching. If Dante had known about grading, he would have added a new circle of hell where the damned have to grade one bad paper after another for all eternity.

    And now we have AI, or “artificial intelligence,” in the form of ChatGPT, Grok, Gemini and a host of other platforms. Submit a prompt, and these programs spit out an essay that, aside from the occasional hallucination, is actually pretty good. Grammatical mistakes are rare; there’s a thesis, evidence and organization.

    Even worse, using AI for schoolwork is rampant in both K–12 and higher ed. As James D. Walsh puts it in his now-infamous New York magazine article, “Everyone Is Cheating Their Way Through College.” And it’s nearly impossible to catch cheaters, especially now that the airless, robotic prose that’s often a marker of an AI-written essay can be masked by programs that promise to “unlock truly human-like AI text.”

    What to do? If you have a large class, interviewing students about their essays to ensure they didn’t use AI is impractical, and randomly choosing students to interview could lead to charges of bias. Besides, suspecting everyone of plagiarism destroys the class atmosphere.

    Many have gone back to handwritten exams and in-class writing assignments. But grading a pile of blue books is as agonizingly tedious as a pile of papers.

    My solution has been to replace the final research paper with a creative project.

    Instead of a detailed prompt or instructions, I give my students very wide latitude to do, as the phrase goes, whatever floats their boat. Nonetheless, I still set a few parameters. They have to tell me several weeks in advance what they have in mind. They can’t take a piece of paper, draw a line across it and say, “Behold: my interpretation of Hamlet.”

    I have only two hard rules: The project must reflect a good-faith effort to interpret something we’ve read in class, and they have to hand in a brief description of what they tried to accomplish. For those willing (most are), the students present their projects to the class during the period allotted for the final exam. Other than that, they do what they want—and I’ve gotten amazing results.

    When I was teaching the literature of terrorism, one student happened to be going to New York for spring break, so she went to the Sept. 11 memorial and interviewed people. Another student composed a rock opera based on Thomas Kyd’s Elizabethan play The Spanish Tragedy. A group put together a postapocalyptic performance of King Lear on the heath, using the university’s loading docks for their stage. I’ve gotten raps, short stories, children’s books, parodies performed and written, musical compositions, and paintings.

    For example, a student produced this project for my last Shakespeare class (reproduced with the student’s permission):

    Created by Teresa Cousillas Lema

    This pencil drawing represents the student’s response to Al Pacino’s delivery of Shylock’s “Hath not a Jew” speech in Michael Radford’s 2004 film, The Merchant of Venice. The three images represent the different emotions Shylock displayed over the course of his speech: rage, sadness, determination.

    For the background, this student wrote out Shylock’s speech, thereby committing it (she told me) to memory. But this project represents more than a pretty picture: It demonstrates a profound response to Shakespeare’s words and Pacino’s delivery of them.

    This project accomplished nearly the same goals a term paper is supposed to accomplish: reflecting on the material and responding to the play both emotionally and intellectually. As a final payoff, while most students forget about their term papers seconds after they submit them, I’m guessing this student will remember this one and carry forward a deep appreciation of Shakespeare.

    Granted, switching to creative projects does not entirely eliminate the possibility of using AI to cheat. Students could still resort to AI if they want to produce anything that involves writing (e.g., a screenplay or a short story), or, for visual projects, they could use an AI art generator. But the opportunity to create something they’re invested in, as opposed to responding to the professor’s essay topics, reduces the incentive to not do the work. The project is something the student wants to do rather than something they have to do.

    Yet there is something lost. When the creative project replaces the research paper, students will not have the experience of sorting through multiple and contradictory interpretations. They won’t learn about literary theory and different approaches to literature. And they won’t learn how to write critical prose.

    In short, in my discipline, replacing the research paper with a creative project means moving away from teaching English majors how to be literary critics, and that’s not small. It means reorienting the undergraduate English major away from preparing our best students for graduate school and more toward historically informed response.

    Nonetheless, it makes no sense to continue with an evaluation method that just about everybody agrees has long since lost its value. So I suggest abandoning the essay for another method that not only accomplishes nearly the same aims but, in the end, brings joy to both student and teacher.

    Peter C. Herman is a professor of English literature at San Diego State University.

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  • When Students Interview Their Prospective Faculty (opinion)

    When Students Interview Their Prospective Faculty (opinion)

    This September when classes started, it wasn’t the first time I had met with the students who walked through the door. That’s because during the week before they arrived on campus, I had conducted online group interviews with students who expressed an interest in taking my courses. All the students had to do was show up at one of the times I had set aside to meet with them.

    The interviews are a tradition at Sarah Lawrence College, where I teach, and they are designed to let students get to know more about us as individual faculty in order for them to see if they want to take one of our courses. It’s a practice other colleges should try.

    The interviews, which typically last about 30 minutes, are not a substitute for the descriptions of my courses or the syllabi I post. They are best described as the academic equivalent of a movie trailer.

    The difference in this case is that the students, unlike moviegoers, are not asked to sit quietly in their seats. They are invited to ask questions after I have conducted a short presentation of what I hope will happen in my class. In these precourse interviews the students are the ones with the decision-making power. When an interview ends, they can simply decide my class is not for them and go off to another interview.

    Some of the questions I get are of the nuts-and-bolts variety. How much reading do I assign a week? How many papers do I require over a term? But many of the questions are substantive. Why Book X rather than Book Y? What was the most interesting essay I got back last year?

    If there is enough time, I will ask the students interviewing me to say why my course might interest them and how it fits in with the other courses they are contemplating. Students are welcome to stay after the group interview is formally over and have a one-on-one conversation.

    During the interviews, I also try to explain my thinking about teaching. I don’t, for example, subscribe to the tonnage theory of assigned reading. A course in which a student races through 500 pages a week is not, I believe, better than a course in which a student closely reads 200 pages a week.

    Equally important, I don’t think students should be strictly on their own when it comes to writing their papers. In the so-called real world, my editors don’t wait until I have published a book or an essay to offer up their advice. They do it before I publish, and I try to apply that practice in my classes. I see myself as my students’ editor before I ever become their judge and jury.

    When it comes to AI and ChatGPT, I don’t have a lot to say these days. I think the subject has been talked to death. I tell my students to stay away from AI and ChatGPT as much as possible. Why, I ask, pay good money for an education, then turn to software that limits your critical thinking and research? The writing assignments I give are, I hope, sufficiently thoughtful that AI and ChatGPT can only be of minimal value. When it comes to long-form essays, I want my students to think about the material they are analyzing with a depth that is impossible on a timed test.

    Looking back on a week of interviews, I often worry that I have imposed too much of myself on students. But in the end that is, I think, a risk worth taking. What precourse interviews offer is a chance for students to see that a course is more than a rote plan. It’s an undertaking that depends on mutual engagement that resists easy prediction.

    Nicolaus Mills is chair of the literature department at Sarah Lawrence College and author of Winning the Peace: The Marshall Plan and America’s Coming of Age as a Superpower (John Wiley & Sons, 2008).

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