J.D. Phillips
March 21, 2007
Last September, I
attended a conference in Chicago devoted to undergraduate mathematics research.
The conference was funded by the NSA (thatÕs the
National Security Agency), and the participants were the directors of the 45
different mathematics REUÕs (thatÕs Research
Experiences for Undergraduates) funded by the NSA and the NSF (thatÕs the
National Science Foundation). And that concludes the alphabet soup portion of
this talk!
It
occurred to me very early on during the conference that my motives for running
an REU (with Mike Axtell and Will Turner) are very nearly orthogonal with the
motives of the funding agencies. As was revealed with startling enthusiasm by
each of the NSA bureaucrats who spoke, again and again and again, these REUÕs exist for one and only one reason: to improve the
mathematical and scientific infrastructure of this country (only U.S. citizens
are eligible to participate, as students). They thanked us for our efforts in
this regard, and told us how happy they were that we signed on for this noble
task. But I have to say that this motive had never occurred to me before these
bureaucrats announced it. Now donÕt get me wrong; itÕs not that IÕm opposed to
this motive for running an REU. But itÕs certainly not my motive. I donÕt
recall ever charging out the door in the morning with a twinkle in my eye and a
bounce in my step thinking, ÒYahoo, today IÕm going to improve the mathematical
and scientific infrastructure in my country!Ó Rather, IÕm motivated by the
prospects of both working on some fun problems with bright students, and of
earning a little extra money. My point is modest: we have different motives for
doing the work we do. I think most REU directors have motives similar to mine,
and these are markedly different than the motives of the NSA. And I donÕt think
that one of us right and the other is wrong; in fact, weÕre both right.
IÕve
thought of this conference many times over the past few months. And itÕs also
brought into greater relief comments about our ultimate professional ends that IÕve
heard throughout my career. That is, IÕve heard many times in many different
settings and by many different people that the reason weÕre all here, that the
ultimate end of all of our activities at Wabash is (that the reason that this
college exists is), student learning. But, and prepare yourself for heresy,
just as with the NSAÕs conference last September,
this is not my main motivation for being here. And I suspect itÕs not the main
motive of many (or hopefully at least some) of my colleagues on the faculty.
Before I tell you what those motives are, IÕd like to mirror my remarks above
by saying that we ought not all have the same motives. For instance, it might
not make sense for a Wabash admissions counselor to open his pitch to a
prospective student (or an advancement officer to open his pitch to a donor,
etc.) with ÒAt Wabash, itÕs not all about the students.Ó But IÕm not an
admissions or an advancement officer; IÕm a professor; I might have different
motives.
So
to cut to the chase, I understand this College first and foremost as a
community, a community devoted to various forms of inquiry. Let me put it
another way: the ultimate end, at least for me, is not student learning, but
rather the lived experience of shared inquiry, unfolding in this community. I
donÕt think IÕve ever bounced out of the door in the morning thinking, ÒBy
golly, I hope IÕm responsible for a lot of student learning today.Ó But most
mornings I do wake up with the anticipation of the exciting ideas IÕll get to
talk about, think about, read about, etc., with students and colleagues.
If
student learning is the ultimate end of our college, than I think itÕs
difficult to not view tuition as a simple commercial transaction. Students
simply buy a product, namely an education, like theyÕd buy an ipod or a car or a nose job or breast implants. That is, in
this commercial transaction, education is a commodity, students are consumers,
we professors are labor, and the administration is management. I think, that at
least from my perspective, this is not only a profoundly unhealthy way to understand
what we do, but it is also inaccurate (i.e., it doesnÕt describe what we
actually do here). True enough, students do pay for room and board and books,
that is, they certainly do buy commodities here. But tuition is different.
Students very well might pay, and yet learn nothing (or very little) in return.
Ultimately, learning is a mystery; we donÕt understand it very well (certainly
not well enough to sell it), and by the way, itÕs just one of many things that
unfold here. For instance, there is the oft-invoked quartet of virtues from our
mission statement—lead effectively, think critically, and so on. I might
add here, that quoting the mission statement as
justification for curricular decisions is a thorny business. For instance, the
mission statement also commits us (or at least the students) to Òphysical
activityÓ. Now, I donÕt start my classes with calisthenics, and I suspect most
of you donÕt, either. But if we understand Òstudent learningÓ (as opposed to
sustaining a community of inquiry) to be our primary objective, then it might
make sense to turn to our mission statement and take its list of virtues as a
list of the things we ought to teach students, i.e., maybe we ought to do
calisthenics in calculus class. (i.e., IÕm trotting
out a reductio ad absurdum argument). We can talk
more about the Mission Statement and curriculum in the conversation to follow.
So
what, then, does tuition actually buy? Not much, I think, not much at all. So
how should understand this weird ritual of paying all this money, but not
actually buying anything? Well, to begin with, weÕll understand it imperfectly.
But hereÕs a start: I understand tuition to be something like a membership fee.
Students pay not for a product or a commodity. They simply pay the bills so that
the community here can thrive, and we then let them be a part of the community
for four years, and often, beyond. Good things may (or may not) come of it (i.e., they might learn something, they might be physically
fit; but then again, they might not). But theyÕre not buying any of this;
theyÕre simply joining a community. And requiring them to pay tuition, as
imperfect as it is, is simply the mechanism by which the community ensures its
existence.
Let
me end by saying that words, founding myths, justifications, apologias, and
other human attempts to give accounts really do matter, especially here (good
grief, if not here, then where?). Are we here primarily for our students? Or is
it more about an activity (inquiry) that unfolds in a unique way in this
community? I suppose that some of you might say that it doesnÕt have to be one
at the expense of the other. Fair enough; in fact, I
agree. But the way in which we choose to describe—and
hence, to understand—our activities and our community (especially the
ultimate ends of our activities), becomes the way that the community is.
And I think itÕs a kind of self-delusion to say, ÒitÕs all about the studentsÓ
in one breath, but then in the next to say, Òwell, thatÕs not really true; itÕs
not all about the students; itÕs also about other things, as well.Ó
For
instance, to return to my NSA example, I think an REU in which the mathematics
professors leading it were motivated as the NSA is (i.e., to improve the
mathematical and scientific infrastructure of this country), even though they
also might like working on problems and enjoy the extra money, would be, well,
creepy, precisely because of the emphasis, and all that it betrays. And just so with a liberal arts college. If the emphasis is
on Òstudent learningÓ (although the community is also valued) the resulting
community will, in fact, be different from the one that results from a defining
emphasis on sustaining a community of shared inquiry.