Academia

Harvard University’s endowment is $35 billion, and some people aren’t happy about it. Massachusetts legislators see money that could be theirs, and are contemplating new taxes. Social activists see money that could be going to charity, and want to divert it. Distinguished alumni who have landed at public universities wonder why, with all that cash, Harvard graduates such a tiny number of students.

These are all legitimate concerns, and I won’t be suggesting the ideal policy compromise. But there is one misimpression that people seem to have, that might as well be corrected before any hasty actions are taken: the purpose of Harvard is not to educate students. If anything, its primary purpose is to produce research and scholarly work. Nobody should be surprised that the gigantic endowment isn’t put to use in providing top-flight educational experiences for a much larger pool of students; it could be, for sure, but that’s not the goal. The endowment is there to help build new facilities, launch new research initiatives, and attract the best faculty. If it weren’t for the fact that it’s hard to get alumni donations when you don’t have any alumni, serious consideration would doubtless be given to cutting out students entirely. Sure, some would complain that they enjoy teaching, that it keeps them fresh, or that students can be useful as research assistants. But those are reasons why the students are useful to the faculty; they are not assertions that the purpose of the institution is to educate students for their own sakes.

Don’t believe me? Here is the test: when was the last time Harvard made a senior tenure offer to someone because they were a world-class educator, rather than a world-class researcher? Not only is the answer “never,” the question itself is somewhat laughable.

This is not a value judgment, nor is it a particular complaint about Harvard. It’s true of any top-ranked private research university, including Caltech. (Note that Caltech has over 1200 faculty members and fewer than 900 undergraduate students.) And it is not a statement about universities in general; many large public universities, and smaller liberal-arts schools, take education very seriously as a primary mission. This is by no means incompatible with being a top-notch research institution — the physics departments at places like Berkeley or UC Santa Barbara would be the envy of almost any private research university. But those places also take their educational mission very seriously, which Harvard, honestly, does not.

Of course, certain individual faculty members at Harvard might be great teachers and care deeply about their students; but that’s a bonus, not a feature of the institution. (Harvey Mansfield, to a visiting colleague: “You should close your door. If you don’t, undergraduates may wander in.”)

None of this is necessarily good or bad; it’s just a recognition of the state of affairs. Harvard et al. judge themselves by the research and scholarship they produce. Students will always keep applying to those places and trying to get in, because the aura of intellectual attainment produced by precisely those scholarly accomplishments will always act as a powerful draw. Such students are by no means making a mistake; the intellectual atmosphere at such places truly is intoxicating, and if nothing else the interaction with your fellow talented students can be a life-changing experience. But to try your best to get into Harvard and then complain once you are there that the professors seem interested in their own work rather than in teaching is to utterly miss the point. And to complain that Harvard has a giant endowment that it chooses to use for purposes other than educating more students is equally misguided.

So you’re listening to a talk, and the speaker introduces a crucial step which you know — or perhaps only suspect — to be completely incorrect. What do you do? Do you raise your hand and point out the mistake? Or file it away momentarily, planning to ask them about it in private afterwards?

And does your answer change if the speaker is a senior scientist who will some day be writing you a letter of recommendation? What if it’s a fellow graduate student giving their first-ever technical seminar, and you know them to be intimidated by all these smart people in the room?

A Lady Scientist and PhysioProf have been talking about these issues. The former wonders whether there shouldn’t be some solidarity among grad students not to make each other look bad during journal club presentations, while the latter says that good perceptive critical questions are always in order.

My own attitude is pretty straightforward, and close to PP’s: it’s never impolite or out of order to ask appropriately probing questions about the material being presented at a scientific talk, regardless of the status of the speaker or the audience. It’s science, and we’re all on the same side; it doesn’t do anyone any favors to hide the truth in order to save someone’s feelings. Science is bigger than any of us, no matter how young and inexperienced or old and respected (feared) we may be. Not only should listeners feel free to ask any reasonable question of the speaker, but speakers should be honest enough to admit when they have said something that might be incorrect, rather than twisting around to find justifications for a slip-up. We’ve all made them; or at least I have.

To the extent that there is any sort of competition going on, it should not be “speaker vs. audience,” but rather “all of us vs. the natural world.” However, having staked out that absolutist position, it’s extremely important to recognize that we live in the real world. For one thing, many audience members tend to blur the distinction between “asking a good question” and “being an asshole.” There are people out there, one must admit, who tend to view seminar questions as a venue for them to demonstrate how smart they are, rather than learning about the subject matter in an open and collegial environment. There’s no excuse for that, and the guilty parties deserve to be smacked around, if only symbolically. Still, it’s no reason for the rest of us to equate hard questions with egotistical puffery, nor to soft-pedal questions that really are sincere. The biggest benefit of a talk, from the viewpoint of the speaker, would be to actually learn something from the questions and comments offered by the audience.

