The Many Faces of Academic Work

The act of creating an essay, irrespective of its resemblance to "legitimate" scholarship, is for me the essence of academic work. Over the past three weeks, I have been settling into a new city and, therefore, writing very little. I've managed to put together a few posts, one of which, surprisingly,  received a wonderful amount of circulation. Aside from these posts, however, I've largely been preoccupied with other activities. And the lack of writing has on many occasions left me feeling slothful. Today, I decided to pick apart the notion that writing is the basis of academic work. In the end, I feel like I've been doing a great deal of work, much of it academic in nature. I want to bring these activities to light, as a reminder that we shouldn't trap academic work in rigid boxes. (A hat tip here to David Perry, who pointed out that academics often fail to see themselves as workers.)

One of these non-writing activities is making it possible to write in the first place. By this I mean that I've spent a large chunk of energy working to carve out time and space to be contemplative and calm. Having just moved, this activity in practice entails unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, installing requisite technology, and catching up on lost sleep. It means seeking out community by subscribing to the local paper, finding a gym, and testing out markets. It means having a space where it feels appropriate to write. Attempting to write before each of these steps were completed proved impossible for me. I would argue that they are building blocks of academic work. Even those who are not moving often (and many academics, it seems, are moving constantly) need time each year to re-establish a rhythm. It may be the case that some academics have mastered doing work anywhere and anytime. For the rest of us, the process of creating conditions conducive to creativity most definitely is academic work.

A second activity that has commanded my attention is planning courses and attending teaching-related professional development. Teaching is something that most academics do, yet a colleague remarked to me this past week that we spend remarkably little time talking about it. Designing a course takes time, especially if its goal is significant learning. I've been reading, taking notes, tweaking syllabi, and building online spaces for student to access materials and connect. In order to do this, I've had to severely compartmentalize my thinking. It hasn't been possible for me to design courses and write at the same time. This is certainly true on the days that I've attended an applied learning seminar at my new university, which is phenomenally helpful, but leaves little time to write. I imagine that I'll soon have to strike a balance. In the meantime, we should acknowledge that preparing to teach and working with others to improve teaching is academic work. And it is hard.

A final activity that has become my modus operandi is walking in a perpetual state of confusion and curiosity. I know very little about where I am or where to go for resources. I don't know people in my department, so I've tried to walk around and strike up conversations. To have some presence before things get too busy. Questions have filled virtually every available free space in my brain. For example, on my first day in my office, I put a few books on the book shelf, opened my laptop, looked around and mumbled: "What do I do now?" I spent two hours trying to figure out how to work the copier. Seeking answers to questions has either left me relatively immobilized or sapped me of energy. Being confused or looking for answers to questions may not go on my third year review, but it's work in which many of us engage.

I'm happy to be writing today, as it means I might be on the cusp of finding my groove. But I shouldn't beat myself up if this is just another random sprinkling of words into a sea of non-writing activities. Because many of those activities, despite their lack of prestige, are not simply necessary to do good work. They are work. I would venture to guess, in fact, that they constitute the bulk of academic work, no matter how much attention writing gets. So, having found a moment to reflect and write, now it's time to get back to it. Happy working, one and all.

It's Not Just Institutions Driving the Amenities Arms Race: Meet American Campus Communities

Many higher education institutions have received critical scrutiny for building luxury resident halls, student centers, and recreational facilities. Some observers have argued that institutions compete with one another to attract students through these buildings and services in what higher education scholars call the "amenities arms race." A careful study of spending in higher education reveals that climbing walls and swimming pools are easy targets for critics looking to confirm widespread allegations that colleges and universities are wasteful and drive up prices that students and their families pay for higher education.

Some of this critique is warranted. However, in a common theme that runs throughout popular portrayals of education issues in America, a major player in the amenities boom is missing in the conversation: the private sector. A whole range of companies are cashing in on the college student market, with little regard for how their products encourage frivolous spending and increase the price of attending college. You may say these costs do not matter because they are outside the tuition that students must pay. I would counter this thinking by arguing that: 1) many of the services offered by institutions that are condemned for costliness do not factor into tuition; and 2) with this in mind, we should always think about the price of attending college in broad terms, encompassing tuition, as well as fees, books, as well as discretionary spending.

