Monthly Archives: November 2014

Universitybot Responds: Gang Rape as “Sexual Misconduct”

University of Virginia, 11/20/14

Above and below: Fresh graffiti at the Phi Kappa Psi fraternity house, University of Virginia, November 20, 2014. Photos: Gregory Thompson

Last week I wrote a post titled “Who Needs Captains of Erudition?” Long before “corporatization” had become synonymous with higher education, Thorstein Veblen, the early twentieth-century American sociologist, dismissed American universities as little more than “competitive businesses.” These enterprises were run by university presidents, who had become little more than managers of systems, chiefs of concerns, “captains of erudition.”

When I read President Sullivan’s response to a Rolling Stone article that recounted a University of Virginia woman’s personal story of gang rape and the trauma that followed, all I could hear was the defensive, disengaged chatter of one of Veblen’s captains:

“I am writing in response to a Rolling Stone magazine article that negatively depicts the University of Virginia and its handling of sexual misconduct cases.”

“Negatively depicts”? If one phrase embodies the corporatization of the university that might well be it. The contemporary university’s assessment metrics, use of adjunct labor, obsession with economic efficiency, and capitulation to the sovereignty of the student as consumer are just consequences of a deeper failure of moral imagination. The primary concern is with public perceptions. Never mind that a young woman felt that her only option was to talk to a Rolling Stone reporter. This is the language of an institution committed to nothing but its own mechanisms. There is no evidence of the virtues to which we here at the University of Virginia lay claim—empathy, civic concern, leadership, and curiosity.

University of Virginia, 11/20/14

Sullivan’s statement was a missive from the bureaucratic bowels of an accounting machine. It was surely manufactured by public relations specialists and lawyers whose interests are simply fiduciary, concerned only with legal liability and fundraising. There are no people, just “interests”; no judgments, just “initiatives”; no moral failures, just “issues.” There were, as one of my colleagues put it, no rapes, no victims, no women, no perpetrators—just “issues related to sexual misconduct.” And the only response is more policies, more initiatives, more accounting.

The captains of erudition are firmly at the helm at the modern American university. With their phalanx of managers, they are guiding us into seas of indistinction, into a future where the university is just another modern bureaucracy without ends, without purpose. And the faculty is asleep on the deck.

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Who Needs Captains of Erudition?

Long before “corporatization” became synonymous with higher education, Thorstein Veblen, the early twentieth-century American sociologist who coined the term “conspicuous consumption,” dismissed American universities as little more than “competitive businesses.” In On the Higher Learning in America (1918), published fewer than forty years after Johns Hopkins was founded as America’s first research university, he described the contemporary university as a “business house dealing in merchantable knowledge, placed under the governing hand of a captain of erudition, whose office it is to turn the means in hand to account in the largest feasible output.” The modern American university president wasn’t a scholar, an intellectual, a scientist, or even much of a leader. He was the manager of systems, the chief of a concern, the captain of erudition.

Thorstein Veblen, by Edwin B. Child, 1934. Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Gift of Associates of the Sitter. A protege of J. Laurence Laughlin, the first head of political economy, Veblen began his uneasy passage through the University in 1892.

Thorstein Veblen, by Edwin B. Child, 1934. Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Gift of Associates of the Sitter. A protege of J. Laurence Laughlin, the first head of political economy, Veblen began his uneasy passage through the University in 1892.

Botstein and Bard

Leon Botstein, the charismatic conductor of the American Symphony Orchestra and president of Bard College, is no captain of erudition. “Botstein’s voice,” writes Alice Gregory in the New Yorker,

telegraphs a wizardly moral authority. Everyone responds to it, but parents, primed to be proud of their children, are especially susceptible. ‘We live in a time where people don’t really believe in education. That doubt is something we struggle with,’ he said. ‘Your enthusiasm, your determination, your idealism about education gives back to us a reminder of why we should fight for what we do.’

For Botstein, the “quantification of American higher education,” introduced by university administrators who just want to keep their jobs and facilitated by spineless faculty who have given up on the liberal arts, is a moral affront.

Botstein’s earnest and tireless defense of an ideal, however, might just doom this small, liberal arts college, 90 minutes north of New York City. Bard, where all those black-clad kids who read Sartre in high school wound up, is the singular creation of Botstein’s will and personality. But in December 2013, Moody’s Investors Service lowered its credit outlook to “negative.” And now some of its trustees are worried. Susan Weber, a trustee and donor, said:

Everyone says, ‘Oh, he’s the most amazing fund-raiser,’ Well, I wish that were so, because we wouldn’t be so underfunded if he were that amazing. I think he’s good at it—he works hard at it—but his real strength is building an institution.

“But”?  If one word can be said to embody the confusion over the purposes of higher education, that but might be it.