The other complication is that there is a competition going on, whether we like it or not. I personally don’t like it, and would vastly prefer to live in a utopia of unlimited resources where such competitions were unnecessary. But in the real world, there is a limited collection of goods — jobs especially, but other rewards of the profession — and a large number of people competing for them. And that competition never turns off. Academics are always judging each other, inevitably, and will use those judgments when it comes time to recommend or hire or give prizes to each other. So a real seminar is not simply a value-neutral examination of the facts; it’s a social milieu, in which interactions have real consequences.

Which is not to say that we should ever shy away from asking hard questions. But there are different ways to ask hard questions, and there’s nothing wrong with choosing the tone in which such questions are asked to match the occasion. Graduate students giving their first seminars need to learn that they will get asked tough questions, and that it’s okay — it’s not a devastating critique of their worthiness as scientists, it’s simply part of the process to which we are all ultimately subject.

A common technique to help students ease into the responsibility of giving talks is to have students-only seminars where the faculty are not permitted. The motivation for such things is admirable, but ultimately I don’t think they are a good idea. (As a disgruntled senior colleague once said, “Sometimes I learn something from listening to the students.”) Breaking down the barriers between “faculty” and “students,” and beginning to think of everyone as “researchers” and “colleagues,” should be an important goal of graduate school. It can all be intimidating at first, but it’s ultimately beneficial to learn to treat these artificial hierarchies as administrative annoyances, not natural categories.

The most successful graduate students are the ones that start thinking of themselves as colleagues right away. Go to the seminars, sit in the front, ask good questions, participate in the informal discussions afterward. It’s a big universe out there, and we’re all struggling to understand it, and working together is our only hope.

One of the most bizarre aspects of the United States is how we organize public education at the elementary and secondary levels. For mysterious historical reasons, we leave all of the important decisions — from curriculum and testing to financing and bus routes — in the hands of local school boards. 130,000 of them, all told. The result, predictably enough, is screaming chaos. Not only do we have haphazard ideas about what to teach and how to judge how well it’s been taught, but the dispersal of resources makes economies of scale impossible, so we don’t put anything like the appropriate amount of effort into developing new techniques and training our teachers.

And it shows. Matt Miller has written a compelling article in The Atlantic, documenting how our screwy system — unique, apparently, in the developed world — has utterly failed to give our children the educations they deserve.

The United States spends more than nearly every other nation on schools, but out of 29 developed countries in a 2003 assessment, we ranked 24th in math and in problem-solving, 18th in science, and 15th in reading. Half of all black and Latino students in the U.S. don’t graduate on time (or ever) from high school. As of 2005, about 70 percent of eighth-graders were not proficient in reading. By the end of eighth grade, what passes for a math curriculum in America is two years behind that of other countries.

This dismal failure might at least be explicable if it served some misguided egalitarian impulse, but it doesn’t. This map, from Miller’s article, shows the spending per pupil on a county-by-county basis; the poorest counties spend less than $7,500 per student, while the rich ones are over $17,500. (Click for larger version.)

Is there any theory behind the idea that students should getter significantly better or worse educations based on the county in which they are born? This isn’t an issue of private vs. public; it’s a public service, paid for by taxes, just like Medicare or national defense. But we finance public education by combination of state and local revenues, rather than through the national government.

Faced with such a patently misguided system, the most common calls for reform involve the imposition of some sort of national standards, such as those featured in the No Child Left Behind Act that has lately been foisted on our schools. In principle, national standards are a great idea; in a sensible system, however, they be the last of a series of necessary reforms. It’s like a team that hires a new football coach, who addresses the team on the first day of practice by saying “Here’s the system: we’re going to win all of our games!” Without an actual playbook, appropriate equipment, and some strategy, exhortations to do better aren’t going to achieve any tangible results.

It’s obvious what is needed: a basic national curriculum that is shared by all schools, with a set of requirements that leave room for creativity and innovation by individual districts within the overall framework. (There is no reason why American math classes should be two grade levels behind European math classes.) Plus, crucially, an overhaul of the financing system so that resources are distributed fairly. Those are just the minimal reforms that every sensible person should be able to agree on; after those are implemented, we can return to our regularly scheduled debates about school choice and bilingual education. Apparently the problem is that conservatives hate “national” and liberals hate “standards,” and both are afraid of the teachers’ unions. So we should all be able to compromise and do the right thing! As Miller says, “We started down this road on schooling a long time ago. Time now to finish the journey.”

External review letters for tenure cases, like recommendation letters more generally, aren’t usually public, so who knows what juicy bits are in there that will never see the light of day? Here is a line from a letter which I promise is genuine:

[Prof. X] is too bold for [his/her] rank, and uses the first person pronoun too freely for a junior scholar.

Not a physicist, not anyone at Caltech or anywhere else I have been affiliated with, so don’t even try to guess. But I’d be tickled to get such a line. (The candidate received otherwise uniformly positive reviews, and was unanimously approved.)