One of the companies that is a major force in the higher education landscape (physically and figuratively) is American Campus Communities (ACC). You may not have heard of ACC, but you've likely seen their products if you've spent any time on a college campus recently. Launched in 1996 by a former resident assistant, ACC has developed $4.2 billion in properties and $4.6 billion student housing assets. They own and operate their own buildings off campus, but also work with colleges in public-private partnerships to manage or develop specified housing facilities. In 2004, they became the first publicly traded student housing real estate and investment trust (REIT). Their buildings grace the campuses of the University of New Mexico, Princeton University, Portland State University, Arizona State University, and the University of South Florida, to name a few examples.

Vista del Sol Apartments in Tempe, AZ

ACC does not specialize in run-of-the-mill dormitories. You won't find cinder block rooms, rickety furniture, and communal, bleach soaked bathrooms in their Vista del Sol property or Casas del Rio property. These are luxury residence halls that cater to the consumer demands of the Millennial generation. In fact, it would be difficult at first glance to even determine that ACC buildings are, in fact, designed for college students. They look more like resorts, complete with swimming pools, high-end fitness centers, and movie theaters. Rather than being criticized for opulence, ACC is praised for its profitability and sustained, recession-proof growth. It has been regularly named a company to watch and its stock has several times been pinpointed as a smart investment. In other words, when a private company creates expensive amenities to compete in the lucrative college student market, they are viewed as forward-thinking and entrepreneurial, not symbols of a system spinning out of control as it strives for prestige.

The double standards are less concerning than the presence of companies like ACC (there are many others) on campuses and the influence they exert. As privately constructed buildings infiltrate a university space, public or quasi-publicly-funded and operated buildings must change to keep pace. The amenities arms race, in other words, is not just a product of institutions competing with one another. It is also a product of competition created by companies like ACC building on and around campuses nationwide. Before long, luxury student housing becomes normalized, such that students and parents feel like it is the most acceptable option. A family could certainly look into less expensive options, but they fail to capture the imagination, communicate a sense of comfort, and convey status quite like a resort-esque apartment complex. And if so many others can afford it, they reason, so can we. The normalization of spending in higher education is not something that has been systematically studied, but there is reason to further explore the ways in which companies like ACC do not simply respond to consumer demand--they create demand where it previously did not exist.

The Varsity, an ACC property down the street from my house in College Park, MD

 The costs of living in these buildings adds to the rising tuition burden at many institutions. While it is true that institutions themselves have increased student fees to pay for services and facilities, and many have built their fair share of lazy rivers and Mongolian barbecues in partnership with companies, we should not ignore the private sector. Many, many companies are profiting as students fall further into debt. And while we can express outrage at institutions, at least the non-profit ones are investing the money they earn back into an enterprise ostensibly dedicated to further education. The same cannot be said of a company like ACC, where profits go shareholders.

Student as Customer: More than Language

In a recent opinion piece for the Chronicle of Higher Education, David M. Perry cogently argued against the use of "corporate-speak" at colleges and universities. Responding to a job announcement that included the provision of "excellent customer service" as a requirement for faculty candidates, Perry concluded by saying, "Faculty members are not cashiers, ringing up the bill when students check out with knowledge—and not because that would be demeaning to the professor, but because the responsibility of a teacher to his or her students is far greater than the employee to the customer." I agree, but think the argument could be extended beyond language.

It is not just that references to students as customers has infiltrated higher education discourse, principally amongst administrators. Indeed, it is increasingly the case that college and university professionals assume that students are consumers who demand consumer amenities. There is a subtle difference between talking about students as customers and assuming that they are consumers, but it is a significant difference. The logic of student as consumer is powerfully shaping the geography of campuses and college towns. It also influences student conduct in potentially alarming ways.

Whereas the customer exchanges one type of valued good or service for another, the consumer buys an identity, or a sense of middle class belonging and comfort. As noted in a rejoinder to Perry's article, colleges and universities should not have to build their service delivery model around customer demands, but they do need to be sensitive to providing high quality products and pay some attention to satisfaction. Yet what does it mean for colleges and universities to assume that students are consumers who demand consumer amenities? It means, for one thing, creating opportunities for students to express their identity, and hopefully their affinity to the institution, through spending on consumer goods. The manifestation of such opportunities would most obviously be the outrageously priced campus book store, where students can proudly advertise their achievement through sweatshirts, hand bags, and bumper stickers.

