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In these fraught times, presidents of colleges and universities have become reticent to speak up for the ideals that are core to the purpose of the Academy. I think this is a grave mistake. Unlike some critics of higher education who believe that comments by college leaders on issues of the day are the reason for the public’s loss of trust in the Academy, I believe it is just the opposite. Our failure to speak out appropriately and courageously has undermined our standing with the public.
I do not mean to suggest that presidents and chancellors should speak out on every topic, nor do I suggest that we should engage in narrow partisan politics. But speaking to the values that are embedded in your institution’s mission and vision, values that undergird the very nature of education and democracy, is not just acceptable, it is necessary. Even the oft-quoted Kalven doctrine underlines that the reason for neutrality is to protect a core principle, free speech, specifically: “From time to time instances will arise in which the society, or segments of it, threaten the very mission of the university and its values of free inquiry. In such a crisis, it becomes the obligation of the university as an institution to oppose such measures and actively to defend its interest and its values.”
In other words, the Kalven Report’s advocacy for neutrality does not translate into silence on all issues as some have advocated. Speaking up and speaking out, thus, must be selective and the leader has to acknowledge the courage that is required to do that well. In “Experience is the Angled Road: Memoir of an Academic,” I narrate important moments in my personal life when I honed the skills of when to speak out and what to say in those instances.
As a high school student, I confronted a teacher who used her earth science classroom as a platform for criticizing me in front of a room full of my classmates. As a young faculty member, I stood up to a senior faculty member, chairman of the philosophy department, and acolyte of the president of the university, when he cavalierly used racist and antisemitic language and insisted that I accept these words as normative.
In both cases, there was much at stake; the teacher and the department chair were well-positioned in their communities. I could have remained silent, allowing the powerful to have their say, but silence would have allowed offensive behavior and language to go unchallenged. Silence would have allowed the powerful even more power than they already had.
It is also important to know when not to speak up. In my book, I tell of instances when silence would have been the better part of wisdom.
The reason for the inappropriate classroom comments of the high school earth science teacher was my public criticism of her mentor, the president of Holton-Arms School, Miss Mildred Brown. Some of my comments about Miss Brown were completely unfounded; some had validity but were cruel and petty.
In my adolescent mind, I felt justified in making the comments because Miss Brown made no secret of the fact that she did not like me, and perhaps saying these things would give me some power.
I could not figure out why she did not like me: was it because I was not from one of the elite families at the school, was it because I was Jewish, was it because I chose not to take her senior course in Art History? In fact, the reason for her dislike was immaterial. My comments only resulted in my seeming as small and mean-spirited as she and the earth science teacher.
In “Experience is the Angled Road,” another instance when silence would have been a better choice was when I was a young faculty member at State University of New York at Oswego. I foolishly tried to wage a public war with the president of the college. My rationale was that the president had inappropriately intervened in a personnel process.
I had every reason to object, but there was absolutely no benefit in my making public statements about her actions. I could have resisted her intrusion with some grace and some tact, behind closed doors. My public comments only garnered President Virginia Radley’s anger and for a time I lost the personal support that she had offered me when she had personally recruited me to the school.
While these examples are not actions that I took as a senior academic leader, these experiences taught me a great deal about public comment as an academic leader. As president of The College of New Jersey, I spoke out in favor of preserving the DACA program and against President Trump’s Muslim ban. I also learned that sometimes avoiding public statements accomplished more positive results than public statements.
I did not hold a press conference to object to Governor Jon Corzine’s first executive order, which proposed draconian financial disclosure requirements for members of state college and university boards of trustees. Rather I worked with the governor’s chief counsel, colleagues, and an influential advisory committee to modify the order. When Governor Chris Christie proposed a tuition cap, I communicated my concern by personal letter to him rather than commenting to the press.
“Experience is the Angled Road: Memoir of an Academic” provides examples of learning when to speak out and when to keep silent in the years before I took the presidency. “Portrait of a Presidency: Patterns in My Life as President of The College of New Jersey” (forthcoming, 2025) will provide examples of when to speak up as well as when to speak out publicly, and when to do so privately.