Botstein built an institution with a vision, but only a captain of erudition can, it seems, sustain it.

Weber’s resigned admission of what Bard needs after Botstein has become the assumption of many university boards. University presidents shouldn’t lead national debates or make moral claims; they should alleviate political pressures and mollify the idiosyncracies of donors. Ours is the age of the competent commander-in-chief—we need accountants, not idealists.

Veblen’s Prescience—in Our Own Backyard

On June 10, 2012, my colleagues and I at the University of Virginia (UVa) learned that Veblen had been all too prescient. Helen Dragas, Rector of UVa’s Board of Trustees, briefly and matter-of-factly informed us that our president had been fired:

On behalf of the Board of Visitors, we are writing to tell you that the Board and President Teresa Sullivan today mutually agreed that she will step down as president of the University of Virginia effective August 15, 2012. For the past year the Board has had ongoing discussions about the importance of developing, articulating and acting on a clear and concrete strategic vision. The Board believes that in the rapidly changing and highly pressurized external environment in both health care and in academia, the University needs to remain at the forefront of change.

Over the following weeks, my colleagues and I, joined by an international audience, speculated about these unspecified “philosophical differences” between President Sullivan and the Board of Visitors; we wondered about the “clear and concrete strategic vision” for which the Rector called. Hadn’t we already been subjected to years of strategic planning?

After ten days of increasing frustration and concern from faculty, students, and alumni, Dragas sent a second email. This one listed a number of “challenges” that UVa faced for which Sullivan, as Dragas implied, had no plan to deal with: the long-term decline in state funding for public universities, the disruptive effects of new technologies, rising tuition costs, increasing enrollments and an aging faculty (with no money to replace it), increasing demands for faculty and curricular assessment—not to mention the increasingly expanded roles that the contemporary university plays of health-care provider, entertainment center, sports venture, industrial and government research center, and, by the way, educator. In short, the university faced a whole host of challenges, none of which were unique to UVa.

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UVa President Teresa Sullivan speaks on the steps on the Rotunda after addressing a closed session of the Board of Visitors, June 2012; photo © Norm Shafer

But between June 10 and Sullivan’s ultimate reinstatement on June 26, something else happened on Grounds, something that most stories and accounts of the summer’s events missed in their efforts to chronicle the process. Not only did it surprise me; I still struggle to  make sense of it. (Talbot Brewer also tried to make sense of this series of events in the summer issue of The Hedgehog Review.)

For about two weeks, UVa faculty members paid scant attention to the myriad problems that the Rector identified; they didn’t demand political intervention; they didn’t split up into conservative and liberal corners and revive culture-war arguments (the liberal faculty against the conservative administration). For two weeks, my colleagues condemned the Board of Visitors’ actions by making explicitly ethical arguments, arguments grounded in claims about the moral purposes of the university: What the university was and ought to be. Some colleagues defended and invoked an honor code with which we usually engage, if at all, only ironically. Others celebrated founder Thomas Jefferson’s commitment to higher education as a public and democratic good, but without the ironic winks that usually accompany such discussions. There was even an impassioned defense of peer review as an ethical practice. Whatever their particular content, the arguments led to a broad consensus: This wasn’t right, this wasn’t how a university ought to be run.

With our backs to the wall and overcome by the sense that our university was imperiled, we faculty members made arguments that were not, in the first instance, financial, technological, or political. We made normative claims about what a university ought to be. That is, the arguments that my colleagues mustered focused on the moral character and purposes of the university. Faculty were engaged and motivated by a general and rather vague sense that the moral authority of the university had been threatened.

Can We Afford Our Future?

My colleague Siva Vaidhyanathan has continued to make these arguments. Recently, while writing of another attempt to oust a public university president, this time at the University of Texas, Vaidhyanathan defended the increasingly beleaguered notion of the university as a public good:

The tuition increases and the realization that the payoffs from universities are deferred and unquantifiable pushed legislators and “reformers” to demand accountability and radical administrative transformations. This has only served to make it harder for faculty to teach and conduct research. It has made the richest nation in the history of the world act like it can’t afford to believe in its own future, respect its own culture, or foster the experimentation and knowledge that might serve the entire planet.

The university is more than than an “inefficient and outdated information delivery system.” It is a public good because it advances, conserves, refines and shares knowledge for the world. And it does so most basically by forming people who believe that knowledge is a public good.

Leon Botstein may at times be bombastic. And he is always, without question, idealistic. At a moment when the very purposes and values of universities are being reshaped in the name of efficiency and disruption, we don’t need captains of erudition. We need leaders who embody the true ethos of our institutions.