Moreover, it means allowing, and sometimes encouraging, students to buy the consumer goods that cultivate a sense of belonging and comfort. This means setting up places where students can purchase all of the accoutrement that signals their membership in middle class America. It should come as no surprise that there is a strong cultural link between higher education institutions and middle class status, as colleges and universities have long been considered an essential pipeline to upward mobility. Evidence of encouraging consumerist behavior can be found in the agreements many schools establish with Apple, making it possible for students to easily purchase iPhones and iPads. It is also why Starbucks has become ubiquitous on college campuses: the white Starbucks cup with the brown sleeve is about more than caffeine. It says something about being able to buy a fairly expensive cup of joe and to be seen drinking it. The meaning attached to Starbucks is why there are so many imitator white cups and brown sleeves. It has little to do with coffee and everything to do with symbolism.

When college and university administrators think of students as consumers, they encourage students to spend their way to feeling normal and accepted at a time when many struggle with self-doubt, imposter syndrome, and the exclusivity common to institutions striving for selectivity. The implications of this orientation extend beyond language to the physical constitution of campuses and outlying areas. As I have previously argued, many colleges and universities are now partnering with private industry to create mixed use housing and retail developments. I call these concentrated campus-based consumption areas, as high end student apartments are fused with Chipotle, Starbucks, and other businesses to which students flock. The quaint college town and the brick and pillar campus is slowly being replaced with every variety of space dedicated to consumer capitalism. When higher education spaces as transformed into concentrated campus-based consumption areas, what happens to student behavior?

Quite naturally, those who can, spend freely. These trend-setters and norm-makers tend to be those whose parents provide plenty of discretionary funds, recharging student ID/campus debit cards as needed. Less well-off students seek to emulate their upper crust peers and follow suit by finding ways to spend in similar fashion, sometimes working jobs in order to have the disposable income required to sustain an active consumer lifestyle. No student wants to feel outside the norm, so on campuses where spending dictates belonging, the assumption of students as consumers can shape behavior, yielding a vicious cycle. Perhaps more alarmingly, it can alter student subjectivities, such that one only feels like a true college student if they buy the UnderArmour hoodie, live in the luxury student apartment high rise, surf Facebook on a MacBook, and patronize Starbucks.

In other words, for all the reasons cited above, our sense of outrage should not stop at the encroaching dominance of "corporate-speak," however damaging such public discourse can be. We should challenge the prevalent logic that students are consumers who demand sites of consumption in order to attend this or that higher education institution. It is true that faculty are not cashiers, but language of students as customers is simply one byproduct of an entire logic system that has found traction in higher education. If the college experience, and campus geography, is increasingly dictated by the swipe of a card, it will be difficult to suggest that education is somehow different from anything else or outside the realm of consumption.

Concentrated Campus-Based Consumption Areas

In a previous post, I described the Chipotle Effect, or the rise of a consumer logic among college students based on individualization and personalization. Part of what spurred this idea was the explosion of Chipotle-like eateries on and around my campus. Even as I write this, a new Mediterranean restaurant is opening a few blocks away, structured around the same assembly line idea: you pick your platform (e.g., bowl, sandwich, pita, etc.), pick your toppings, and hit the road.

On the one hand, it has been nice to see any development happening in a town that has been slow to recover from the 2007-2010 financial crises. Construction has resumed on a number of projects, and I have heard of others in the pipeline (get excited ::read with sarcasm:: for more hotels and luxury student apartments). On the other hand, one has to wonder at the trajectory of College Park’s development—what is the end game? Not all development, in my mind, is of equal value, and I, for one, have difficulty understanding the need for another burr-eatery when we still have no community-cohering coffee shop or bar showcasing local craft beer.

The concept of “smart growth,” from the field of urban planning, offers one way of evaluating development in College Park. The University of Maryland is actually home to the National Center for Smart Growth Research and Education. Indeed, the state of Maryland is considered the birthplace of the smart growth movement as a result of Governor Parris Glendening’s landmark executive order introducing the idea. The basic notion driving smart growth is that population growth and economic development are not inherently bad—they just need to be realized in a smart way. This means checking the environmental, economic, and social costs of suburban sprawl. In the poignant words of James W. Rouse:

Sprawl is inefficient. It stretches out the distances people must travel to work, to shop, to worship, to play. It fails to relate these activities in ways that strengthen each and, thus, it suppresses values that orderly relationships and concentration of uses would stimulate.

