I recently attended a higher education reform event that,
putting it lightly, induced both thought and reflection. I wrote a response to
some of the claims made during the event and shared it with a few of the
organizers. In particular, I took issue with a comment surrounding the value of
on-campus experiences and in-person interactions with faculty. I supported my
argument by vaguely referencing the massive body of literature that analyzes
the effects of college on students. I failed to cite specific sources, mainly
because we’re talking about thousands of empirical studies over many decades—studies
on how students learn, transition, and succeed in college, otherwise known as
the foundation of higher education and student affairs scholarship.
After I shared my piece, one of the organizers asked that I name
specific studies and findings. It initially struck me as odd that I bear the
burden of citing sources for my arguments, while he can make any claim he likes
without reference to empirical research. Nevertheless, I acknowledge that he
was giving a speech and I was writing an essay, and platforms carry different expectations.
I also set aside the obvious challenges of talking about research through
Twitter (as it turns out, 140 characters ain't going to cut it when it comes
to citing research). In the end, I provided a few examples, all of which are
fantastically commonplace in higher education research (e.g., How College Affects Students by
Pascarella and Terenzini).
I have come to realize that this Twitter debate was probably
a waste of my energy, as it is unlikely to change anyone’s thinking. Although I
would like to think that my writing provoked careful consideration of the
relationship between campus-based experiences and student learning, I recognize
that its reach is limited to the few dozen people who follow me. I don’t expect
to read any of the examples I provided in the organizer’s forthcoming book, nor
do I anticipate him acting upon my suggestion to host a more balanced reform
event by including higher education scholars. In my mind, if you want an event
to truly evaluate the future of higher education, don’t stock the panels with edtech
evangelists. But before I can shrug off this incident and move on with my life,
I want to address the epistemological dimensions of the experience.
More specifically, I want to talk about the nature of
knowledge and empirical superiority. One of the rhetorical devises employed at
events like this is to make sweeping claims, then throw “data,” “evidence,”
and/or “research” in the faces of the audience. This effectively inoculates the
speaker against criticism and turns an assertion into irrefutable fact. Before
you know it, we “know” the “truth,” leaving little room for alternatives. The
problem is that anyone with a modicum of training in research understands that
what we “know” can be rather circumstantial and fragile. You cite a few studies
that say x, then I counter with a few studies that say y, and soon enough we’re
embroiled in an empirical pissing match. This happens to be a favorite pastime
of academics. I don’t want to downplay the importance of dialogue and
disagreement when it comes to the evolution of knowledge. Rather, the idea here
is that what we “know” when it comes to higher education is far muddier than
many people in the “disruptive innovation” movement like to believe.
Let’s take an example from the event I attended. The most
frequent claim made during the event was that there is little to no learning
that actually happens at colleges and universities. There is reason to buy into
this claim. We have empirical findings that certainly raise
questions about what students are learning, and some even indicate that
students aren’t cognitively changing much from start to finish. Yet
we also have studies that either challenge the validity of the aforementioned
findings or show the opposite—that many experiences (inside the classroom and
outside the classroom) lead to positive outcomes like the development of
leadership skills, enhancement of critical thinking, and capacity for
self-advocacy and political engagement. As it turns out, our knowledge of
learning in higher education is highly dependent upon what type of learning is
valued and how it is measured. In other words, findings differ according to
context, data, and methodology. I don’t refute the possibility that there is
limited learning on campus. Nor do I completely the reject the possibility that
online media provide equally credibly means of promoting learning. I
simply recognize that saying there is no evidence that campus-based experiences
or interaction with faculty are beneficial to students is an audacious
proposition, one that borders on the ridiculous.
When I objected to a panel’s interpretation of learning and suggested that there are
many social benefits to investment in higher education, I met another
rhetorical device that seems particularly popular among economists. The
response I received was: “I’m not convinced by that evidence.” I don’t deny him
the right to evaluate research and use whatever he deems most compelling, but
what happens is that the knowledge produced by disciplines given most respect
in policy circles rises above the others. Even though higher education
researchers understand the issues and realities of colleges and universities
better than anyone, we are placed low on the totem pole of knowledge producers.
In these circles, it doesn’t matter that my evidence casts a shadow of doubt on
your claims because you can enforce empirical superiority and trump my evidence.
I want to end by emphasizing something missing in all of the
discussions during the event I attended. It is something that I wish I had
noted in my Twitter debate about evidence, but failed to bring up because it is
an undervalued form of knowledge. That
is, I know that students learn and benefit as a result of on-campus experiences
and interactions with faculty because they tell me that they do. It struck
me that some of the experts speaking about higher education reform have hardly
worked on a college campus. They haven’t supervised resident assistants and
watched them grow to become leaders. They haven’t advised a sorority and helped
women take action against rising incidents
of sexual assault. They haven’t received letters from students years after they
had them in class—letters just saying hello or thanking them for revealing new
insights. They haven’t run into former students who
ascribe their professional success to a really great mentor or professor. In truth, they hardly know anything about students or have much experience working with them.
The notion that we have no evidence that being on campus and
interacting with faculty is beneficial is laughable because it runs contrary to
what students, staff, and faculty experience on a regular basis. This is the
knowledge that keeps me in higher education, and it is the evidence that truly
matters.
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