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Here Comes the Potentiated Self

In a series of pithy posts,  Joshua Glenn, the brand analyst with a penchant for Roland Barthes, has been cataloguing cultural codes. Each code, embodied in advertisements or pop-cultural imagery, is a single, meaning-laden node in the complex, often imperceptible matrix “structuring our perception of the everyday world.” Glenn’s codes range from the child-adult, “a holy fool who speaks truth to power,” to the cool engineer, a visionary designer who sees “into things more acutely and penetratingly than ordinary mortals.”

An example of wired self-potentiation from Joshua Glenn’s Code-X (2), http://hilobrow.com/2014/04/30/code-x-2/

But one code seems particularly of our moment: wired self-potentiation. This code, central to the advertising campaigns of technology companies, celebrates a new, digitally enabled self. For the networked person of today, extended beyond time and space with their smartphones and gadgets, “multitasking [is] re-imagined as existential branching-out. Breaking the mold. Demonstrating vitality, multiplicity, and proactive refusal to conform to stereotyped expectations. All thanks to networked technology.” This is the potentiated self, the self raised to a higher power.

The idea of technologically enabled self-improvement is widespread. James Surowiecki recently described a “performance revolution” in sports, in which athletes aren’t just practicing harder but smarter, “using science and technology to enhance the way they train and perform.” Long hours in the gym or on the pitch won’t cut it anymore. Today’s elite athletes are monitored, analyzed, and reshaped by a matrix of biometric sensors and training regimes, all supervised by a phalanx of sports experts and coaches. Training methods for contemporary MLB, NFL, and NBA players are data-driven, networked systems designed to perfect not just athletes but the exercises and disciplines that make them better.

But if the improved, technologically enhanced training regimes of professional sports focus on improving people, the Internet of Things (IoT), another vision of the connected, networked age, seems altogether different. The Internet of Things, as one of its biggest proponents Jeremy Rifkin claims,

will connect every thing with everyone in an integrated global network. People, machines, natural resources, production lines, logistics networks, consumption habits, recycling flows, and virtually every other aspect of economic and social life will be linked via sensors and software to the Ioplatform, continually feeding Big Data to every node—businesses, homes, vehicles—moment to moment, in real time. Big Data, in turn, will be processed with advanced analytics, transformed into predictive algorithms, and programmed into automated systems to improve thermodynamic efficiencies, dramatically increase productivity, and reduce the marginal cost of producing and delivering a full range of goods and services to near zero across the entire economy.

The Internet of Things is all about connectivity. In this digital network everything, whether you or your thermostat, is a node and, thus, just another source of data. The Internet of Things, as Sue Halpern writes in the New York Review of Books, is

about the “dataization” of our bodies, ourselves, and our environment. As a post on the tech website Gigaom put it, “The Internet of Things isn’t about things. It’s about cheap data.” Lots and lots of it. “The more you tell the world about yourself, the more the world can give you what you want,” says Sam Lessin, the head of Facebook’s Identity Product Group.

In Rifkin’s vision of the Internet of Things, humans are just elements of a network organized around the endless circulation of information. In such a system, the networked self is little more than the self as networked, as a node in a complex system. This is one vision of the networked, potentiated self, a notion that Glenn takes from the German poet and philosopher, Friedrich von Hardenberg, better known as Novalis. But Novalis, despite his image as the frail, romantic poet who died of a broken heart, would have had more sympathy for Surowiecki’s jocks than Rifkin’s automated systems.

In 1798, Novalis wrote a short dialogue in which two figures, named simply A and B, debated the effects of the proliferation of print. Interlocutor A lamented the modern “book plague,” especially those marks of black that fill their pages: “What burden are these letters!” The modern human being, he complains, is characterized by his “fatal habituation to the printed nature.” There was so much print that modern readers had begun to mistake it for nature itself.

Interlocutor B wasn’t nearly as worried about book plagues and floods of ink, however. The key to dealing with media surplus lay not in acquiring better tools but in becoming a better reader. Like any art, “reading” required “practice” and, as Novalis put it, “practice makes perfect, even in the reading of books.” Technologies like print were good only insofar as they were engaged as elements of a human discipline, repetitive exercises tied to a person acting according to settled purposes.

For Novalis, a potentiated self would result not from technologies unmoored from human purposes but from the perfection of excellent habits. “The world must be romanticised,” he wrote. “Romanticising is nothing but a qualitative intensification. Through this operation the lower self becomes identified with a better self. Just as we ourselves are a sequence of such qualitative powers. [. . .] By giving the everday a higher meaning, the habitual a mysterious appearance, the known the dignity of the unknown, the finite a semblance of the infinite, I romanticise it.”

Raising the self to a higher power is grounded not in the liberating promises of technology, then, but in the more mundane pursuit of excellent habits. It’s about, as Surowiecki puts it, “getting better at getting better.” Sometimes data can help. But only with coaches and teachers skilled enough to help us make sense of it—and to help us learn how to practice.

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