Sprawl is ugly, oppressive, massive, dull. It squanders the resources of nature—forests, streams, hillsides—and produces vast, monotonous armies of housing and graceless, tasteless clutter.

But worst of all, sprawl is inhuman. […] The vast formless sprawl of housing pierced by the unrelated spotting of schools, churches, stores, creates acreage so huge and irrational that they are out of scale with people.

So, if not sprawl, then what? According the Smart Growth Network, development imperatives should be:

• Create a range of housing opportunities and choices
• Create walkable neighborhoods
• Encourage community and stakeholder collaboration
• Foster distinctive, attractive communities with a strong sense of place
• Make development decisions predictable, fair, and cost effective
• Mix land uses
• Preserve open space, farmland, and critical environmental areas
• Provide a variety of transportation choices
• Strengthen and direct development towards existing communities
• Take advantage of compact building design

With this list in mind, is College Park’s development smart? They’re getting a few things right. There are certainly a variety of transportation choices, although many of these options owe their existence to the town’s proximity to Washington, DC. Additionally, several of the development projects are trying to reuse existing buildings and promote walkability to public transportation and the seasonal farmer’s market. As for all of the other items on this list, College Park falls remarkably short. The new housing options are the same luxury student apartments. There have been concerns raised about a planned business incubator and research park affiliated with the university being built on vital meadowlands. And, finally, College Park seems to be selling itself to the highest development contractor and paying little attention to creating a distinctive sense of place.

The result is not smart growth, but rather the spread of what I would call concentrated campus-based consumption (CCC) areas. CCC areas arise in response to the college student consumer market. Some would argue that, in an era of rising tuition and struggling middle-class families, the presence of this market is questionable. I beg to differ. This market is thriving, and there appears to be no shortage of disposable income among at least a sizeable subset of today’s college student. This is one of the more interesting aspects of the conversation surrounding the mounting costs of higher education. Very few people have considered the extracurricular spending that has become a cultural norm—spending on housing, laptops, cell phones, clothing, coffee, and the other accoutrements of being a college student.

Business owners have capitalized on the existence of this thriving market. They are building mega-complexes that, while located within walking distance of campus, remind one of Rouse’s description of the sprawl that is “out of scale with people”. These complexes are multiple stories tall, housing thousands of students. They often feature a similar constellation of businesses: convenience stores, grab-and-go eateries, and perhaps a frozen yogurt place. A world is thus created for the average college student to orbit consisting largely of quick consumption sites. There is nothing unusual about a college student leaving their luxury apartment, buying a massive iced coffee in the morning, heading to class while talking on their iPhones, picking up a burrito, and sitting down to tap out a reading response on their MacBooks, before heading out to a bar for the night. Little thought goes into this routine beyond: “such is college life.”

Development in College Park hinges upon CCC areas. These are not designed with the community mind, but rather a large enough number of college students with enough disposable income to sustain a market. The fact that these areas depend upon college students is evinced by the great efforts expended to facilitate spending. They create pseudo-dining plans, or meal cards, so that college students can buy with a quick swipe. They pass out coupons at the student union, and advertise heavily in the student newspaper. Finally, it is worth noting that most of the businesses in CCC areas prepare for the quiet summer months—the offseason—when student consumers leave and their sales drop. It is in the summer months that it becomes clear that these areas are not built to strengthen the wider community.

The trajectory of College Park’s development is troubling. In lieu of constructing a distinctive college town with sustainable, community-minded development, we have rows upon rows of burr-eateries preying on a population of college students, many of whom have been encouraged to think of little beyond studying their way to upward mobility and buying their way to self-gratification. This is, admittedly, a rather narrow, pessimistic view of students. It is also somewhat self-condemning, as my routines sometimes resemble those of the students with whom I interact daily. Still, after six years of living and working among college students, I see unfortunately few counterexamples. As a firm believer in the idea that our behavior is shaped, in part, by the spaces we inhabit, I suggest here that we need smarter growth to help redirect the college student orbit, making possible smarter decision-making and lifestyles. 

The Chipotle Effect

I live in a college town. More specifically, I live in a sorority house...next to the most popular bar in town. Needless to say, any night of the week between the hours of 11PM and 2AM, except Sunday night, is an adventure.

In the five years that I have lived here, and for several more before my arrival, the town’s development was stagnant. When the recession hit, the few development projects under consideration came to a sudden halt as uncertainty and risk-aversion took hold of even the most speculative of real estate investors. Those projects have since been reignited, and ground has broken on new hotels, apartments, and supermarkets. However, in the intervening years, the only new businesses to spring up in town were those with the highest probability of succeeding: restaurants.

What is interesting is that the restaurants that opened and came to dominate the eat scene are derivations of the same model, essentially the Chipotle-pioneered assembly line. Whether its Jason’s Deli, Lime, Potbelly, Roti, Saladworks, Chidogos, Jimmy John's, Bobby's Burger Palace, Yogiberry, or Five Guys, all of these restaurants specialize in grab-and-go eating. You walk up to a register, choose a “platform” (e.g., sandwich bread, salad bowl, burrito tortilla), pick your toppings, and either grab a seat or hit the road. No need for waiters or waitresses in this model, or for tipping. If you decide to eat in the restaurant, which is sometimes made difficult by the relatively small number of actual tables, the whole experience takes no more than twenty minutes.

In many ways, the popularity of these restaurants makes perfect sense. They are quick, inexpensive, and offer a fair amount of flavor diversity. Franchisers and restaurateurs are simply responding to market demand. However, if we take a step back, we must wonder how this consumer preference came to exist. And if seemingly every new restaurant that pops up assumes this form, we must ask how this space is shaping—in what I call the Chipotle effect—the way college students think, behave, and relate to one another.

Many intellectuals have noted that we are living in an era of unprecedented, even celebrated, individualism. They see evidence of this individualism in the declining rates of participation in civil society and community (see Bowling Alone). They likewise see it in changing conceptions of the family, with more and more young people choosing to put off marriage and having children until they establish themselves, complete their degrees, or enjoy youth unburdened by responsibilities beyond self-gratification (see Bobos in Paradise). The assembly line restaurant model should be seen as an expression of this individualism. You are able to take a more or less flavor neutral piece of bread or tortilla and individualize it to your liking.

As I thought about the other types of projects that constitute redevelopment in the area, I realized that there are other spaces catering to individuation. Take, for example, student housing. Many of the new apartment complexes, which, by the way, are constructed above retail spaces featuring Chipotles and similar establishments, have adopted a uniform set-up. Students have their own bedroom and bathroom, with a shared kitchen and common area. There can be as many as four or five individual bedrooms to an “apartment”. Students have fewer opportunities to accessorize their rooms as they could a burrito, but the space is, nevertheless, theirs alone. Given the exorbitant amount students pay for a bedroom in these set-ups, it is perhaps foolish to argue that they should have anything less than their own, separate domain.

Yet research suggests that students, particularly those in their first year, have higher grades and are more likely to stay at a university if they live in traditional residence halls, where they share a large bathroom and live with a roommate in an admittedly small space. I recognize that not all students are able to live on campus, nor does this generic conclusion capture the experience of all students. But it does imply that, rather than merely selecting where we eat or sleep based on our preferences, we are also profoundly affected by the spaces we regularly inhabit.

Herein lies the potential problematic of the Chipotle effect. If increasingly we navigate spaces that encourage our individualism, do our interactions become brief, passing, or diluted? When we devote so little time to sitting down for a meal, what activities fill the void? For me, when I take away lunch from one of these restaurants, I don’t use the time gained in any useful way. I eat in front of my laptop, perusing Facebook—alone. If we extend the Chipotle effect beyond eating habits, the grab-and-go ethos becomes ritualized and normalized. For an entire generation, constant movement and diluted relationships becomes our modus operandi.

These observations stem from a single college town. Having visited only a handful of other towns home to large concentrations of young people, I can only hazard to guess at their transferability. But those of you in college towns, in particular, should take note of these developments. For they represent physical embodiments of prevailing discourses in higher education exalting student mobility, flexibility, and self-investment.  At risk of overextending my argument, we in college towns sit at the confluence of various currents shaping a new type of person, one who is always grabbing and going at the whim of their individual desires.